Death of a Scholar (18 page)

‘How odd,’ mused Michael. ‘I suppose those witnesses were mistaken when they said they saw you there the night that Elvesmere was murdered.’

Hugo stepped forward and shoved Michael hard enough to make him stagger, a considerable feat given that the monk’s bulk was not easily shifted.

‘If you are accusing my father of killing Elvesmere—’

‘Hugo, Hugo,’ interrupted Potmoor mildly. ‘I am sure the good Brother meant nothing of the kind. He knows that those of us who have seen the face of God would never commit base crimes.’

‘No?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Then what about your boast that you still enjoy breaking into people’s homes, despite the fact that you have an army of henchmen to do it for you?’

Potmoor continued to bare his amber teeth. ‘I did once enjoy plying the skills God gave me. However, I have not used them since my glimpse of Paradise. And you cannot prove otherwise.’

‘I can prove that you are lying about your visit to Winwick Hall. I have witnesses, as I said.’

‘He is not lying,’ intervened Illesy smoothly. He turned to the felon with an obsequious smile. ‘You did come to see us. It must have slipped your mind, since it was only for a moment. You came to donate ten marks. Do you remember now that I have jogged your memory?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Potmoor flatly. ‘Forgive me, Brother. I did not intend to mislead you.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Then perhaps you will tell us where you were at dusk last night. Gonville lost a valuable candlestick, and someone answering your description was seen in the vicinity. Obviously, we are keen to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

‘I was out on business,’ replied Potmoor shortly. ‘Alone – as I usually am whenever someone important is burgled. I cannot help it if the villain always chooses to strike when I am not in a position to provide you with alibis.’

‘But you
do
have alibis,’ countered Illesy with another greasy smile. ‘You were accompanied by servants. Would you like me to bring them to you, Brother? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

Bartholomew stared at him, wondering how the Provost could demean himself by manipulating the law to let a criminal remain at large. And Illesy clearly believed that Potmoor was guilty, or he would not be fabricating a defence for him.

‘Do not trouble yourself,’ said Michael, aware that Potmoor’s henchmen would be only too pleased to perjure themselves for their master. ‘It would be a waste of time for us all.’

‘Quite,’ said Potmoor. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, it is time I went home. I have another headache. Those of us blessed with holy visions do, you know.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘I wonder why no saint has ever complained of them. But I have one last question before you go: where is Nick Fulbut? I know he is in your pay.’

‘Not any more. He is a mercenary, and I have no need of such men now that I have made my peace with God.’

Eyebrows raised, Michael glanced pointedly at the louts who had ranged themselves behind him, but Potmoor only stared back insolently, a half-smile on his sallow face.

‘No one in Potmoor’s employ knows where Fulbut might be found,’ said Illesy. ‘Although you are right to hunt the man, Brother. There is a rumour that he shot your Junior Proctor.’

‘Fulbut is a slippery devil,’ added Potmoor, ‘and will work for anyone who can pay him. Perhaps you should liaise with the Deputy Sheriff, as I doubt your beadles will catch him on their own.’

‘Olivia Knyt suggested the same,’ said Bartholomew.

It was untrue, but Potmoor’s gloating confidence had irked him and he wanted to disconcert the man. He was wholly unprepared for the result. Potmoor’s smirk vanished, to be replaced by a look of such dark, brutal fury that Bartholomew took an involuntary step backwards. He was not the only one to be unnerved: Hugo and the henchmen promptly edged away.

‘Your father is tired, Hugo,’ said the Provost quickly. ‘Not yet recovered from his brush with death. You should take him home.’

Hugo reached for Potmoor’s arm, although with obvious trepidation. There was a moment when it seemed Potmoor would resist, but he glanced at Illesy, and something in the lawyer’s face caused him to nod and allow himself to be led away. The henchmen followed, but at a safe distance.

‘Have you found Elvesmere’s killer yet, Brother?’ asked Illesy, when they had gone. ‘If not, I suggest you refrain from harassing innocent citizens, and concentrate on hunting him instead.’

‘That is exactly what I have been doing,’ retorted Michael.

