Death of a Scholar (25 page)

When Michael professed a keen interest in keeping things safe, Edith showed him the shed where she stored the more deadly substances that were used in the preparation of cloth. The only key was on a chain around her neck, and the lock was substantial. Records were kept of what was used when, and it quickly became apparent that her supply of realgar had not been tapped to kill anyone. When he and Michael were outside in the street, Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said sincerely.

‘I was skilful,’ said the monk immodestly. ‘She never once guessed that I was assessing whether she was a killer.’

‘Actually, for making her laugh.’

Michael frowned. ‘Yes, but I hope the willingness with which she did so does not mean she considers me a glutton. I eat very little – just a crust here, and a scrap there. I just have heavy bones, which give the
appearance
of corpulence, although I would be as light as a feather without them.’

Bartholomew grinned at him, but then became serious. ‘Unfortunately, her testimony does not help us with Hemmysby’s poisoner. The vestry is open to the street as well as the church – anyone could have slipped in and tampered with the food after she and Zachary left, and Nerli abandoned his post to listen to Bon pontificate. And that leads again to the question of whether Hemmysby was the intended victim.’

‘True. Is that Uyten racing towards us? He should slow down – if he falls on his face, he will lose what few teeth he has left.’

‘There you are, Doctor Bartholomew,’ the student gasped. ‘Master Lawrence sent me to find you. You must come to Winwick immediately.’

‘Must he indeed?’ said Michael coolly. ‘And why is that, pray?’

‘Because shortly after you left, Master Lawrence went to visit Ratclyf and found him very ill. He does not know what to do, and begs urgent assistance.’

Bartholomew set off at a run. He was waved through Winwick’s still-unattached gates by the porter, although Michael was challenged when he tried to follow. Bartholomew did not stop to intervene; the Senior Proctor needed no help from him in entering a College. Despite the exigency of the situation, Uyten was unable to resist a brag as they hurried towards the Fellows’ rooms, which were located in a house opposite the hall.

‘We will hire ten more teachers soon. Your nephew has applied to be one of them, which is good. He is exactly the kind of man we should appoint.’

If the remark was intended to impress, it did not succeed – Bartholomew would not want Richard in
his
College, setting a bad example with his indolence. He said nothing though, and entered Ratclyf’s surprisingly sparse quarters. There was a single rug on the floor, the walls were bare, and the only personal items were a bronze statue that looked Italian and a pretty ceramic bowl.

The lawyer was pale and his breathing shallow. Bartholomew knelt by the bed, and felt a thready pulse and skin that was cold to the touch. Lawrence stood next to him, his amiable face a mask of distress, while Illesy, Nerli and Bon were by the door, keeping well back, as if they feared they might catch something.

‘How long has he been like this?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘I am not sure.’ Lawrence was almost as pale as his patient. ‘He complained of a headache when he woke, and I assumed it was from the amount of wine he downed last night – so much that Nerli was obliged to put him to bed. I suggested healing sleep, and did not trouble him again until shortly after you left…’

‘What about the rest of you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘When did you last see him?’

Nerli had chosen to stand in a shadowy place, so his face was difficult to read. ‘At dawn, when he was surly, but ambulatory. We heard no more from him until Lawrence raised the alarm.’

‘
You
visited him, Provost,’ said Bon, turning his milky eyes in Illesy’s direction. ‘You came mid-morning, to discuss taking on more Fellows.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Illesy, albeit reluctantly. ‘But he was asleep, so I left again. How do you know? You obviously did not see me.’

Bon smiled without humour. ‘I have learned to identify different treads, so I “see” more than you think. A blind man is not always—’

‘Later, Bon,’ interrupted Lawrence. His voice was anxious. ‘Can you help Ratclyf, Matthew?’

Bartholomew examined the patient again, but Ratclyf was sinking fast and there was nothing he or anyone else could do. ‘What has he eaten or drunk today?’

‘A little pottage for breakfast,’ replied Lawrence. He pointed. ‘The bowl is on the table.’

Bartholomew examined it, to find it had been wiped clean. He sniffed it carefully and detected the faint odour of garlic.
Dormirella
released a garlicky aroma when heated.

‘Did Ratclyf like his breakfast pottage highly flavoured?’ he asked.

