Death of a Scholar (22 page)

‘I was sorry to learn you were burgled,’ said Michael, launching into another subject. ‘Your husband complained bitterly to me about it yesterday.’

Julitta sighed. ‘Poor Will. He has never been the victim of a crime before, and it unsettled him badly. The culprit made a terrible mess in his workshop.’

‘Workshop?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘Why would a surgeon have one of those?’

‘He performs very little cautery these days, and spends most of his time making medicines.’ Julitta smiled indulgently. ‘His pill for gout is almost ready, although his paste for whitening teeth suffered a serious setback when the thief stole some of his key ingredients.’

Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘Not a substance called
dormirella
? It cannot be used for whitening teeth – at least, not sensibly – but Holm might have had it for another purpose.’

‘He does use
dormirella
in his tooth-paste,’ said Julitta, a little coolly. ‘It is perfectly safe if you know what you are doing, and Will has a rare talent with such matters.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘So did the thief steal some from him?’

‘I believe so.’ She started to add more, stopped, then spoke in a gabble. ‘Signor Nerli. I was walking past Winwick Hall the other day, and I saw him practising his swordplay with Potmoor in the yard. He was far more competent than is respectable for a scholar, and he may well have other sinister talents – like a familiarity with compounds that have Italian-sounding names.’

‘He might,’ agreed Michael. ‘And I had better find out just how friendly he is with Potmoor.’

The expression on Julitta’s face remained troubled. ‘Nerli is not the only Winwick scholar who worries me. I like Master Lawrence very much, but Will tells me that he killed Queen Isabella with incompetence – that he did not retire to dedicate the rest of his life to teaching, but because he was ousted from his post by the King.’

‘Typical Oxford man,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am not surprised that Lawrence—’

‘Spiteful gossip,’ interrupted Bartholomew shortly. ‘You should not believe it.’

Julitta nodded, although doubt remained in her eyes. ‘Speaking of Will, you had better not come for our usual evening tomorrow, Matt. He cannot visit Knyt, as he usually does on Fridays, so he has offered to sing to me instead. I have not yet heard his voice, given that he has suffered so many sore throats since our wedding day, but I am sure it will be beautiful.’

The surgeon was marginally less easy on the ears than a braying donkey, and it was testament to his skills as a liar that he had managed to conceal it from his wife for so many months. Bartholomew had no doubt whatsoever that an excuse would be invented for the following evening, thus allowing Holm to escape with his musical reputation intact. The man was nothing if not resourceful, and Bartholomew thought Julitta a fool for swallowing so many of his falsehoods.

‘Perhaps he should audition for the Michaelhouse Choir,’ he said, uncharacteristically acidic because he resented losing what was the highlight of his week.

‘I do not need more members, thank you,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘It is already bigger than ever before, and I shall struggle to conduct it if it grows any further.’

‘Gracious,’ said Julitta, wide-eyed. ‘I must remember to stand well back when they perform at the beginning of term ceremony. So as to appreciate the quality of their performance,’ she added quickly when Michael’s eyes narrowed.

They made their farewells, and the scholars resumed their walk to St Mary the Great. Bartholomew was thoughtful, mulling over the possibility that Holm’s
dormirella
had killed Hemmysby, along with the fact that so many members of the Guild of Saints were dead. He also pondered Nerli, a man with odd skills for a scholar, whose qualifications Elvesmere had questioned. Had he fabricated them, or did the University at Salerno really award Masters of Civil Law?

‘You play with fire, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Enjoying brazen assignations with another man’s wife. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, or you might have found yourself fined for inappropriate relationships. Women
are
forbidden to scholars, you know.’

‘We meet to practise her reading.’

‘You can call it what you like,’ said Michael. ‘But I have seen the way you look at each other. However, you should watch yourself, given that her husband has access to poisons. If he sends you a cake, try it out on Goodwyn before eating any yourself.’

‘I was thinking much the same. Not about experimenting on Goodwyn, but that Holm might be responsible for killing Hemmysby. They were both guildsmen, and now we learn that he has a supply of
dormirella
.’

