Death of a Scholar (26 page)

Bartholomew blinked. ‘But liquorice root should be avoided by patients with weak hearts.’

‘Yes, it should,’ agreed Lawrence, frowning in consternation. ‘I wonder why he chose that remedy when there are others that would have suited him better.’

Bon stumbled towards the door and opened it, indicating with a curt sweep of his hand that it was time for the visitors to leave. ‘Thank you for coming. It was kind of you to try to help Ratclyf, Bartholomew. But now you must excuse us, as we have much to do.’

There was another storm that night, a gale that all but tore the window shutters from their fastenings, and that threatened to rip tiles from roofs. Bartholomew woke frequently, plagued by nightmares about Hemmysby’s dissection. He kept thinking of Marjory Starre’s claim, too – that strong winds marked the death of a good person. Did this one blow for Hemmysby, a generous and compassionate member of the Guild of Saints?

He drowsed again, only to start awake moments later from a dream in which he was to give a lecture, which he had not prepared, on apostolic poverty to a huge audience of clerics, all of whom were livid after reading William’s inflammatory tract. Hemmysby was among them, hands to the incisions in his neck and middle, and a reproachful expression on his face.

Bartholomew half expected to be struck down when he attended Mass the following morning, and was again acutely aware of Hemmysby’s corpse in the chapel. Guilt and remorse deprived him of his appetite at breakfast, and he refused the watery gruel that was on offer.

‘We shall go to the Brazen George for something to eat,’ determined Michael, when Langelee had intoned a final grace and the scholars were free to leave. ‘You will need your strength if we are to solve these mysteries in the next four days. And solve them we must, because I cannot be distracted by murder while Winwick Hall stages some disagreeable coup in St Mary the Great during the beginning of term ceremony.’

Although taverns and inns were forbidden to scholars, Michael saw no reason why the rule should apply to the Senior Proctor, and was such a regular visitor to the Brazen George that the landlord had set aside a room for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant chamber overlooking a pretty courtyard that boasted a well and a herb garden. Rubbing his hands in gluttonous anticipation, the monk began ordering enough food to victual an army.

‘I am hungry,’ he said defensively, although Bartholomew had passed no comment. ‘And we must do some serious thinking, which I always manage better on a full stomach. Besides, it will set me up for later.’

‘Why?’ What is happening then?’

‘Another choir practice. A lot of matriculands have joined, because they have no money and I provide free bread and ale. I suppose I should send them packing, but I do not have the heart to refuse hungry men. However, it does mean that I have three times as many singers as usual.’

‘Three? God Almighty! They will be audible in Scotland!’

‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply.

‘Sorry. If these matriculands are so impecunious, how will they pay their tuition fees?’

‘They all hoped to be taken at Winwick, which offers free schooling to a small number of paupers. Of course, most have been rejected. Some have managed to enrol in hostels – six were founded yesterday alone – while others roam aimlessly, hoping Winwick will change its mind.’

‘How will you buy bread and ale for so many?’

Michael grinned. ‘With the handsome fee that de Stannell paid for the documents he needs to calculate certain town taxes.’

‘The ones you always give Dick Tulyet for free?’

‘The very same.’

He was interrupted by the landlord, who brought platter after platter of meat and bread – no vegetables, of course, as Michael considered them a waste of valuable stomach space. He tied a napkin around his neck, flexed his fingers, and pitched in.

‘We now have six deaths to explore,’ began Bartholomew, watching him absently. ‘Oswald, Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Knyt, Hemmysby and Ratclyf. Shall we start with Oswald?’

‘Proceed,’ said Michael, waving a hambone.

‘I think he
was
poisoned. He was called to a secret meeting, and everyone says he was distracted and unhappy afterwards. Edith thinks Potmoor killed him, and it seems they did do business together. However, I learned yesterday that all Winwick’s Fellows were here in Cambridge when he died.’

The bone was waved again; it had notably less meat. ‘Why would they want him dead?’

‘He founded the Guild of Saints to help the poor, but Winwick has been demanding ever bigger donations. I cannot see him approving – it was not what he intended.’

‘Fair enough. The next death was Felbrigge, shot before the ceremony giving Winwick its charter. Moments earlier, he had been telling me how he had instigated measures to control the place. Fulbut was the archer, but he almost certainly acted on someone else’s orders. We know Potmoor hires him, but Fulbut is a mercenary, and they will work for anyone. He is still missing, and I have a feeling he has been killed to prevent him from talking.’

