Death of a Scholar (21 page)

Michael made an irritated sound at the back of his throat. ‘Why not? You have been itching to try it for years, but the moment I give you my blessing, you baulk. Where lies the problem?’

Bartholomew did not want to admit the truth, which was that he was sometimes assailed with the uncomfortable sense that God did not approve of what he did to the dead in the name of justice, and that weighing in with knives and forceps was likely to make the feeling a lot worse. He hedged.

‘I have no training in the art. Watching once or twice is not the same as being taught how to do it properly. I am not qualified.’

‘It cannot be that different from all the illicit surgery you conduct. Indeed, I imagine it will be a sight easier, as Hemmysby is unlikely to move.’

‘But he was a friend, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘It would not be right.’

‘What is not right is failing to do all in our power to clear his name and ensure he lies in the grave he deserves. I am not happy with desecration either, but I am prepared to set aside my aversion for the sake of justice. And if you care anything for Hemmysby, you will agree.’

Bartholomew was acutely unhappy. ‘There must be a better way…’

‘If there is, then I am all ears. If not, please make a start. I shall stand guard outside – we cannot have anyone walking in on you, and it will relieve me of the obligation to watch.’

When Michael had gone, Bartholomew stood motionless, looking at the body that lay before him as he tried to make sense of the whirlwind of conflicting emotions that raged within him. He had thought for years that dissection was the only way to establish accurate causes of death, but now he had permission to put his beliefs into practice, he was nervous, hesitant and afraid.

Yet at the same time, Michael was right: Hemmysby deserved to be exonerated, and an internal examination would provide a place to start. Heart thumping, he took a scalpel and made an incision. It was easier than he had anticipated, and once it was done, the intellectual part of his mind took over. He was able to disregard the fact that he was looking inside a friend, and concentrate on what he had learned at Salerno. It did not take him long to do what was necessary or to stitch up the holes he had made.

When all was done, and Hemmysby was lying decently in a clean robe, Bartholomew washed his hands in a jug of water and went outside. He found Michael looking pale and furtive.

‘I do not want to hear anything other than what you found,’ said the monk in a low voice. ‘I have been praying, to ask if what we are doing is right, but the only reply has been a resounding silence. I almost ran back inside to stop you, but the thought of Hemmysby’s eternal repose kept me rooted here among these graves.’

Bartholomew slumped down next to him, oddly exhausted now the deed was done. ‘He
was
poisoned. The signs are identical to those I saw in Salerno. The toxin then was a substance called
dormirella
, from the Latin for sleep, and I suspect the same one was used here. It contains many potent ingredients, including realgar, dwale and hemlock, which are deadly, as you know.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘I know no such thing! And what are dwale and realgar? I have never heard of them.’

‘Dwale is belladonna, and realgar is a reddish mineral used for dyeing cloth, tanning leather—’

‘Enough! I do not need an alchemy lesson.’ Michael swallowed hard. ‘I do not know whether to be smug that I was right or appalled that something so terrible has happened. Did he suffer?’

‘I imagine he just felt increasingly sluggish until he was overwhelmed with the need to sleep – hence the name
dormirella
. He may have been a little dizzy or feverish, and there may have been a slight burning in the throat, but this is a toxin that kills its victims quietly and without a fuss.’

‘Thank God for small mercies.’ Michael crossed himself. ‘How long does it take to work?’

‘It depends on the dose, which I have no way of determining.’

‘And there is nothing to say whether he swallowed it accidentally or otherwise?’

‘The contents of his stomach suggest it was probably in some cake. Thus it was unlikely to have been suicide – he would have swallowed it straight from the bottle if it had been self-murder.’

‘Cake?’ cried Michael, shocked all over again. ‘What kind of cake?’

‘One with dried fruit in it, although I cannot be more specific, I am afraid. I suppose I could take a sample to—’

‘No!’ Michael raised a hand to stop him. ‘I am sure we can manage without molesting him further. However, we can certainly dismiss accidental poisoning. Such a substance is unlikely to fall into food by mistake, which means it was put there deliberately.’

‘Yes, probably. So he was murdered, which means he can go in the churchyard. At least we have done that much for him.’

