Death of a Scholar (17 page)

‘Many folk,’ she said, with such sober conviction that he looked at her in surprise. ‘Death is in the air. I can feel it and smell it. You must take extra care, Doctor.’

Bartholomew left her house even more unnerved than when he had arrived, although he knew her words were rank superstition and he should pay them no heed. He turned the corner, and then did not know whether to feel pleased or more disquieted still when he bumped into Julitta. She saw where he had been, and smiled sympathetically – he had told her about Matilde, although not the possibility that he might receive an offer of marriage in the future, one that he might well accept. Or would he? When he was with Julitta, he tended to long for a life with her instead.

‘I am going to another Guild meeting,’ she said, after they had exchanged pleasantries. ‘It has been called to announce the death of John Knyt, although the news is already common knowledge.’

‘Who will take his place?’

‘Assistant Secretary de Stannell will serve out the rest of Knyt’s term, and we shall hold an election next Easter. Will plans to stand, and I hope he wins.’

‘You do?’ said Bartholomew. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and he hastened to explain. ‘The Guild is committed to helping the poor, but Holm has never been very interested in…’

He faltered, aware that defaming her husband was not the best way to keep her good graces. She might have suffered a cruel shock when she discovered Holm’s true nature, but that did not mean she appreciated disloyal remarks about him. It was an attitude Bartholomew failed to understand, but he supposed it could be attributed to her rigidly traditional upbringing. He was just glad her nuptial devotion did not prevent her from pursuing a relationship with him.

‘He knows the Guild’s work is important,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘I have been spending a lot of time on it of late.’

‘Is that why people have said that you are less involved with other charitable concerns?’

She nodded. ‘There is not enough time for it all, so I have decided to concentrate on the Guild for now. We are very busy with arrangements for the beginning of term ceremony.’ Her expression turned rueful. ‘Several scholars have voiced their displeasure at our “meddling”, but it will mark Winwick Hall’s entry into the University
– which could not have happened without
our
money.’

Holm appeared before Bartholomew could respond, annoyed by the sight of his wife and the physician chatting so amiably together in public. ‘It is a pity you let Knyt die, Bartholomew,’ he said coolly. ‘He was a fine man, and will be sorely missed.’

‘You were there first – why did
you
not save him?’ Bartholomew shot back, then wished he had kept a dignified silence. Why demean himself by sparring?

‘I am sure you both did your best,’ said Julitta soothingly, but Holm was not in the mood to be appeased, and attacked on another front.

‘I met Hugo Potmoor today. He says his father often dreams of Heaven. You have given that scoundrel serious delusions about himself, ones that even his son cannot dispel.’

‘I hardly think that is Matt’s fault,’ objected Julitta. ‘He—’

‘Yes it is. He bears responsibility for
all
the crimes Potmoor has committed since he was snatched from the grave. And his victims now include us.
We
were burgled last night.’

‘Are you all right?’ Bartholomew addressed his question to Julitta, far more concerned about her than her dreadful spouse.

She nodded. ‘The thief only got as far as the workshop before we heard him and drove him off. All he got was a few herbs and potions.’

‘Herbs and potions that cost money,’ sniffed Holm. ‘And that I would not have to replace, if Bartholomew had not raised Potmoor. I intend to consult a lawyer today, and see about suing him.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Julitta firmly. She shot the physician a wan smile. ‘It is shock speaking. Will has never been burgled before.’

‘No, and I am more angry than I can say,’ snarled Holm. ‘The next time you revive a felon, please reflect on the impact it will have on decent, hard-working folk.’

Irritated and disconcerted by the encounter with the Holms, Bartholomew went on his way, but had not gone far when he saw Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence. He went to join them, hoping a medical conversation might restore his equanimity. They were talking about the previous night, when they had been summoned to tend Knyt.

‘You should have refused to go,’ Rougham was saying waspishly. ‘He was my patient, and I do not approve of poaching. Especially the lucrative cases.’

‘My apologies,’ said Lawrence, trying to prevent his long white beard from flapping in the wind. ‘The servant who fetched me claimed that Knyt wanted a fellow guildsman. I was stunned to learn it was a lie. Knyt had been insensible for hours, so could have made no such request.’