‘Oswald and Felbrigge – and Knyt – were leading members of the Guild of Saints. De Stannell is in charge now, a man who is far more malleable than they would have been.’

‘Hemmysby felt strongly about looking after the poor, too,’ said Michael, wiping grease from his chin. ‘Now
he
was definitely poisoned, probably with cake eaten after the debate, although we do not know how. He died trying to reach our church. And if that is not bad enough, someone wants him accused of stealing the Stanton Hutch.’

‘And the culprit knows Michaelhouse well enough to make off with the chest himself, then come back and leave the cup and deeds on display in Hemmysby’s room.’

‘I suspect Potmoor of killing Knyt,’ said Michael. The hambone was stripped bare, so he turned his attention to the beef. ‘He was in Knyt’s house the day Knyt died, and he is enamoured of Olivia. But if Knyt was poisoned and Potmoor did it, then it means that Potmoor killed the others, too – I doubt we have two poisoners at large.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘I cannot prove Ratclyf was fed
dormirella
, but he certainly suffered symptoms consistent with it. I seriously doubt he died of a weak heart – it is too convenient. Moreover, he had liquorice root in his purse, something people with unsteady hearts should avoid.’

Michael stopped eating and regarded him sombrely. ‘I hate to say it, Matt, but I fear you might have to make more of those judicious incisions. On Ratclyf, Elvesmere and—’

‘No! Winwick would find out for certain.’

‘But we need to know.’ Michael’s face was pale, and the food sat ignored on the platter in front of him, telling the physician that he was not the only one who uncomfortable with what was being suggested. ‘And I thought you were keen to use this new tool against wicked killers, learning more about the human body in the process.’

‘I am. Or rather, I
was
.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. It was not easy to discuss, even with Michael. ‘It felt very wrong, Brother. Perhaps because we did it in a church.’

‘Next time, it will be in St Mary the Great.’ Michael raised an oily hand when Bartholomew started to object again. ‘We have no choice, Matt. We
must
have the truth, and I cannot think of another way to find it. Besides, surely the second time will less distressing than the first?’

‘It will not,’ said Bartholomew with finality. ‘And I am not doing it.’

Michael regarded him balefully, then continued with their analysis, although his appetite had gone and he ate no more. ‘But Potmoor is not our only suspect. Winwick is not a College at ease with itself – none of its Fellows like each other, with the exception of the cloying Lawrence, who simpers over everyone.’

Bartholomew ignored the last remark. ‘All were alone with the ailing Ratclyf at some point, although none would have admitted it if not pushed by the others. Nerli put him to bed, Illesy visited mid-morning, and Bon must have been in the vicinity or he would not have heard Illesy.’

‘And Lawrence took him a tonic,’ added Michael pointedly.

Bartholomew ignored him a second time. ‘They all behaved suspiciously: Illesy is eager for us to believe that Ratclyf had a weak heart; Bon wanted us to know that Ratclyf did not share the wine that made him drunk; Nerli ordered the garlicky pottage thrown away; and the cup used for the tonic looked to have been rinsed. It means we cannot test anything that Ratclyf swallowed.’

‘Nerli worries me most – there is something deeply sinister about him. Also,
dormirella
is an Italian creation, and he hails from Florence. It would not surprise me to learn that he is a poisoner. Which would mean that Potmoor visiting Knyt’s house on the morning of his death is irrelevant.’

‘Nerli has a motive for dispatching the other victims, too,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He clashed with Elvesmere over the validity of his foreign degrees, while Oswald, Felbrigge and Knyt may have objected to the Guild’s support of his College. Meanwhile, it was to Nerli that Edith delivered the fruitcake for the debate…’

‘Elvesmere,’ said Michael. ‘Let us consider him next. He was stabbed somewhere other than the latrine where he was found, and the wound in his back would not have been instantly fatal. You say he may have been poisoned, too.’

‘It is possible.’ Restlessly, Bartholomew crumbled a piece of bread in his fingers.