Michael closed his eyes, trying to push his continuing disquiet to the back of his mind. ‘So who wants Hemmysby blamed for stealing the Stanton Hutch, and dead so he cannot deny it? Someone from Michaelhouse? His students liked him, but he earned the displeasure of others for backing Thelnetham in his feud with William. And our College is currently full of strangers…’

‘I hope you are wrong.’ Bartholomew hated the notion of a killer in their home.

‘We need to locate the generous soul who gave him cake. There was none in his room – I would have noticed – so he must have eaten it at the post-debate refreshments.’ He regarded the physician in sudden alarm. ‘Lord! I hope there are no more victims among our theologians.’

‘If so, you would have heard about them by now.’

‘True. Now what about Knyt? I doubt Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence are capable of telling the difference between a natural attack and the insidious effects of this sly toxin.’

That had already occurred to Bartholomew, along with the fact that Potmoor had been in the Knyt house shortly before its owner had died – and Potmoor was the man whom Edith suspected of poisoning her husband. He shrugged at Michael’s question.

‘It is impossible to know without looking inside him.’

Michael grimaced. ‘It is one thing anatomising Hemmysby, safe in the knowledge that no one will ever find out, but another altogether to do it to a wealthy merchant. It would be discovered, and you would be denounced as a warlock.’

‘Then how will we learn the truth?’

Michael spread his hands. ‘Simple – you listed the symptoms that Hemmysby would have suffered as the potion worked. If our other victims were similarly affected, then we can infer that they were fed
dormirella
, too. It should not be difficult. Knyt had a wife, servants and
medici
who watched him in his final hours, while Oswald had Edith, Agatha and Rougham.’

‘Perhaps we should include Elvesmere in our enquiries, too. The wound in his back was not instantly fatal, as I said, and his death has puzzled me from the start. He was also a guildsman, like Oswald, Knyt and Hemmysby.’

‘You mean he was knifed, but when that did not kill him, he was made to drink poison?’

‘Or he drank poison, but it took too long to work, so his killer stabbed him. So how shall we go about unravelling this muddle? By asking Rougham to describe Oswald’s death?’

Michael patted his arm. ‘I understand his fate is the most important to you. However, I suggest we start with Hemmysby, by finding witnesses who saw him at the debate. Next we shall see what we can learn about Knyt’s last hours. And if we run into Rougham, we shall see what he can tell us about Oswald.’

Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘This is the point where I usually tell you that I am too busy with patients and teaching. But Oswald and Hemmysby deserve the truth.’

‘So do Knyt and Elvesmere,’ said Michael soberly.

Before they began their enquiries, they were obliged to report their findings to Langelee. The Master was no stranger to violent death, and Bartholomew knew for a fact that he had been responsible for more than a few himself while in the employ of the Archbishop of York, but he still paled when he heard what they had discovered.

‘How do you know it was
dormirella
?’ The way the name tripped off his tongue suggested he was more familiar with it than was appropriate for the head of a Cambridge College. ‘I thought that was undetectable.’

‘Not to a physician,’ replied Michael smoothly.

‘Nonsense. It leaves no visible marks … Oh, God! Bartholomew looked inside him! I
knew
it was only a matter of time before his ghoulish curiosity would get the better of him.’

‘We needed the truth,’ said Michael defensively.

‘But how will you reply when people ask how you have managed to detect the undetectable?’ Langelee sounded appalled and angry in equal measure. ‘I absolutely forbid you to tell the truth. You will have to lie. Say it was narcissus poisoning, which leaves a rash.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How do you know?’

Langelee ignored the question. ‘If word gets out that you anatomised a corpse, we shall all be decried as sorcerers. Damn it, Bartholomew! Why could you not restrain yourself?’

‘It was under my orders,’ said Michael curtly. ‘And we had no choice. If we had done nothing, Hemmysby would be buried under a cloud of suspicion, and the killer would be laughing at us. Do you want that?’

‘No, of course not.’ Langelee fought down his exasperation and became practical. ‘You must find the villain as soon as possible. It will be catastrophic if our students decide they do not feel safe here and demand their fees back. You are both excused College duties until the matter is resolved. However, I can only grant you this freedom until the beginning of term.’