Illesy regarded him coldly. ‘Then have you visited King’s Hall, Gonville or Bene’t, to ask what they know about the vicious murder of one of our scholars? That is where the culprit will be – in another College. You know they hate us, and revel in anything that does us harm.
They
murdered Elvesmere, not Potmoor.’

He turned on his heel and stalked away.

‘That was a waste of time,’ grumbled Michael when he and Bartholomew were alone again. ‘I did not expect Potmoor to confess to robbing half the town and arranging the deaths of Felbrigge and Elvesmere, but I had hoped for something in the way of clues.’

‘I did not, and we were rash to have challenged him, especially once Illesy was on hand to ensure that nothing incriminating was said. However, we did learn something.’

‘Potmoor’s obvious fancy for Olivia Knyt?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Richard saw him leaving her house the morning before Knyt died, and Meryfeld thinks they are lovers. Yet I doubt Olivia would entertain a lout like him…’

‘My beadles inform me that she
does
. He is a powerful man, and women find that attractive. I speak from personal experience, of course – there is nothing more desirable to a lady than strength and charisma. But speaking of strength and charisma, it is time we visited a man who has neither.’

‘Deputy de Stannell?’

‘Yes. Potmoor was right – we
should
combine forces to catch Fulbut.’

They began to walk towards the castle. Bartholomew was silent for a while, reflecting on Potmoor’s unnerving flare of rage. ‘My sister thinks he murdered Oswald,’ he confided.

Michael sighed. ‘I wondered how long it would be before she decided that Oswald’s death was suspicious. I can see why – he was hale and hearty one moment, but dead the next.’

‘It happens, Brother. And there is no reason to doubt Rougham’s diagnosis.’

Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Well, you had better make a show of investigating, or she will do it herself. And she bakes the best Lombard slices in the shire. I should hate to be deprived, just because she accuses Potmoor and he takes umbrage.’

Bartholomew winced at the thought. ‘Unfortunately, she will know if I try to deceive her. She always does. And then there will be trouble.’

‘I will think of something,’ promised Michael. ‘Do not worry.’

They climbed Cambridge’s only hill, where a motte had been raised by the Normans shortly after the Conquest. The castle had expanded since, and was now a formidable structure – a tall curtain wall bristling with towers and fighting platforms, which enclosed a huge bailey containing barracks for soldiers, a gaol, courtrooms, kitchens, stables, pantries, workplaces for clerks and repositories for records. It had never seen a serious attack, and its resources were mostly channelled into more peaceful purposes, such as collecting taxes.

The centre of operations was the Great Tower, a stalwart, cylindrical structure that formed the most secure part of the complex. Its first floor comprised the spacious chamber that Sheriff Tulyet used as an office, and de Stannell was sitting by its hearth with Ratclyf from Winwick Hall when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. The deputy’s face was flushed with wine, which made him appear more like an angry baboon than ever. Ratclyf, however, looked decidedly furtive.

‘I must be going,’ he said, standing abruptly and turning towards the door. ‘Thank you for your understanding, de Stannell. It is always good to do business with another guildsman.’

‘He came to ask for more help from the Guild of Saints,’ explained de Stannell, once the clatter of Ratclyf’s footsteps on the stairs had faded. He preened himself. ‘Now Knyt is dead, it falls to me to make the important decisions.’

‘Can you do that as well as your duty to the shire?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course. I am no Tulyet, who can only manage one post at a time. Today is a case in point. I gave Ratclyf a loan to repair the roof that was damaged in last night’s storm, and in return he will pay a higher tariff on Winwick’s fuel. I did Guild and county business in a single stroke.’

Ratclyf’s hasty departure and reputation for guile made Bartholomew suspect that de Stannell had just been cajoled into an agreement that would allow Winwick to prosper at the shire’s expense. He hoped it would not lead to more trouble between the town and the University.

‘We came to discuss Fulbut,’ said Michael. ‘And the possibility of you and I working together to lay hold of him.’

‘No, thank you,’ replied de Stannell briskly. ‘I would rather rely on my own men. He set St Clement’s alight, so I want him in
my
cells, not yours.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘However, he also shot my Junior Proctor, so I would like the opportunity to question him if you catch him first. I want to ask who hired him to do it.’

