Death of a Scholar (34 page)

Bartholomew doubted he would be very forthcoming. Then he remembered what Julitta had told him about Lawrence creeping through the town in the dark with Nerli, and supposed he should ask about that, too.

‘I am often called out in the middle of the night these days,’ he began, intending to steer the discussion to his questions as diplomatically as possible. ‘And—’

‘I am afraid I cannot accept more of your paupers,’ interrupted Lawrence apologetically. ‘Not with teaching about to start and Potmoor summoning me every day with headaches.’

‘Did he summon you at midnight the other evening?’ Bartholomew raised his hands in a placatory shrug when Lawrence regarded him sharply. ‘You were seen out with Nerli. He had a sword.’

‘You are mistaken. I rarely leave home after dark – I am too old. And while I did tend Potmoor on Friday, it was at dawn, not midnight. Nerli walked part of the way with me, but he was certainly not carrying a weapon. I suppose you spotted me from Julitta Holm’s boudoir. It is a bad idea to cuckold the town’s only surgeon, Matthew. You may need his help one day, and it would be awkward, to say the least.’

‘We meet to practise her reading,’ explained Bartholomew.

‘Before dawn?’ asked Lawrence. He continued before Bartholomew could correct the misunderstanding. ‘Yet I understand the attraction. I might be tempted myself if I were twenty years younger. She is a splendid woman – beautiful
and
a sound financial head on her shoulders. Did you hear about the decision to suspend the beggars’ bread and the widows’ allowance? That was hers.’

‘I did hear, but I cannot believe she would do such a thing.’ Bartholomew was bemused by the skill with which Lawrence had taken control of the conversation.

‘It sounds heartless, but it is eminently sensible. The money will be lent to Winwick Hall, and will be repaid with interest next year – interest that can then be used to fund other worthy causes. Before she came along, the Guild’s finances were in a terrible state, with lots of money one week and none the next. Her plan will ensure a regular and predictable flow of cash.’

‘I see. But what happens to the beggars and widows in the interim?’

‘I imagine she will look after them herself. She is a generous soul, which is why she was invited to join the Guild. The same is true of all our members. Well, not your nephew, I am afraid to say.
He
was asked out of respect for his father, and because he inherited a vast fortune.’

‘I was told that Illesy arranged for him to be elected. And that Illesy will also recommend him for a Fellowship in Winwick Hall.’

‘Yes. It is astonishing how wealth opens doors.’

‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew sourly. ‘But to return to Friday—’

‘Poor Potmoor is not responding to my tincture of sage.’ Lawrence cut across him. ‘I must try something stronger. Valerian, perhaps. However, he is becoming exasperated with my inability to cure him, and may summon you. If he does, stay away from the subject of anatomy.’

‘Anatomy?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by the advice. ‘I cannot imagine that will crop up.’

‘It might – ever since the
sal ammoniac
incident, he has become morbidly fascinated by what happens to a body after death. Personally, I do not consider it healthy. Not in a layman, at least. I have nothing against dissections being conducted by
medici
, as I have told you in the past, although I should not care to do it myself. Not even to an ear.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘An ear?’

‘I find them fascinating. Indeed, I have studied one specific condition, which is known in the north as Pig Ear. Shall I enlighten you?’

He began to hold forth, and although Bartholomew usually enjoyed listening to the medical musings of colleagues, the words washed over him virtually unheard that day. Instead, he stared down at the fresh pile of earth at his feet, and bade a final, silent farewell to Hemmysby.

Bartholomew and Lawrence arrived at Winwick Hall to find that the gates had been re-hung, but they did not meet in the middle, so Jekelyn was obliged to stand sentinel in the gap. The porter stepped aside when Lawrence informed him that Bartholomew was a guest, but with such obvious reluctance that he earned himself a sharp rebuke. As the two physicians crossed the yard, the sun came out, bathing the new College in a soft yellow light.

‘This really is a pretty place,’ said Bartholomew, stopping to admire it. ‘But is that a crack running down one wall?’

‘The mason assures us that it is quite normal, and to prove it, he dragged us all over Cambridge, pointing out fissures in other buildings. Even Michaelhouse has some.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘Great big ones that let the rain in.’