‘The cook made a mistake with his flavourings today,’ explained Nerli. ‘We all ate the stuff, but I ordered the rest tipped away and the pot scoured out. You English have no idea how to cook with potent herbs.’

‘It is remarks like that that made Elvesmere dislike you,’ said Bon sharply. ‘He was patriotic, and you offended him by insulting his country.’ He turned his sour visage on the elderly physician. ‘And you have not been entirely honest, Lawrence, because you failed to tell Bartholomew about the tonic you made. Surely you had not forgotten it?’

‘I had, actually.’ Lawrence smiled wanly. ‘Mint and camomile. I prepared it myself, and he drank it all. Here is the empty cup.’

Bartholomew inspected that, too, but there was nothing to see or smell. He returned to Ratclyf, where he felt the life-beat growing steadily fainter under his fingers.

‘Try your
sal ammoniac
,’ whispered Lawrence. ‘Mine did not work.’

There was nothing to lose, so Bartholomew pulled out the little phial, half wishing he had not thrown away the more powerful concoction he had used on Potmoor. It made no difference. Ratclyf was breathing too shallowly to inhale, and it was not long before he died.

There was a shocked silence when Bartholomew informed Winwick Hall that a second of their number was dead. Illesy sank on to a chair and put his head in his hands, Lawrence started to cry, and Bon comforted him by patting his shoulder, although he was so white that he looked as though he might faint himself. Nerli leaned against the wall with his arms folded, his face still and brooding. The only sounds were Lawrence’s sobs, and Uyten shouting in the yard.

Then Michael arrived and took charge, briskly ushering the Fellows out of the bedchamber to go to the hall and wait in the
parlura
. He gestured that Bartholomew was to examine Ratclyf. The physician obliged, but, as he expected, found no suspicious marks or injuries.

‘But was he poisoned?’ whispered Michael. Although he had closed the door, both were acutely aware of the possibility of eavesdroppers.

‘I cannot tell. His symptoms were certainly consistent with a dose of
dormirella
, but they could equally well have been caused by a host of naturally occurring ailments. However, if he was poisoned, then it was not at the same time as Hemmysby, because their deaths are too far apart.’

‘Then let us go and talk to Ratclyf’s grieving colleagues, and see what they can tell us.’

Even though it was dark, there were workmen in the
parlura
, plastering over cracks in the walls. They put down their tools and left when Illesy said something in a low but authoritative voice. The three surviving Fellows were there, along with Uyten, who was guiding Bon through the treacherous muddle of equipment left by the labourers.

‘I shall summarise what happened.’ Illesy gestured for Bartholomew and Michael to sit on a bench, but he remained standing, giving himself the advantage of height. He was at his most oily, and had clearly used the intervening time to decide what the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were going to be told. ‘To save unnecessary questions.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘Proceed.’

‘Ratclyf was distressed by the way Hemmysby belittled him at the debate, and drank heavily to expunge it from his mind. Nerli put him to bed but, not surprisingly, he woke this morning with a headache. He swallowed some pottage and Lawrence’s tonic, and went back to sleep. He was dozing when I went to enquire after his health mid-morning—’

‘I thought you visited him to discuss hiring new Fellows,’ interrupted Michael.

‘I intended to do both. But he was resting, so I left him in peace. Bon saw me come and go.’

‘I did not
see
anything,’ countered Bon pedantically. ‘I
heard
you.’

‘Just so,’ said Illesy with a pained smile. He turned back to Michael. ‘Shortly after you and Bartholomew left, Lawrence went to see whether there was any improvement, and found Ratclyf unwell. He tells me that all the symptoms point to a failure of Ratclyf’s heart, which was weak.’

Michael glanced at Bartholomew, who shrugged to say it was possible. As he had not been Ratclyf’s physician, he did not know the man’s medical history, and his brief time trying to help had not been enough for a reliable diagnosis. Michael returned to the fray.

‘It is odd that you should lose a second Fellow so soon after the first.’

Illesy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sincerely hope you do not suspect foul play with poor Ratclyf.’

‘He means to accuse us of it,’ said Bon sullenly. ‘He is jealous that all the best students are coming here, and aims to wound us by soiling our reputation.’