‘I am afraid your enquiry is secondary to mine.
I
am investigating crimes against townsfolk, but your victim was only a scholar. And if you do not like it, complain to Tulyet when he returns.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ vowed Michael tightly. ‘But how do you know Fulbut burned St Clement’s?’

‘It is obvious,’ replied de Stannell. ‘Heyford was sent strong wine just before the fire started – by Fulbut, who aimed to ensure that his victim would be too drunk to douse the flames.’

‘Then perhaps he was following Potmoor’s orders. I learned today that Heyford was reckless enough to make Lazarus the subject of his Sunday sermon, to Potmoor’s detriment.’

‘I shall bear it in mind. Now if you will excuse me, Brother, there are
important
matters requiring my attention.’

Michael railed about de Stannell’s manners all the way to St Mary the Great, where they were astounded to discover the debate still in full flow, and in serious danger of extending into a third day.

‘How can Tynkell let this nonsense drag on?’ he cried. ‘Winwick Hall has offered to provide refreshments afterwards, but we shall be eating at midnight at this rate. Where are
you
going?’

‘To visit Eyer,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Rougham thinks he made a mistake with the
sal ammoniac
I used on Potmoor. I doubt it, but I had better make sure.’

Michael was more interested in his own troubles. ‘If Dick Tulyet does not come home soon, he will have no town left to rule – that ridiculous de Stannell will have destroyed it with his crass stupidity. Do you think
he
killed Knyt, in order to take command of the Guild of Saints?’

‘According to my medical colleagues, Knyt had a seizure brought on by a surfeit of oysters.’

‘And you believe them? When Olivia was betraying him with the greatest criminal the town has ever known, and the slippery de Stannell wasted no time in filling his shoes? Knyt’s death is very convenient for them both, is it not?’

‘It is, but that does not mean he was murdered.’

Michael sighed, and some of the anger went out of him. ‘I had better brief my beadles for their evening patrols.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Then I shall partake of Winwick’s refreshments.’

‘I thought those were for the men taking part in the debate. You have missed most of it.’

‘So what? The fare will be more appetising than boiled kidneys and leeks, which is what is on offer at College tonight. I recommend you do the same. And I shall need something decent inside me, because first I must confront William over his poached views on apostolic poverty, and then I have choir practice. A lot of new members have enrolled, so I need to assess them all for talent.’

Or lack of it, Bartholomew thought, but dared not say.

‘After choir, I shall visit Winwick Hall,’ the monk went on. ‘We have been told that Elvesmere and Bon were particular friends, so perhaps Bon will tell us a little more about our murder victim. He is likely to be feeling wretched, and may appreciate a kindly ear.’

‘Why will he be feeling wretched?’

‘Because Hemmysby savaged him in the debating chamber again today. He should have kept quiet, but he would insist on speaking, and Hemmysby led him into several cunning traps.’

The daylight was fading when Bartholomew reached Eyer’s shop. He entered, breathing in deeply the pleasing aroma of aniseed, cloves and blackcurrant. There were no customers, and the apothecary was in the process of shutting up, bustling about with a lantern in his hand. He smiled when he saw Bartholomew, and led him to the private parlour at the back.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, and before Bartholomew could reply, had slapped some yellow-brown sludge into a bowl. ‘Eat this. It will do you good, and you are too pale for my liking.’

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, when a tentative chew yielded no recognisable flavour.

‘Boiled caterpillars. It is very nutritious, and will set your humours right in no time at all.’

Manfully, Bartholomew resisted the urge to spit it out. He had forgotten that the apothecary had a penchant for peculiar food, and it was not the first time he had been fed unpalatable snacks. He set the bowl on the table and sat on a bench, glad of some peace after his hectic day. Eyer busied himself with a fire to ward off the evening chill, his face flushed with pleasure at having company.

‘Do you need more
aqua imperialis
?’ he asked. ‘I made a new batch today.’

‘I do, but I cannot pay.’ Bartholomew was about to explain why when he remembered that Michaelhouse’s predicament was meant to be a secret.

Eyer took a bottle from a shelf. ‘Tell your patients that I gave it to you for free. I am still new here and it will do no harm for me to be seen as generous.’

‘You are seen as generous already, for the money you give to the Guild of Saints for its charitable work. No one doubts your munificence.’