Death of a Scholar (2 page)

‘Its founder has a very devious way with words,’ said Chancellor Tynkell defensively. He was a timid, ineffectual man, and it was common knowledge that it was Michael, not he, who ran the University. ‘I found myself agreeing to things without realising the consequences.’

‘I did suggest you let me deal with him,’ said John Felbrigge, a stout, forceful individual who liked being Junior Proctor because it gave him the opportunity to tell other people what to do. ‘I would not have been bullied.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, not entirely approvingly. Felbrigge had not been in post for long, but had already managed to alienate an enormous number of people. Moreover, he had designs on the Senior Proctorship, and Michael disliked an ambitious underling snapping at his heels. ‘Having a ninth College does make our University stronger, yet I am uneasy about the whole venture.’

‘You worry needlessly,’ said Tynkell, comfortable in the knowledge that he would retire soon, so any trouble would not be for him to sort out. ‘Besides, would you rather John Winwick took his money to Oxford?’

‘Of course not!’ Michael hated the Other Place with every fibre of his being. ‘But I do not like the kind of men who have flocked here, hoping to study in Winwick Hall.’

‘True,’ agreed Felbrigge. ‘There have already been several nasty brawls with the townsfolk.’

‘Things will ease once term starts,’ said Tynkell, although with more hope than conviction. ‘These young men will either become absorbed in their studies, or Winwick Hall will decline to take them and they will leave.’

‘You are half right.’ Michael eyed him balefully. ‘Many
will
leave when their applications are rejected. However, some will win places, and as Winwick Hall is taking only the richest candidates, regardless of their intellectual ability, we shall have a lot of arrogant dimwits strutting around.’

All three looked towards Winwick’s Fellows. So far, there were five and a Provost, although provision had been made to add more during the year. They were resplendent in their new livery – blue gowns with pink hoods – a uniform far more striking than the sober colours favoured by the other foundations.

‘
Provost
Illesy,’ said Michael sourly. ‘Why not Master or Warden, like everywhere else? “Provost” implies that he has control of a collegiate church, and as Winwick Hall is in the parish of St Mary the Great, he might try to take the place over. And
we
work in that church.’

‘It
is
a concern,’ agreed Felbrigge. He lowered his voice to a gossipy whisper. ‘John Winwick said that he chose Illesy as Provost because he is the most talented lawyer in Cambridge. Yet I cannot forget that Illesy has represented some very unsavoury clients in the past – criminals, no less. However, I have taken steps to keep him and his College in their place.’

Michael was indignant at the presumption. ‘What steps?’

‘I am a member of the Guild of Saints, as you know,’ replied Felbrigge. He smirked superiorly: Michael and Tynkell would never be asked to join, as neither was sufficiently affluent. ‘And we have a say in what happens at Winwick Hall, because it could not have been built without our money. So I have used my influence to install one or two safeguards.’

‘Such as?’ demanded Michael.

‘I am afraid I cannot say, Brother. Blabbing about them will undermine their efficacy. But do not worry. Everything is under control.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Michael tightly. ‘But if it affects my University, I want to know what—’

‘
Your
University?’ interrupted Felbrigge insolently. ‘I thought it belonged to all of us.’

Michael was so unused to anyone challenging his authority that he was startled into silence. Then Winwick’s procession began to move, and his belated rejoinder was drowned out by shouts from onlookers – a few cheers, but mostly catcalls and jeers. He heard a hiss and a thump over the clamour, but thought nothing of it until Chancellor Tynkell issued a shrill shriek of horror.

He turned to see Felbrigge on his knees, an arrow protruding from his middle. He glanced around quickly, but the road was so full of buildings and alleys that the archer might have been anywhere. Pandemonium erupted. Scholars and spectators scrambled for cover, while Felbrigge slumped face-down on the ground. A physician hurried to help him.

‘Dead?’ asked the monk unsteadily, when the
medicus
sat back on his heels, defeated.

‘I am afraid so, Brother.’

Chesterton, the Feast of St Michael and All Angels
(29 September) 1358

John Potmoor was a terrible man. He had lied, cheated, bullied and killed to make himself rich, and was hated and feared across an entire region. No crime was beneath him, and as he became increasingly powerful, he recruited more and more like-minded henchmen to aid him in his evil deeds. Yet it was a point of pride to him that he was just as skilled a thief now as he had been in his youth, and to prove it, he regularly went out burgling.