‘Everyone at Winwick had the opportunity to kill him,’ the monk went on. ‘He died in the middle of the night, when they claim to have been asleep, and all his colleagues disliked him: he denigrated Nerli’s qualifications, despised Illesy for befriending Potmoor, scorned Lawrence for being a
medicus
, and even his friend Bon did not escape his bile.’

‘He drew attention to Bon’s illegitimacy,’ recalled Bartholomew.

‘But Bon is blind, which is a serious disadvantage for a killer. How could he be sure that no one was watching while he poisoned victuals, or indulged in a bit of stabbing? And what about his getaway? He stumbled in the
parlura
, a place he knows, so how could he manage outside? I suppose he could have hired someone to help him, but that would carry its own uncertainties.’

‘Yet despite all this, I am not sure the Winwick men are ruthless enough for murder. Several members of the Guild of Saints are, though. You do not accrue riches and power by being gentle.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So our suspects are the wealthy guildsmen with Potmoor high on the list, the four Winwick men—’

‘
Two
Winwick men,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Lawrence is not a murderer and Bon has hypochyma. However, there is another guildsman you have not mentioned: Holm, who bought
dormirella
, and has a workshop in which he experiments.’

‘I wondered how long it would be before you reminded me about him,’ said Michael wryly.

As Bartholomew and Michael left the Brazen George, they met two scholars from Bene’t College. John Samon was a short, ugly canonist with a cheery manner, while Master Heltisle was tall, aloof and unfriendly. Heltisle had never liked Bartholomew, but that day, he regarded the physician with more hostility than usual.

‘We were burgled yesterday,’ he said coldly. ‘By Potmoor.’

‘
Possibly
by Potmoor,’ corrected Samon, shooting him a cautionary glance. ‘Although I do not believe it, personally. I know he never has an alibi for these crimes, but I do not see a powerful villain like him demeaning himself with petty theft.’

‘He does it to keep his skills honed,’ explained Heltisle shortly. ‘Our porters heard him say so.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘And it is
your
fault for resurrecting him.’

‘If you believe that
medici
can raise people from the dead, then you are a fool,’ said Bartholomew, tiredness and his continuing unease over Hemmysby making him uncharacteristically curt. ‘It is impossible, and anyone with a modicum of intelligence should know it. Potmoor was
not
dead, he was suffering from catalepsia.’

Heltisle took a step away, unused to the physician hitting back. ‘Well, perhaps. However, there is another rumour you should hear, too. We had it from Weasenham.’

‘What has he been saying now?’ groaned Michael wearily. The stationer was an incurable gossip, who shamelessly invented stories when he was low on true ones.

‘That Provost Illesy stole from the King when he was a clerk in Westminster. He was dismissed in disgrace, so he had no choice but to work for Potmoor until he was offered something better. It explains why he is so rich – he kept what he filched from His Majesty.’

Michael rolled his eyes. ‘What utter nonsense! John Winwick would not have appointed a thief to run his College, and he would certainly know if Illesy had been caught with his fingers in the royal coffers. Weasenham is just trying to make trouble, as usual.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Heltisle. ‘Winwick is full of rogues, and I hate them all. Upstarts!’

Samon hastened to explain. ‘We have just been to the reading of Knyt’s will. He always promised to remember Bene’t in it, but everything has gone to the Guild of Saints instead – which means that Winwick Hall is likely to get it all.’

‘Winwick is an abomination,’ spat Heltisle, ‘and if it had not come into being so fast, I would have contacted my friends at Court and put an end to it. As it was, we were essentially presented with a fait accompli.’

‘We were,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is here now, and we must make the best of it.’

Heltisle drew himself up to his full, haughty height. ‘I shall oppose it at every turn, and so will King’s Hall, Gonville, Valence Marie, Bene’t, Trinity Hall, Clare and Peterhouse. Its greed and selfishness are damaging our University, and we want it gone.’

He stalked away, leaving Michael staring after him unhappily, thinking about Winwick’s intention to usurp precedence at St Mary the Great after the beginning of term ceremony. The other Heads of Houses would feel the same as Heltisle, and there would be trouble for certain.

‘Tynkell let slip something yesterday,’ he told Bartholomew, as they resumed their journey. ‘That my Junior Proctor encouraged John Winwick to wait until I had gone to Peterborough before forging ahead with his new College. In other words, Felbrigge wanted to oversee the arrangements himself, so he could claim all the credit.’