Death of a Scholar (7 page)

Edith was in the solar, a comfortable room with thick rugs on the floor, and a warm, homely aroma of herbs and fresh bread. Lamps were lit, which imparted a cosy golden glow. She and Bartholomew were unmistakably siblings: both had dark eyes and black hair, although her locks now had a significant sprinkling of silver. He experienced a surge of mixed emotions when he saw Richard was with her – pleasure, because he was fond of his nephew; irritation, because he could see that Edith was upset.

‘She has found a box of Father’s personal documents, and aims to paw through them,’ Richard explained sulkily, when Bartholomew commented on the icy atmosphere. ‘It is not right.’

Bartholomew studied his nephew meditatively, trying to see in the man who lounged by the hearth the fresh-faced, carefree boy he had known. Soft living had furnished Richard with an unflattering chubbiness, while his eyes had an unhealthy yellow tinge. He wore his hair long, but the style did not suit him, and made him look seedy. Despite his arrogant confidence, Richard was not a good lawyer, and although he had secured a series of lucrative posts, he had kept none of them for long. The most recent had been with the Earl of Suffolk, where there had been a scandal involving a pregnant daughter. A considerable sum of money had been required to appease the outraged baron.

‘Of course it is right,’ said Edith irritably. ‘Some might be unpaid bills, or other matters that require my attention.’

‘They won’t – Zachary says so,’ Richard shot back.

‘Zachary is not in charge,’ countered Edith coolly. ‘I am. And besides, you neglected to mention that I found this box in the garden, atop a small fire – which the culprit had neglected to mind, so its contents were undamaged. Zachary denies putting it there, so perhaps Oswald…’

‘If it had been Oswald, surely you would have found it before now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘While Zachary is not the sort of man to burn someone else’s documents.’

‘Well, he seems to have had a go at these,’ said Richard sullenly. He turned back to his mother. ‘But it is not for you to paw through them. They might be nothing to do with the business, and pertain to
my
part of the inheritance.’

‘In which case I shall pass them on to you,’ said Edith, exasperated. ‘Now, did you mention that you were going out this evening?’

Richard saw the defiant jut of her chin, and evidently realised that this was a confrontation he would not win, because he grabbed his cloak and stalked out. Bartholomew watched him go, sorry the easy friendship they had once enjoyed was lost. Richard considered him dull company compared to his London cronies, and the rare evenings they spent together were strained affairs with each struggling to find common ground for conversation.

‘He looks well,’ he remarked, after the door had been slammed closed.

Edith pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He looks like what he is – someone with too much money and too many dissolute companions eager to help him spend it. To be honest, I have no desire to trawl through that chest, but the fact that he tried to stop me … Indeed, I cannot help but wonder whether
he
was the one who tried to destroy them.’

‘Do you want me to do it?’ The prospect did not fill Bartholomew with enthusiasm, and would be yet another demand on his precious time, but there was little he would not do for Edith.

She shook her head. ‘I wish Oswald were here, though. He would know how to handle Richard. I wake up each morning thinking it has all been a bad dream, and that he is still alive.’

‘Me, too,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘His death … I know we have discussed it ad nauseam, Matt, but I am sure there was something amiss.
Why
did he die of marsh fever? His previous attacks were never very serious.’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, as he had done many times before. ‘I was not there.’

‘No,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘You were off running errands with Michael in Peterborough when he needed you. If you had been in Cambridge, Oswald would still be alive.’

While Bartholomew knew that Edith’s words were born of grief, they still hurt, and he returned to Michaelhouse with a heavy heart. He doubted his presence at Oswald’s deathbed would have made any difference, given Rougham’s account of what had happened, but he still wished he had been there. While his colleagues slept, he sat in the conclave working on his lectures, aiming to distract himself from the guilt of failing Edith during the darkest hours of her life.

Michael arrived after a fruitless evening investigating Elvesmere’s murder, and immediately began forging deeds. He gave up when the words began to blur before his eyes, leaving Bartholomew slumped across the table, fast asleep. It was an uncomfortable position, and the physician woke with a stiff neck and backache when the bell rang for Mass the following dawn.