Although by far the richest pickings were in Cambridge, Potmoor did not operate there – he was no fool, and knew better than to take on the combined strength of Sheriff and Senior Proctor. Then an opportunity arose. Sheriff Tulyet was summoned to London to account for an anomaly in the shire’s taxes, and Brother Michael went to Peterborough. Potmoor was delighted: their deputies were members of the Guild of Saints, as was Potmoor himself, and guildsmen always looked after each other. He moved quickly to establish himself in fresh pastures, and they turned a blind eye to his activities, just as he expected.

Not every guildsman was happy with his expansion, though: Oswald Stanmore had objected vociferously to Potmoor’s men loitering around the quays where his barges unloaded. Then Stanmore died suddenly, and those who supported him were quick to fall silent. By the time Brother Michael returned, Potmoor’s hold on the town was too strong to break, and the felon was assailed with a sense of savage invincibility. But he had woken that morning feeling distinctly unwell.

At first, he thought nothing of it – it was an ague caused by the changing seasons and he would soon shake it off. But he grew worse as the day progressed, and by evening he was forced to concede that he needed a physician. He sent for John Meryfeld, and was alarmed by the grave expression on the man’s normally jovial face. A murmured ‘oh, dear’ was not something anyone liked to hear from his
medicus
either.

At Meryfeld’s insistence, Surgeon Holm was called to bleed the patient, but the sawbones’ expression was bleak by the time the procedure was finished. Unnerved, Potmoor summoned the town’s other medical practitioners – Rougham of Gonville, Lawrence of Winwick Hall and Eyer the apothecary. The physicians asked a number of embarrassingly personal questions, then retreated to consult their astrological tables. When their calculations were complete, more grim looks were exchanged, and the apothecary began to mix ingredients in a bowl, although with such a want of zeal that it was clear he thought he was wasting his time.

A desperate fear gripped Potmoor at that point, and he ordered his son Hugo to fetch Matthew Bartholomew. Although the most talented of the town’s
medici
, Potmoor had resisted asking him sooner because he was Stanmore’s brother-in-law. Potmoor did not know the physician well enough to say whether he had taken his kinsman’s side in the quarrel over the wharves, but he had been unwilling to take the chance. Now, thoroughly frightened, he would have accepted help from the Devil himself had it been offered.

Hugo rode to Cambridge as fast as his stallion would carry him, but heavy rain rendered the roads slick with mud on the way back, and Bartholomew was an abysmal horseman. Hugo was forced to curtail his speed – the physician would be of no use to anyone if he fell off and brained himself – so the return journey took far longer than it should have done.

They arrived at Chesterton eventually, and the pair hurried into the sickroom. It was eerily quiet. The other
medici
stood in a silent semicircle by the window, while Potmoor’s henchmen clustered together in mute consternation.

‘You are too late,’ said Surgeon Holm spitefully. He did not like Bartholomew, and was maliciously gratified that his colleague had braved the storm for nothing. ‘We did all we could.’

Hugo’s jaw dropped. ‘My father is dead? No!’

‘It is God’s will,’ said Meryfeld gently. ‘We shall help you to lay him out.’

‘Or better yet, recommend a suitable woman,’ said Rougham. It was very late, and he wanted to go home.

‘But he was perfectly well yesterday,’ wailed Hugo. ‘How can he have died so quickly?’

‘People do,’ said Lawrence, an elderly gentleman with white hair and a kindly smile. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘How do you
know
he is dead?’ demanded Hugo. ‘He might just be asleep.’

‘He is not breathing,’ explained Meryfeld patiently. ‘His eyes are glazed, he is cold and he is stiff. All these are sure signs that the life has left him.’

‘Declare him dead so we can go,’ whispered Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘I know it is wrong to speak ill of the departed, but Potmoor was a vicious brute who terrorised an entire county. There are few who will mourn his passing – other than his equally vile helpmeets and Hugo.’