‘Do you like the Winwick coat of arms above the door? The artist finished it today, and the paint is still wet. We are glad – our founder arrives in three days for the beginning of term ceremony, and I imagine it will be the first thing he will look for.’

Bartholomew thought about the Stanton coat of arms at Michaelhouse, which had been so thoroughly battered by thirty-four years of weather that it was virtually invisible. It would not be long before it disappeared altogether, and future scholars would never know it had been there – assuming the College survived the double crisis of blackmail and losing all its money, of course.

‘We have sixty students now,’ said Lawrence, as he led the way inside. ‘It is far too many for a Provost and three Fellows, so we are recruiting reinforcements. It is a pity you know nothing about law, because I should love to have you here. Far more than your nephew.’

They entered the massive chamber that would serve as refectory and schoolroom. Fires blazed at either end, and the benches were unsullied by chips, scratches or stains, although there were not very many of them, and Bartholomew wondered if the Winwick scholars might have to dine in shifts. Light flooded through the windows, all of which were glazed, and plain white walls accentuated the vast airiness. There was a dais in the centre of the room, with a table that had been loaded with food and wine in a casual display of affluence.

The mourners had settled into three distinct groups. The Winwick Fellows were talking to de Stannell, every one of them splendid in his best tabard or robes of office. The Michaelhouse contingent was as far away from them as it was possible to be, huddled with scholars from King’s Hall, Bene’t and Gonville. Unfriendly glances at their hosts suggested they were disparaging them, although that did not stop anyone from availing himself of the refreshments. And finally there were the guildsmen, a group that included Julitta and Holm, Edith, Potmoor, Hugo, Olivia Knyt and other wealthy burgesses.

Bartholomew edged towards the latter, alarmed by the sight of his sister in company with the man she believed had murdered her husband. He arrived to find Olivia looking distressed.

‘I shall escort you home,’ said Potmoor solicitously. One hand was raised to his temple, and he looked tired. ‘My headache is worse, so I shall not be sorry to return to Chesterton early.’

‘It is a reminder of your holy visions, Father,’ said Hugo, looking around at the company to ensure they remembered that his sire had been so blessed.

‘Michael just told Olivia that her husband was poisoned,’ explained Edith to Bartholomew, before turning to look hard at Potmoor. Bartholomew flinched at the brazen accusation in her eyes. ‘He spotted telltale blue lesions on Hemmysby’s lips, and a hurried inspection revealed the same phenomenon on Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf as well.’

‘Lesions that are consistent with death from a poison named
dormirella
, apparently,’ added Hugo. His expression was difficult to read. ‘It might have gone undetected in all four victims, were it not for the good Brother’s vigilance.’

‘It is unfortunate that he was not here on Lammas Day,’ said Edith, her gaze still fixed on Potmoor. ‘He might have seen these marks on Oswald, too.’

There was no discernible reaction from Potmoor, although that was not surprising – the man was alleged to have been involved in countless deaths, and was far too wily to betray himself with careless flickers of guilt. He merely smiled without humour.

‘What a pity that no one will ever know. Oswald has been in the ground far too long now.’

‘I hope no one thinks
I
had anything to do with John’s demise,’ sniffed Olivia. ‘Our marriage was not perfect, but he was a good man and I loved him.’

‘Oswald had a meeting the night he died,’ said Edith before Bartholomew could stop her. ‘Was it with you, Master Potmoor?’

‘No,’ replied the felon, regarding her so coldly that Bartholomew’s stomach lurched. ‘Once he started opposing all my suggestions in Guild meetings, we had nothing more to say to each other.’

To draw his glittering attention away from her, Bartholomew blurted the first thing that came into his head. ‘Did you do business together before that, then?’

‘A little,’ said Potmoor shortly. ‘Come, Olivia. You are pale, and should lie down. These revelations have given you a nasty shock.’

He shoved roughly past Bartholomew, pulling Olivia with him. She went with obvious relief, clearly grateful to be away from the gathering. And as she did not seem to mind being whisked away so precipitously, perhaps she was glad for an opportunity to be alone with her lover, too.