It was a subdued College that attended church. The only person who seemed unaffected by Michaelhouse’s desperate predicament was Goodwyn, the new medical student, who sang lustily and wore a smug grin through the entire rite. Michael homed in on him when the service was over.

‘I am dissatisfied with your explanation regarding your whereabouts for the time of the theft,’ he said briskly. ‘Tell me again.’

‘You cannot remember that far back?’ quipped the student with breezy insolence. ‘Shall I mix you a remedy for senile forgetfulness, then?’

‘That remark has cost you sixpence, payable by the end of the day.’ Michael held up an authoritative hand when a startled Goodwyn started to object. ‘It is expensive to annoy the Senior Proctor, so I recommend you curb your tongue. Now, to business. The hutch was stolen between nine o’clock on Sunday evening, when Langelee visited the cellar, and yesterday at noon, when Cynric discovered it missing. Where were you during all that time?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew set us a lot of reading on Sunday, sir,’ said Aungel, before Goodwyn could land himself in deeper trouble by arguing. ‘And it took us until supper to finish. Afterwards, we were restless after being cooped up all day so we went for a walk. We returned to Michaelhouse just as the bells rang for compline.’

‘Then we played dice … I mean we read our bibles until Doctor Bartholomew came back from seeing a patient,’ continued Goodwyn. Gambling was forbidden in College, on the grounds that it led to fights. ‘He will testify that we were all there – and that we stayed until morning. After that, we went to church, had breakfast, and read in the hall with the other Fellows.’

Bartholomew nodded, but the truth was that he was an unusually heavy sleeper, and the entire class could have thundered out during the night without waking him, so he was the last person who should be used as an alibi. Michael knew it.

‘Goodwyn is the culprit,’ he growled, as he and the physician walked back to Michaelhouse. ‘You were sleeping too deeply to notice he had gone, and his classmates are wary of exposing him as a liar, because he is older and bigger.’

‘And did what with the stolen hutch?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not in my room, I assure you.’

‘Hid it somewhere else.’

‘Where? Cynric searched the College from top to bottom, and Goodwyn is new to the town – he will not know any safe places outside.’

‘Perhaps he has accomplices.’ Michael turned to glare; Goodwyn glowered back, unfazed by the monk’s hostility. ‘And even if it transpires that he is innocent, you should watch him. Langelee should never have taken him on.’

‘He did it for the double fees.’

‘Fees that have now disappeared,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘But let us review again what we know about the hutch. The cellar was opened with the key from Langelee’s room, which was then replaced. You were out on Sunday evening. Did you notice anything odd when you came back?’

‘No, but the porter was away on his rounds, so I let myself in.’ A stricken expression crossed Bartholomew’s face. ‘Perhaps someone saw how easy it was, and simply copied me.’

‘Unlikely – Thelnetham was right to point out that if it were a random crime, the thief would not have known where to find the key.’ Michael’s expression hardened. ‘The culprit made a mistake when he targeted our home. You offered to help me catch him yesterday—’

‘I did not offer. You coerced me.’

‘—but I need help with the murders of Felbrigge and Elvesmere, too. No one has offered to take Felbrigge’s place, and it is difficult to manage so much without a Junior Proctor.’

‘I cannot, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Unless you can arrange for more hours in the day. I am struggling to cope as it is.’

‘Felbrigge and Elvesmere were fellow scholars. You should want justice for them.’

‘I do, but—’

‘Good, it is settled then,’ said Michael, with such relief that Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. There were dark bags under his friend’s eyes, and he realised that he had been so wrapped up with his own problems that he had failed to notice the toll Michael’s responsibilities were taking on him – murders to solve, a huge influx of matriculands to control, all the difficulties surrounding the birth of a new College, and now the stolen hutch.

‘I can give you until the start of term, Brother. A week. After that I shall be swamped with teaching. We both will. So we had better make a start. What have you learned about Felbrigge?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He was standing next to me when he was shot, but neither I nor anyone else saw a thing to help. My beadles found the bow, and we were able to deduce that it probably belonged to a professional archer, but that is all. In short, we still have no idea who did it or why.’

