Death of a Scholar (39 page)

‘Save him, Matt,’ ordered Michael urgently. ‘He cannot die yet.’

‘Give him some of that
salt almanac
,’ suggested Meadowman.

Bartholomew examined Fulbut quickly. ‘A blade has penetrated his lung,’ he explained to Michael. ‘It is filling with blood, and there is nothing I can do for him.’

‘Then ask whether he wants Extreme Unction,’ said Michael heavily.

Monks were not priests, but Michael had been granted special dispensation to give last rites during the plague, when men qualified to perform such services had been in desperately short supply, and he had continued the practice since. While he busied himself with chrism and stole, Bartholomew eased the mercenary into a more comfortable position.

‘Bastard,’ muttered Fulbut between gritted teeth. He spoke with the musical inflection of a man from near the Scottish border. ‘I should not … have trusted him.’

‘Trusted whom?’ asked Michael, leaning close to hear. It was not easy: Fulbut had very little breath, and his voice was no more than a rustle.

‘The man who … hired me. He told me … to stay away after Felbrigge … But this is … my home now … I miss it … so I came … back.’

‘Who gave you these orders?’ demanded Michael, seeing the mercenary was fading fast. He put his ear close to the dying man’s mouth, then glanced at Bartholomew in despair.

‘He is rambling! He just told me that the culprit had a big year. Fulbut, listen to me. You
must
say who hired you.’

‘Not everyone here … a friend,’ whispered Fulbut. ‘One … stabbed me.’

‘Whom did you invite?’ pressed Michael urgently. ‘Tell me their names. I will catch the killer and ensure he pays for what he has done to you. I promise.’

But Fulbut was dead.

By the time Fulbut had been taken to St Mary the Less, Meadowman had been sewn up, and the rest of the beadles briefed to keep watch for the mercenary’s escaped friends, it was very late. Bartholomew trudged wearily back to Michaelhouse, and fell into an uneasy doze in his storeroom, where the bubbles and hisses from the experiment brewing on the shelf above his head insinuated themselves disconcertingly into his dreams.

He woke early, aware that it was Monday, and that unless they produced twenty marks at noon, William’s intemperate pen might see the College destroyed. Again, he wondered what he would do if he lost his post. Would he be able to track down Matilde? But what about Julitta – could he really abandon her to the villainous Holm? Perhaps he should take her with him instead; they would be happy together, of that he was certain.

He lit a candle and went to check his experiments, but the wavering flame was unsuitable for assessing potentially toxic substances so he decided to wait until daybreak. He walked to the lavatorium, still pondering his future. He loved Matilde with an almost desperate passion, but Julitta would probably prove to be the better friend, and would never hurt him as Matilde had done.

‘Are you thinking about our mysteries?’ came Michael’s voice from behind, making him start. The monk had come to wash, retreating prudishly behind a wicker screen with a bucket of water. ‘You were in another world. I wished you good day twice without being acknowledged.’

‘Yes,’ lied Bartholomew, glad his friend could not see the flush of heat in his face. ‘What will you do now that Fulbut cannot tell you who paid him to murder your Junior Proctor?’

‘Verius might know. I shall visit his house as soon as Mass is over, and ask his wife where he is hiding. I hope he does not disappear as completely as Fulbut did, or we may never have answers.’

‘The culprit is Holm. When I sewed up Verius’s thumb, Julitta said that he and Holm were friends, but Holm would never demean himself with such an association.
Ergo
, he foisted himself on us for another reason – namely that he knew Verius and Fulbut were cronies, and was afraid that Fulbut had confided secrets which Verius might blurt out in his drunken stupor.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And what is Holm’s motive for wanting Felbrigge dead, pray?’

‘The same as I told you the last time you asked,’ said Bartholomew with asperity. ‘Felbrigge was a prominent figure in the Guild, and Holm was jealous. Once he saw how easy it was to dispatch rivals, he decided to rid himself of others, too: Elvesmere, Knyt and Hemmysby – all to give himself a louder voice. He went in disguise to Fulbut’s house last night, and stabbed him before he could blab any secrets.’