‘Next Tuesday,’ mused Michael. ‘Five days. Let us hope that is enough.’

The first place Michael and Bartholomew went after leaving College was St Mary the Great, to ask Chancellor Tynkell whether he had noticed Hemmysby at the debate. It took longer than usual to reach the church because they kept meeting people they knew – Eyer and Meryfeld, Warden Shropham of King’s Hall, and Weasenham, the University Stationer. Bartholomew, uncomfortable, after Langelee’s reaction, with what he had done to Hemmysby, could not meet their eyes, and mumbled shifty responses to their friendly hails.

‘Would you like a banner saying you have done something untoward?’ asked Michael. ‘Even that would be more discreet than this abjectly guilty behaviour.’

‘I should not have done it,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘Perhaps there are good reasons why the Church frowns on the practice. It felt wrong – like sacrilege.’

‘Rank superstition! God gave you your skills for a reason, and He would be disappointed if you were prepared to let a killer go free, just for the want of a few judicious slits.’

Bartholomew might have been comforted had he thought the monk believed what he said, but he could tell the words were empty – Michael was also wrestling with his conscience over the matter. However, all thoughts of dissection flew from his head when he saw Edith, who was looking pale, tired and older than her years.

‘Is it Richard again?’ he asked, concerned.

She rolled her eyes. ‘He took the chest containing Oswald’s personal documents, the one I found half-burned in the garden, although no one seems to know how it came to be there – and hid it, so I had to order him to give it back. He refused, and we both said things we shall probably regret. In the end, he all but hurled it at me before storming out.’

‘Why does he want to keep it from you?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew clenched his fists at his sides, a wave of anger washing through him at his nephew’s boorish behaviour.

‘Because he thinks we should respect Oswald’s privacy. But I have uncovered several unpaid bills, and another instance where a customer was overcharged. It is incumbent on me, as Oswald’s heir, to make good on these … oversights.’

Bartholomew glanced at her ashen face, and knew she was beginning to understand more than was comfortable about the way her husband had run his business. Richard, of course, would prefer to remain in blissful ignorance, taking the lawyerly view that he could not amend what he did not know was wrong. Both scholars set about trying to raise her spirits, but although she was slightly more cheerful when they parted ways, Bartholomew suspected it would not be long before she was cast down again, if not by reading Oswald’s documents, then by Richard’s shabby antics.

He and Michael were just passing St Michael’s Church when they met Julitta. Surgeon Holm was not with her for once, and she looked especially pretty in a green kirtle with gold embroidery. Bartholomew’s heart swelled with affection for her, which went some way to easing the ache caused by Edith’s unhappiness, his concern for his wayward nephew, and his continuing unease over Hemmysby.

‘You are a member of the Guild of Saints,’ said Michael, after they had exchanged warm greetings – very warm on Bartholomew’s part. ‘What can you tell us about Felbrigge?’

‘Your Junior Proctor?’ asked Julitta, startled by the question out of the blue. ‘I barely knew him, Brother. He tended to spurn anyone he thought would not be useful to him.’

‘He did not think your friendship was worth cultivating?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘But you are wealthy, and therefore have a voice in Guild politics.’

‘Not as loud a voice as people like Mayor Heslarton, Mistress Mortimer, John and Hugo Potmoor, the Frevill clan, and the Fellows of Winwick,’ replied Julitta. ‘And Knyt, Hemmysby and Oswald Stanmore when they were still alive.’

‘When they were still alive,’ echoed Michael. ‘But they are dead, along with Elvesmere and Felbrigge himself. That makes
five
guildsmen gone within a few weeks of each other. Have there been any rumours about that? Any hint that something odd is unfolding?’

Julitta regarded him in astonishment. ‘Surely you do not think there is a connection? How could there be, when three died of natural causes, one was shot, and the other was stabbed?’

‘We know Felbrigge was unpopular,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to burden her with their suspicions. ‘But what about the others?’

‘Knyt was loved by everyone, while Stanmore was a hero among the poor for his unstinting munificence. Elvesmere was also quietly generous, as was poor Hemmysby.’