‘You want him to be guilty because you love Julitta.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘He was probably never burgled at all, and invented the tale to explain why some of his supply is missing. Doubtless, he is afraid that you will ask everyone to account for any
dormirella
they have bought in the past.’

‘You had better hope not,’ said Michael drily. ‘Because if so, it means he predicted that we would learn Hemmysby was poisoned, and as
dormirella
is supposed to be undetectable, he will know what we did for answers.’

Bartholomew gaped at him in horror. ‘He will accuse me of defiling Hemmysby, and one look at the corpse will prove him right! No one will care that he stands accused of murder, because what I did will be considered worse.’

‘Then I suggest we visit Eyer, and find out who has bought
dormirella
recently. If Holm is the only one, we shall arrest him before he can blare any nasty allegations. However, while I understand him wanting
you
dead, I do not see why he should have taken against our other victims. What would his motive be?’

‘To win a louder voice in the Guild of Saints? They deal with enormous sums of money, and he probably hankers after the power such influence will give him.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Holm does not care about the kind of “power” that accrues from giving money to worthy causes. Love is playing havoc with your reason, my friend! What will Matilde say when she returns to find that your heart belongs to another man’s wife?’

‘She may never come,’ said Bartholomew shortly, disliking the reminder of his confused feelings. ‘And even if she does, I am not sure we could be happy together.’

The Chancellor had an office in St Mary the Great, although it was smaller and less well appointed than his Senior Proctor’s. He was busy when they arrived, almost buried under a mound of parchment. Students in holy orders needed dispensations from their priories, abbeys or convents before they could enrol at the University, while others needed licences from bishops. All had to be checked and acknowledged, and it was tedious work. Michael had long since delegated the task to Tynkell on the grounds that he himself had more interesting matters to attend.

Tynkell was sitting back massaging his neck when the monk walked in. He had an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene, which meant his company was often disagreeable. There was something peculiar about his physiognomy, too, and Michaelhouse’s students had once started a rumour that he was pregnant. Bartholomew knew what made the Chancellor different, but steadfastly refused to tell.

‘Poor Hemmysby,’ Tynkell sighed, when asked what he remembered about the debate. ‘He argued with great eloquence that the property and jurisdiction of friars are free gifts from God, and was so persuasive that even the monastics applauded his thesis. It is a great pity that he died before he could bask in his success.’

‘Did his opinions offend anyone?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Not his opinions, but he was ruthless with those whose minds are less incisive than his own. A number of inexperienced, inept or careless speakers fell prey to his impeccable logic. And no one likes being made to look a fool in front of his peers.’

‘So a number of people might have meant him harm?’

‘Harm in a future debate, perhaps – to maul him, as he did them – but I cannot imagine anyone wishing him physical hurt. We are scholars, not politicians.’

‘Did you see anyone give him a piece of cake?’ asked Michael.

Tynkell regarded him balefully. ‘You may not have left me much in the way of authority, but I have enough to prevent scholars from eating in church. However, there were refreshments in the vestry afterwards, provided by Winwick Hall. You must remember, Brother – you were there.’

‘Only long enough to grab the merest morsel. I had to go to choir practice.’

Prudently, Tynkell passed no remark on either statement. ‘It was kind of Winwick to provide the food yesterday. The Guild of Saints obliged on the first day, but refused to do it a second time, lest we debated until Christmas, and they were compelled to feed us every night.’

‘From what I saw, that was not an unreasonable concern,’ muttered Michael.

‘But Winwick was caught out by the number of scholars who appeared for the victuals, especially as many had not bothered with the debate, and only wanted the food.’ Tynkell did not look at Michael. ‘So several guildsmen came to their rescue. De Stannell sent wine, Meryfeld marchpane, Eyer nuts and Edith Stanmore some magnificent fruitcake.’

‘My sister?’ Bartholomew was alarmed. ‘And Hemmysby ate some?’