‘Stop!’ cried Lawrence. ‘There is no need for nasty words. Brother Michael knows the truth: Elvesmere might have been murdered, but Ratclyf died of natural causes.’

‘Where is the wine that Ratclyf drank last night?’ asked Michael, declining to comment.

‘Inside him,’ replied Bon promptly. ‘He swallowed every last drop and did not offer to share.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply. Was there a hint of gloating in the blind scholar’s voice because he knew that Ratclyf had consumed the evidence, so the crime would never be proved?

‘How was his health before this?’ asked Michael.

‘Poor,’ replied Illesy, so quickly that it smacked of invention. ‘He was often unwell, which is the lot of those with weak hearts. I speak from experience: my father was the same.’

‘It is a pity you did not use your witchy skills to save him, Bartholomew,’ said Nerli. ‘He was a much more deserving candidate than Potmoor. I thought being guildsmen would spare us from being burgled by the villain, but we also became victims today.’

‘We
were
raided,’ said Illesy tightly. ‘But not by Potmoor. The crime occurred this morning, when we were all in the hall telling the students…’

‘Telling the students what?’ demanded Michael when the Provost trailed off sheepishly.

‘To be aware of our enemies,’ supplied Bon spitefully. ‘Namely King’s Hall, Gonville, Michaelhouse and all the other Colleges who mean us harm.’

‘You mean you were delivering speeches to encourage rivalry,’ surmised Michael. ‘You are right: we
do
dislike you, but it is your own fault. You gloat over your superior numbers and your fine hall, and you are arrogant and condescending. You could have won our affection, but instead you have nurtured an atmosphere of bitterness and confrontation.’

‘We do not want your affection,’ Bon flared up. ‘We want you to acknowledge our rightful place as premier College. We—’ He stopped abruptly when temper caused him to take several angry steps forward and he stumbled over a trowel. Uyten surged to catch him before he fell.

‘What was stolen while you ranted in the hall?’ asked Michael, treating Bon to a look of such contempt that it would have silenced anyone able to see it.

‘We shall show you our mettle next Tuesday,’ Bon snarled, pulling angrily away from his student guide. ‘When we are inaugurated into the University. We may be ninth in the procession entering St Mary the Great, but we will certainly be first coming out.’

Michael blinked. ‘Impossible! Peterhouse always leads, because it is the oldest, followed by King’s Hall and Michaelhouse. You will never take precedence over us.’

‘Oh, yes, we will,’ declared Bon heatedly. ‘And our founder will be here to see it. We received a letter from him this morning, saying that he will be here for the ceremony. Do not forget who he is – Keeper of the Privy Seal and one of the most powerful men in the country.’

‘It makes no difference,’ said Michael tightly. ‘You will still be ninth in the procession. It is not for you, him or anyone else to change what has always been.’

‘You will see,’ sneered Bon. ‘We have a plan to—’

‘We lost nothing of value when we were invaded by the burglar,’ interrupted Illesy quickly. ‘I heard a suspicious sound and hurried to investigate, but the villain saw me coming and fled, snagging a dish as he went. A
cracked
dish, so at least he will not profit from his crime.’

‘What plan?’ demanded Michael, ignoring Illesy and addressing Bon.

Nerli clapped a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, a gesture that warned him to say no more. ‘We were just teasing, Brother. You need not fear a rumpus on Tuesday.’

‘Good,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Because the Senior Proctor can make life very difficult for foundations that do not conform to the University’s statutes and edicts. I should not like to think that Winwick Hall caused trouble for itself on its first day as a member.’

‘The burglar,’ gushed Lawrence in a transparent attempt to change the subject before Bon lost his temper again. He smiled, all amiable good humour. ‘We were lucky, because he might have stolen Ratclyf’s purse instead of a dish that no one will miss. They were on the table next to each other – poor Ratclyf was too drunk to take it with him last night – but the thief missed it.’

He held up a simple leather bag that looked too coarse to have belonged to the urbane bursar. Michael upended it on the table. There was a cloth for nose-wiping, two pennies, a glass for magnifying writing, and a small phial. Bartholomew picked up the bottle and removed its stopper.

‘Ratclyf had a sore throat after speaking so long at the debate,’ explained Nerli. ‘He took some syrup of liquorice root to soothe it.’