Bartholomew stepped towards the bed, but immediately sensed something odd about the body. He examined it briefly, then groped for his smelling salts in the bag he always wore looped over his shoulder.

‘
Sal ammoniac?
’ asked Eyer in surprise, when he saw the little pot of minerals and herbs that he himself had prepared. ‘That will not work, Matt. Not on a corpse.’

Bartholomew ignored him and waved it under Potmoor’s nose. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Potmoor sneezed, his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright.

‘I have just been in Heaven!’ the felon exclaimed. ‘I saw it quite clearly – angels with harps, bright light, and the face of God himself! Why did you drag me back from such a paradise?’

‘That is a good question, Bartholomew,’ muttered Rougham sourly. ‘Why could you not have left him dead?’

It was an inauspicious start for a new College. Geoffrey de Elvesmere of Winwick Hall lay dead in the latrine, sprawled inelegantly with his clothes in disarray around him. Matthew Bartholomew was sorry. Elvesmere had been a fastidious, private man, who would have hated the indignity of the spectacle he was providing – three of his colleagues had come to gawp while his body was being inspected. Establishing why he had died was a task that fell to Bartholomew, who was not only a physician and a Doctor of Medicine at Michaelhouse, but also the University’s Corpse Examiner – the man responsible for providing official cause of death for any scholar who shed the mortal coil.

‘Our first fatality,’ sighed Provost William Illesy. He was tall, suave, sly-eyed and wore more rings than was practical for a mere eight fingers and two thumbs. ‘I knew we would lose members eventually, but I was not expecting it to be quite so soon.’

‘It will look bad in our records,’ agreed a small, sharp-faced Fellow named Ratclyf. His expression turned thoughtful. ‘So perhaps we should pretend he never enrolled. Officially, we are not part of the University until term starts next week, so there is no reason why—’

‘You do not mean that,’ interrupted the last of the trio sharply. Master Lawrence was unusual in that he was not only a
medicus
, but a lawyer as well. His long white hair and matching beard made him distinctive, and although he had not been in Cambridge long, he was already noted for his compassion and sweetness of manner. ‘It is shock speaking. Elvesmere was a lovely man, and we should be proud to count him as a colleague.’

Bartholomew kept his eyes on the corpse, lest Lawrence should read the disbelief in his face. He had only met Elvesmere twice, but had considered him rude, officious and haughty. A long way from being ‘lovely’ in any respect.

‘I suppose he suffered a seizure,’ mused Illesy. ‘He was very excited about the beginning of term ceremony, and I said only last night that he should calm himself.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘What ceremony? There is nothing to mark the occasion except a long queue to sign the register and a short service in St Mary the Great.’

‘This year will be different, because of us,’ explained Ratclyf smugly. ‘We are to be formally incorporated into the University, so there will be a grand procession.’

But Bartholomew’s attention had returned to the body, and he was no longer listening. Elvesmere was in an odd position, one he was sure the man could not have managed by himself. ‘Has he been moved?’

‘No,’ replied Illesy, pursing his lips in disapproval. ‘Although he should have been. It is disrespectful for an outsider like you to see him in such an embarrassing situation.’

‘But Lawrence would not let us,’ added Ratclyf, treating his colleague to a cool glance. ‘Even though we are not quite members of the University, he said its Corpse Examiner would still need to inspect Elvesmere
in situ
.’

There was a distinct sneer in Ratclyf’s voice as he spoke Bartholomew’s title, but the physician chose to ignore it. The post had been created by the Senior Proctor as a way to secure help with the many suspicious deaths that occurred in the town – when Brother Michael had first started calling on his expertise, Bartholomew had vehemently objected, feeling his duty lay with the living. Now he earned three pennies for every case, he was happy to oblige, as he needed the money to supply medicine for his enormous practice of paupers.

There was another reason why his objections had diminished, too: familiarity with cadavers had taught him that there was much to be learned from them. He felt this knowledge made him a better physician, and he was sorry the study of anatomy was frowned upon in England. He had watched several dissections at the University in Salerno, and it was obvious to him that they should form part of every
medicus
’s training.

‘Lawrence doubtless hopes that you will do for Elvesmere what you did for Potmoor,’ Ratclyf went on. ‘Namely raise him from the dead.’