‘We all did,’ replied Tynkell. ‘There must have been two hundred of us, and we all enjoyed her baking. Hemmysby stood in my little group in the vestry. I am fairly sure he took some cake. He had no wine, nuts or marchpane, though. There was not enough of the first, and he did not like the second and third.’

‘Who else was in this group?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew remembered that Hemmysby often mentioned his aversion to nuts and anything containing them.

‘William and Thelnetham, who spent the time bickering over some tract one of them had penned; Rougham, who did not attend the debate and only came for the food; and Illesy and his Fellows, along with that loutish student who acts as a guide for Bon – Uyten. He hails from John Winwick’s home village, you know, and he has taken the name to—’

‘When did these refreshments finish?’ interrupted Michael curtly, not interested in irrelevancies.

‘About halfway through your choir practice, which we could hear quite clearly from here. I was vexed because everyone left me to do the clearing up alone, even the Winwick men, who used the excuse that they were expecting a visit from you. I pointed out that you would not come as long as the choir was singing, but to no avail.’

‘I did visit,’ said Michael. ‘They were settled in their
parlura
by then.’

‘A few scholars chatted outside the door while I laboured,’ Tynkell went on. ‘I sent them packing when I finished. It was dark, so I cannot tell you who they were. However, one was definitely Hemmysby, because he stumbled over something and we exchanged words about it.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he felt unwell, but it was a passing remark, and I did not know he was suffering the beginnings of a fatal fever – obviously, or I would have tried to help him. I last saw him walking up the High Street alone. I assumed he was going home.’

Michael looked at Bartholomew. ‘You were right in what you suggested last night: he must have felt too ill to reach Michaelhouse, so he headed for our church instead. But he could not open the door and he died in the graveyard.’

Tynkell crossed himself. ‘At least he breathed his last on holy ground.’

‘That is some consolation, I suppose,’ said Michael bleakly.

‘What now, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, as they stood outside St Mary the Great. ‘And please do not say we should visit Edith and demand to know why she poisoned her cake. If she were the culprit, there would be two hundred casualties, not just one – you included.’

‘I did not have any fruitcake,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Warden Shropham cornered me to gripe about Winwick Hall, and it had all gone by the time I managed to escape. I had to make do with a few scraps of marchpane and a handful of nuts. And wine, of course. So the poison was not in those. Or at least, it was not in the few morsels that I managed to snag.’

‘There was no wine inside Hemmysby,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I would have smelled it. And Tynkell was right: Hemmysby disliked nuts, so would not have taken them or the marchpane. However, this does not mean that Edith killed him. Perhaps he had cake twice yesterday – the poisoned one
and
what he took in the vestry.’

‘How? He was at the debate all day, and Tynkell would not have let him devour pastries in the church.’ Michael was thoughtful. ‘How long does
dormirella
take to work?’

‘It is immediate. However, what you really want to know is: when would he have noticed? And the answer is that it depends how much he was given, which is beyond my skills to determine.’

‘Well, we know
when
he had it. The debate finished at dusk, and Tynkell has just told us that the following refreshments were over halfway through choir practice. That means Hemmysby ate the poison between seven o’clock and half-past eight.’

‘He lingered afterwards, chatting. He told Tynkell he was unwell, but he could not have been too ill or he would have asked for help. I imagine the accolades of admiring colleagues kept him lively, but once he was alone, he began to feel lethargic. He probably decided to rest at St Michael’s on the way home, but when the latch stuck, he collapsed and slipped into unconsciousness.’

‘So our first duty is to speak to the others who were with him in the vestry – William, Thelnetham, the men from Winwick Hall and Rougham. And we are in luck, because here comes Rougham now.’

The Gonville physician had treated himself to a new gown for the beginning of term; it fitted snugly around his ample paunch. He pointed across the road as he approached, to where Holm and Hugo were just entering Eyer’s shop.

‘Those two are always together,’ he remarked. ‘Almost as much as you and Julitta.’

Bartholomew felt himself blush. ‘I do not—’

‘Yes, you do,’ countered Rougham. ‘And it is reckless to cavort with the wife of the town’s only surgeon. He might take deadly revenge if you are ever in need of his services.’