‘The same tale was told to me,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his grubby hands together. ‘I demurred, because I dislike going out in gales, at which point the fellow threatened to carry me there by force. It was all most distressing.’

‘And I was told you were unavailable,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry, Rougham.’

‘Very well,’ conceded the Gonville man, mollified. ‘I shall overlook it just this once. It is not the first time a desperate wife has summoned every
medicus
she knows in order to save a spouse. However, we should all be on our guard. There are rumours that Knyt was murdered, and we do not want to be associated with that sort of thing.’

‘Murdered by whom?’ asked Meryfeld, shocked.

‘By Potmoor, of course,’ replied Rougham. ‘Who else?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Lawrence drily. ‘The person deemed responsible for every foul deed and mishap in the town. Well, all I can say is that he must spend very little time eating and sleeping, or there would not be enough hours in the day to get around to them all.’

Rougham glared at him. ‘He definitely burgled Gonville Hall – a fine foundation like ours will certainly attract his greedy eyes. However, I am willing to concede that he might be innocent of making off with the town’s maypole last night. It does not seem like his kind of crime.’

‘That was probably your sister’s apprentices, Matthew,’ said Lawrence. ‘I saw them inspecting it yesterday, and I thought then that mischief was in the offing.’

‘It was dumped in the river, where it poses a considerable nuisance to shipping,’ added Meryfeld. ‘But we digress.
Was
Knyt murdered? I thought he had a seizure.’

‘He did have a seizure,’ said Rougham irritably. ‘We are not often unanimous in our diagnoses, especially when Bartholomew is involved, but we all agreed on that one. The rumour about Potmoor killing him is a silly lie put about by fools who aim to make trouble. Of course, I cannot blame them. Potmoor flaunts his misdeeds like banners, which is galling for us victims.’

‘You should not have saved him, Matthew,’ admonished Meryfeld. ‘Not only did it make the rest of us look incompetent, but the whole town despises you for it.’

‘Catalepsia,’ mused Rougham, before Bartholomew could defend himself. ‘I confess that possibility had not occurred to me. I wish it had, because I would have recommended that he be buried as soon as possible. Then he would have woken up inside his coffin, and no one would have been any the wiser. Except him, of course.’

Bartholomew was shocked. ‘You would never condemn anyone to such a terrible fate!’

‘I agree,’ said Lawrence reproachfully. ‘It is hardly commensurate with our calling.’

‘Our calling is to prevent suffering,’ countered Meryfeld loftily. ‘And eliminating such a wicked rogue would have done just that. I side with Rougham. Potmoor grows stronger every day, and I abhor him
and
his evil deeds. I am glad he is no longer my patient.’

He shot Lawrence a sour glance that belied his words and made it clear that he bitterly resented losing such a profitable source of income.

‘Yet Bartholomew should not bear sole responsibility,’ said Rougham. ‘I sniffed the
sal ammoniac
that woke Potmoor, and it almost melted my eyeballs. I have since learned that Eyer made a mistake with his ingredients.’

‘Who told you that?’ demanded Bartholomew. Eyer was a painstaking practitioner, and while errors were always a possibility, he seriously doubted that the apothecary had made one with the potent ingredients that were involved in producing smelling salts.

‘Eyer himself.’ Rougham shrugged sheepishly. ‘In so many words.’

‘Does anyone know what gave rise to the tale about Knyt being unlawfully slain?’ asked Meryfeld before Bartholomew could press the matter further. ‘Was it because Potmoor was Olivia’s lover, and liked to slip into her house while Knyt was out?’

Bartholomew stared at him, recalling what Richard claimed to have seen. Could the rumour be true? He shook himself impatiently. Why would Olivia dally with the unsavoury Potmoor? If the man had visited Knyt’s house when its master was away, then it would have had nothing to do with her. So what
had
Potmoor been doing there? A small, nagging voice began to scratch at the back of his mind, telling him that perhaps he was wrong to dismiss Edith’s claim so precipitously.