‘Go after him, Matt,’ hissed Edith. ‘It is obvious that he is guilty. Make him confess!’

‘Not yet,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Later, when we have evidence to—’

‘We have it now,’ she insisted, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Namely, his gloating remark about Oswald’s body being too decayed to reveal evidence of poison.
He
killed my husband, just as he dispatched Olivia’s, and now he revels in the knowledge that he will not be caught. I cannot sleep at night for thinking about it.’

Bartholomew put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I will confront him, I promise, but when the time is right. It would be a shame if he escaped justice because we tackled him too soon.’ He changed the subject before she could argue. ‘Where is Richard? I thought he would have come today, given that Hemmysby was a fellow guildsman.’

‘He went out last night and has not yet returned.’ The threatened tears spilled, and she dabbed at them impatiently. ‘Oswald would have hated the way he carries on. It dishonours our name, and so does the company he keeps. Will you talk to him again, Matt?’

Bartholomew nodded, although he doubted it would do much good. He felt the familiar surge of anger towards his nephew for putting her through such needless anguish.

‘Oh, Lord!’ she gulped. ‘Here comes de Stannell! I wish he was not Guild Secretary – he keeps pestering me for money to loan to Winwick Hall.’

She ducked away, but de Stannell followed, and Bartholomew was about to rescue her when someone grabbed his hand. It was Julitta, and his skin tingled at her touch. He felt himself blush, and was glad Holm was not watching.

‘I have composed a poem,’ she confided happily. ‘Not a very good one, but the point is that you have taught me enough to manage such a task. I am delighted with myself!’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Perhaps I could visit, so you can recite it to me.’

‘I should like that very much, but we shall have to arrange for Will to be out. He does not like poetry, and would be bored.’

Bartholomew refrained from remarking that Holm would be bored with anything that did not revolve around himself, and turned the discussion to the Guild’s dubious notion of charity instead. ‘Do you really believe it is better to lend money to Winwick than to feed beggars and widows?’

Julitta sat on a bench, and indicated that he should perch next to her. ‘The transaction with the College will be like an endowment for the Guild: we set aside a specific sum now, and it will generate a regular income later. It means we shall be limited in the charity we can dispense this year, but our long-term future will be both secure
and
stable. Ultimately, it will help far more beggars and widows.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, and your brother-in-law would have supported the scheme unreservedly.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Poor Knyt spent far more than he raised, and our funds are at an all-time low. We are lucky Winwick agreed to our conditions, or the Guild might have been declared bankrupt.’

‘But what will happen to the poor in the meantime?’

Julitta patted his hand. ‘I shall not let them starve.’

‘I do not understand why Winwick needs so much money when its endowment comprises the tithes from several churches and manors. It is wealthy in its own right.’

‘There are details to resolve before the legacy comes into force, apparently. But you should be worrying about more important matters, such as who murdered those poor men. How are your investigations proceeding?’

‘Slowly,’ replied Bartholomew gloomily.

When Julitta hurried away to liberate Edith from de Stannell, Bartholomew went to talk to his fellow
medici
, who had taken up station near the wine.

‘Holm here aims to invent a tonic that will help scholars curb their baser instincts,’ said Rougham. He cast a pointed look at Julitta’s retreating form. ‘Perhaps you should test it for him, Bartholomew. We all know that you have had more lovers than Lucifer.’

‘Than Lucifer!’ echoed Meryfeld wonderingly, while Bartholomew thought that Rougham was a fine one to preach with his regular visits to prostitutes. ‘How do
you
know about Satan’s amorous interludes?’

‘I have heard reports,’ replied Rougham darkly. Then he turned wistful. ‘I wish I had your skill with remedies, Holm. A cure for lust will sell like hot cakes in a University town, and will make its creator very rich.’

‘Richer,’ corrected Holm, and shot Bartholomew a gloating glance. ‘I am already wealthy, thanks to my marriage. I am proud to call Julitta my wife, and no man will ever come between us.’

‘Tell us about your other cures, Holm,’ said Lawrence, transparently eager to avert a scene.

Holm was all smug confidence. ‘I have developed a paste that makes teeth white and strong within a month. No one need suffer from stained or broken fangs ever again.’