‘Perhaps Felbrigge was not the intended victim,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Maybe this professional archer was aiming at the Chancellor or you – the University’s most powerful scholar.’

‘I have already assessed that possibility and dismissed it. Such men do not miss their targets, and nor could they have mistaken Felbrigge for me or Tynkell. I wear my habit, Tynkell is thin and grey, and Felbrigge was short, fat and clad in a ceremonial robe of scarlet. The three of us look nothing alike.’

‘When I was at Winwick yesterday, Ratclyf said that Felbrigge was unpopular.’ Bartholomew spoke hesitantly, never happy with gossip. ‘That he was disliked by scholars
and
townsmen.’

‘It is true. Felbrigge managed to antagonise an extraordinary number of people while you and I were away in Peterborough. Clearly, I should never have left him in charge.’

‘Did you know he was arrogant and abrasive when you appointed him?’

‘Yes, but he was the only one who applied for the job, and I was desperate for help.’

It was no surprise that scholars were not queuing up to be Michael’s helpmeet. He was dictatorial, impatient with mistakes, and hated being challenged. Moreover, the post was poorly paid, sometimes dangerous and involved everything Michael did not fancy doing himself.

‘Did you like him?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘Not really. On his first day in office he told me that he intended to step into my shoes by the end of the year. The audacity of the man! Anyway, he obviously angered someone less tolerant than me, and he paid for it with his life. Of course, he was a member of the Guild of Saints…’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you saying that one of them killed him? Lord, that would be awkward! They comprise the town’s most influential people – folk who will not appreciate being accused of murder. Who is on your list of suspects?’

‘I do not have a list, Matt. I have no evidence, remember? However, I keep coming back to the fact that Potmoor is in the Guild of Saints, and he is no stranger to murder…’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was wrong. It was bad enough being held responsible for all the burglaries Potmoor was supposed to be committing, but if the felon had murdered a senior member of the University … He changed the subject uncomfortably. ‘What did you learn about Elvesmere yesterday?’

‘Very little. You say the knife wound was not instantly fatal, but no one heard him cry for help. And you say he was moved after he died, but my beadles found no bloody puddles anywhere in Winwick Hall – and they explored it very thoroughly.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, other than the fact his colleagues disliked him. Their porter – Jekelyn – let slip that Elvesmere was always arguing with them.’

‘Do they have alibis?’

‘No. They claim to have been in bed all night – alone. Jekelyn says no one came a-calling and that he never left his post. It is a lie, of course – all porters slip away to nap from time to time. So all we know for certain is that Elvesmere was alive when the scholars of Winwick Hall went to sleep, and dead when they awoke.’

Because William had conducted the morning Mass, and he was noted for the speed with which he could gabble through the sacred words, the Michaelhouse men arrived home before breakfast was ready. Agatha, the formidable lady who oversaw the domestic side of the College, emerged from the kitchen to inform them that the food would not be ready until she said so. Women did not normally hold such sway in University foundations, but she had been Michaelhouse’s laundress for so long that not even Langelee was brave enough to challenge her authority.

It was a pleasant day to loiter in the yard, though, and no one minded. The Fellows stood in a huddle near the door, while the students retreated to the far end of the yard, where they could chat about things they did not want their teachers to hear – ways to smuggle women into their bedrooms, secret stashes of wine, and the illicit gambling league established by Goodwyn.

The weather was mild, and the sun shone in a pale blue sky. The trees were just starting to change colour, so summer green was mixed with autumn gold and orange. A blackbird sang from one, answered every so often, somewhat more shrilly, by the porter’s peacock. The chickens scratched happily in the dirt, and Clippesby went to talk to them when William raised the subject of the hutch, muttering that he could not bear to hear more speculation about the thief.

‘Perhaps
he
took it,’ said Thelnetham. A bloodstained rag around one finger marred his otherwise pristine appearance. ‘I know for a fact that he admired the bestiary I left in the chest, and he
is
mad. He told me last night that a goat plans to take part in today’s debate.’