Michael’s response was a dismissive snort. ‘My money is on Lawrence. He was the first to arrive at Knyt’s deathbed, he bought dangerous compounds from the apothecary, he gave Ratclyf a “tonic” to cure his hangover—’

‘Ratclyf was not poisoned,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Ratclyf was not poisoned with a detectable substance,’ corrected Michael. ‘But he is said to have had a weak heart, yet he had liquorice root in his purse. Lawrence professed to be surprised to see it there, but I imagine it came from him – a man who knew what the effects would be.’

‘You have no evidence to make that claim,’ argued Bartholomew, although he was sharply reminded of Eyer’s tale – that Lawrence had prescribed liquorice root to a patient in Oxford with fatal results. Was it possible that the elderly
medicus
had remembered the lesson, and had used it to eliminate an unwanted colleague? Then Bartholomew pulled himself together. Lawrence would never do such a terrible thing.

Michael continued with his catalogue of reasons. ‘He is a physician, yet he claims not to know
dormirella
; Holm overheard him arguing with Hemmysby the night before Hemmysby was murdered—’

‘Holm!’ spat Bartholomew. ‘Of course
he
will want others to come under suspicion.’

Michael ignored him. ‘Hemmysby was not the only one who incurred Lawrence’s ire: he quarrelled with Elvesmere over whether medico-legal issues are a legitimate field of study. And finally, he is physician to the brutal Potmoor – and Oxford-trained into the bargain.’

‘So am I,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘But Lawrence is a good man. He treats the poor.’

‘Quite! He is
too
kind and gentle. You must see it is an act. However, there are other suspects, too. I have grave reservations about Illesy, a man desperate to see his new College thrive, and who is also close to Potmoor. Then there is Potmoor himself.’

‘And Hugo,’ added Bartholomew. ‘We tend to overlook him, because he is in his father’s shadow, but I imagine he knows all about poisons and killing. I can certainly see
him
inveigling an invitation to Fulbut’s party and wielding a sly dagger.’

Michael nodded. ‘We also have Nerli. He was seen practising swordplay with Potmoor, and he is Lawrence’s armed escort for visits to Chesterton, although he denies any such skill—’

‘He studied at Salerno, but I have never heard of that university offering a Masters in Civil Law. Perhaps I should ask him about it.’

‘No – there are more important questions he should answer first. Such as why did he try to buy realgar and later deny it? Why was he so eager to see his colleagues buried? And why did he
really
order the remains of Ratclyf’s breakfast pottage thrown away? After all, if anyone knows about poisons, it will be a Florentine. Moreover, he has a dark and angry look that unsettles me.’

‘I suppose he is a little sinister.’

‘More than a little.’ Michael hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I am afraid your nephew is also on my list. He is not the man he was, Matt. He—’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Richard may have changed, but he is not a killer.’

Michael made no reply, and there was an uncomfortable silence that lasted until the monk asked, ‘When will we know whether Hemmysby’s tart and my Lombard slices were poisoned?’

‘As soon as we can see well enough not to harm ourselves in the process.’

‘Good.’ There came the sound of a knife scraping across bristles.

‘Term starts tomorrow.’ Bartholomew slumped on a bench and did not try to keep the dejection from his voice. ‘We have six unsolved deaths, Winwick Hall will cause trouble with the other Colleges at the opening ceremony, and Marjory Starre thinks its founder might be assassinated when he visits. And to top it all, we are at the mercy of a blackmailer. I think we may be defeated this time, Brother.’

‘No,’ said the monk fiercely. ‘I am
not
going to lose my College to sly tactics, and a killer will
not
get the better of the Senior Proctor. I will think of something, do not worry.’

He emerged from the screen a new man: his hair was combed, his plump face was scrubbed pink and glowing, and he had donned a fresh habit. He looked fit, strong and he exuded confidence. Perhaps he would do what he promised, thought Bartholomew with a sudden surge of hope.

They walked into the storeroom just as Cynric began to ring the bell to wake the scholars for church. Bartholomew flung open the window shutters, and turned to the shelf on which he had left the crumbs soaking, only to find there was no trace of them. He looked around in consternation. The rank odour of his experiments lingered, although even that was rapidly dispersing in the fresh air.

‘You left the door unlocked,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘And I know exactly what happened.’

He stalked into Bartholomew’s bedchamber, where the medical students were donning their tabards and smoothing down their hair. As usual, those with real stubble had not bothered to shave, while those with boyish fluff were making a great show of shearing it off.