‘
Are
we sure Knyt had a seizure?’ he asked, thinking how easy it would be to enter an empty kitchen and slip something toxic into a dish of food. ‘You said we were unanimous in our diagnosis, but that is untrue. I did not venture an opinion, because I only saw him after he was dead.’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Rougham curtly. ‘Please do not fuel these silly tales by disagreeing with the rest of us. A surfeit of oysters gave him colic, which brought on a fatal attack. And I am more sorry than I can say.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Lawrence sadly. ‘The town will be poorer without his goodness and charity.’

‘
I
shall be poorer without
him
,’ said Rougham sourly. ‘He was my richest client.’

A little while later, Bartholomew entered St Mary the Great to find Michael at the back of the church. The nave rang with splenetic voices, ones far too agitated to pay heed to Chancellor Tynkell, who was struggling to impose order.

‘Normally, I would rescue him,’ said the monk. ‘But it was his idea to continue the debate for a second day, so he can manage by himself. That will teach him to make decisions without me.’

‘I thought it would be over by now,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It should be, but it will drag on into the evening, given that Tynkell is incapable of preventing our more wordy colleagues from repeating everything six times. I shall leave him to it. Heavens! Here is Langelee. It is rare to see him at this sort of occasion.’

‘Have you seen William’s tract?’ demanded the Master without preamble. ‘The one he has been working on these past two weeks?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘Although he aims to annoy Thelnetham with it, so I imagine it will be rich in reckless bigotry. Why?’

‘Because not only does it attack the Dominicans, the Gilbertines, Waltham Abbey and John Winwick in ways that will have the King and half the priests in England clamouring for our blood, but he has written about apostolic poverty.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then burn it before any of his victims see the thing. I am not worried about his ravings on religion – he is not clever enough to devise a thesis that will attract followers, and his ponderings will likely be laughed into oblivion.’

‘If only that were true, Brother. Unfortunately, he managed to acquire a copy of the text that caused Linton Hall to be dissolved and its members excommunicated. He has copied it out, and aims to pass it off as his own. I am no theologian, but even I can tell it is heresy.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Then why is it not on the fire already?’

‘Because he has hidden it and refuses to tell me where. You will have to use your authority as Senior Proctor to wrest it from him. And while you are at it, tell him that if he tries my patience again, I shall not be responsible for the consequences.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Michael wearily. ‘I shall come at once.’

‘He is here, listening to the debate, and will make a fuss that will attract unwanted attention if you haul him out in front of everyone. Nab him this evening, Brother, but for God’s sake do not forget or we shall be finished.’

‘William really is a nuisance,’ muttered Michael, as the Master turned on his heel and stalked away. ‘Why did he have to choose now to be controversial? But never mind him. We need to visit Potmoor before any more of the day is lost.’

‘Must we?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘Is there no other way forward?’

‘None that I can see. Other than asking Illesy what he has to say about entertaining the villain on the night Elvesmere died – which we shall do as soon as we have Potmoor’s side of the story.’

As it transpired, they were spared a trek to Chesterton because they met Potmoor on the High Street. The felon was with his hulking son Hugo, and at his heels were men who wore the greasy half-armour of the professional lout. He was exchanging greetings with Olivia Knyt, who was pale and subdued. When the two scholars approached, she took the opportunity to hurry away from him.

Michael began his interrogation with some innocuous remarks about the recent spate of burglaries, but Potmoor only acknowledged them with grunts, his attention fixed on Olivia’s retreating form. His expression was hungry, making Bartholomew suspect he
did
harbour a hankering for her, although that was not to say that it had ever been reciprocated.

At that moment Illesy joined them. He was breathless, giving the impression that he had seen his former client waylaid, and had raced to give him the benefit of his legal skills. Bartholomew studied him carefully, but could read nothing in the bland, oily face. He could certainly read Michael’s, though: the monk quickly lost patience when Illesy began to reply to questions that were directed at Potmoor.

‘What do you think of Winwick Hall?’ asked Michael, finally devising one that Illesy could not possibly answer on Potmoor’s behalf.

‘I cannot say – I have never been inside.’ Potmoor smiled, revealing long yellow teeth beneath his dangling moustache, although the eyes remained cold and beady. ‘But that will change next week, as I have been promised a tour after the beginning of term ceremony. Certain members of the Guild of Saints have been invited to dine there, see.’