‘Who has been in the storeroom?’ Michael demanded without preamble.

‘All of us, sir,’ replied Aungel. He shrugged apologetically. ‘I know Doctor Bartholomew said not to, but there was a terrible smell, and when we looked inside, there was something brown and squishy on a high shelf. We assumed he had let something rot by mistake…’

‘What did you do with it?’ asked Bartholomew wearily.

‘Goodwyn thought it was releasing dangerous miasmas, which he said would make you ill when you sleep in there. So he told us to throw it in the midden.’

‘I did,’ drawled Goodwyn. ‘We cannot have you dead quite so early in the year. Who would teach us how to tend the sick?’

There was a defiant glint in his eye, and Bartholomew had taught enough students to know his authority was being challenged yet again. It could not be allowed to continue.

‘Leave,’ he ordered.

‘Leave what?’ asked Goodwyn insolently. ‘This room, so you can tell everyone that I am a bad influence on them? I think I shall stay, if it is all the same to you.’

‘Michaelhouse. I am not teaching disobedient pupils, and you have had your chance. See whether Winwick will take you. You are more suited to law than medicine anyway.’

‘But I do not want to study law,’ objected Goodwyn. ‘I like it here.’

‘You should have thought of that before defying me.’ Bartholomew turned to the rest of his silent, stunned class. ‘You will be late for Mass if you stand here with your mouths open.’

There was a concerted rush towards the door, and Bartholomew noted wryly that all were careful not to catch his eye.

‘You cannot dismiss me,’ said Goodwyn when they had gone. ‘I paid a term’s fees, which gives me the right to stay until Christmas. And Michaelhouse is not so rich that—’

‘Your money is forfeit,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Read the College statutes. We are not obliged to repay anything if a student is dismissed for bad behaviour – and yours has been abominable from the moment you stepped through our gates.’

The blood drained from Goodwyn’s face. ‘No,’ he said, uncertain for the first time. ‘If you must insist on ousting me, then I want my money back. It is a colossal sum.’

Cynric was by the door, curious as to what had precipitated the stampede into the yard.

‘Goodwyn is leaving,’ Bartholomew told the book-bearer briskly. ‘Help him pack, and escort him out. I want him gone by the time I return.’

Cynric’s grin said he would relish the task. Goodwyn opened his mouth to argue again, but Bartholomew turned on his heel and strode away. Michael followed.

‘I liked the lie about the statutes, Matt. You almost convinced me, and I know it is fiction.’

Bartholomew grinned, then went to the back of the kitchens, where he prodded about in the midden with a stick. ‘Here!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Yes! The crumbs are still in their dishes. The experiment is not ruined after all.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael impatiently.

‘
Dormirella
,’ replied Bartholomew, his exultation draining away as he realised the implications of his discovery. ‘The excitement of the debate probably let Hemmysby ward off the symptoms during the day, but they overpowered him when he was walking home in the evening. What he ate in the vestry later was irrelevant.’

‘So we wasted our time investigating that?’

Bartholomew nodded apologetically. ‘And all because I cannot tell the difference between digested raisin tart and digested fruitcake. Moreover, William said he saw Hemmysby that morning walking “oddly hunched, like Judas in the mystery plays”. He offered it up as evidence that Hemmysby had behaved suspiciously on the day that the Stanton Hutch went missing.’

‘But he had eaten the poison, and it had started to work,’ surmised Michael. ‘He might have consulted you at any other time, but he was enjoying his success at the Cambridge Debate too much. He was probably afraid you would order him to stay home and rest.’

‘I knew
dormirella
was not instantly incapacitating,’ said Bartholomew, scrubbing tiredly at his face. ‘I should have taken that into account when we were trying to work out what had happened. It was an unforgivable oversight on my part.’

‘And the Lombard slices? Are they poisoned, too?’

‘Oh, yes. Enough to kill a horse. Someone does not want you investigating, Brother.’

‘Then let us ensure the villain is right to be worried,’ said Michael grimly.

As Bartholomew listened to Suttone chanting Mass, the tension within him drained away. St Michael’s was a beautiful, peaceful place, and he felt his sagging spirits begin to revive. Unfortunately, his sense of tranquillity did not last long. There was shuffling in the nave, and when it was time for the Magnificat, dozens of bellowing voices joined in. Michael smiled beatifically.