Death of a Scholar (3 page)

‘Potmoor was not dead,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Reviving such an infamous criminal had earned him almost universal condemnation, and he was tired of people berating him for it. ‘He would have woken on his own eventually.’

‘So you say,’ harrumphed Ratclyf. ‘But you should have let him—’

‘Enough, Ratclyf,’ interrupted Provost Illesy irritably. ‘Potmoor has been very generous to our new College, and it is ungracious to cast aspersions on the way he earns his living.’

‘I am not casting aspersions on him, I am casting them on Bartholomew. If he had not used magic potions, Potmoor would have stayed dead. It was witchcraft that brought him back.’

‘Actually, it was smelling salts,’ corrected Lawrence with one of his genial smiles. ‘We call them
sal ammoniac
. Like me, Matthew buys them from Eyer the apothecary, whose shop is next door.’ He gestured down the High Street with an amiable wave.

‘Well, he should have left them in his bag,’ grumbled Ratclyf. ‘Potmoor might give us princely donations, but that does not make him respectable. It was God’s will that he should perish that night, and Bartholomew had no right to interfere.’

‘Certain ailments produce corpse-like symptoms,’ began Bartholomew. He knew he was wasting his time by trying to explain, just as he had with the many others who had demanded to know what he thought he had been doing. ‘One is catalepsia, which is rare but fairly well documented. Potmoor was suffering from that.’

‘I came across a case once,’ said Lawrence conversationally. ‘In a page of Queen Isabella’s. They were lowering him into his grave, when he started banging on the lid of his coffin.’

‘Yes, but
he
was not a vicious criminal,’ sniffed Ratclyf. ‘Bartholomew should have found a way to keep Potmoor dead.’

Bartholomew disliked people thinking that physicians had the right to decide their patients’ fates. ‘I swore an oath to—’

‘You saved one of the greatest scoundrels who ever lived,’ interrupted Ratclyf. ‘And if that is not bad enough, Potmoor believes that his glimpse of Heaven means he is favoured by God. Now his wickedness will know no bounds.’

‘How can you call him wicked when he gave us money to build a buttress when our hall developed that worrying crack last week?’ asked Illesy reproachfully. ‘There is much good in him.’

‘You
would
think so,’ sneered Ratclyf. ‘You were his favourite lawyer, and it was your skill that kept him out of prison for so many years.’

‘How dare you!’ flashed Illesy, irritated at last by his Fellow’s bile. ‘You had better watch your tongue if you want to continue being a Fellow here.’

Bartholomew was embarrassed. Most halls kept their spats private, and he did not like witnessing rifts in Winwick. Lawrence saw it, and hastened to change the subject.

‘I was probably the last person to see Elvesmere alive,’ he told his fellow physician. ‘It was late last night. He said he felt unwell, so I made him a tonic. He was not in his room when I visited at dawn, so I assumed he was better and had gone to church, but I found him here a little later.’

‘He is cold and stiff,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Which means he probably died hours ago. Why was he not discovered sooner? Latrines are seldom empty for long, even at night.’

‘Because no one uses this one except him and me,’ explained Lawrence. ‘The seats are not fixed yet, you see, and have a nasty habit of tipping sideways when you least expect it.’

‘The rest of us prefer the safety of a bucket behind the kitchen,’ elaborated Ratclyf. He addressed his Provost archly. ‘Do you think Potmoor will pay to remedy
that
problem, or is it beneath his dignity as a member of the Guild of Saints and an upright citizen?’

‘Is something wrong, Bartholomew?’ asked Lawrence quickly, thus preventing the Provost from making a tart reply. ‘You seem puzzled.’

‘I am. You say Elvesmere has not been moved, yet I doubt he died in this position.’

‘He must have done,’ said Illesy. ‘You heard Lawrence: he and Elvesmere are the only ones who ever come here. And Lawrence is the one who insisted that nothing be touched until you came, so you can be sure that
he
has not rearranged anything.’

‘His position looks natural to me,’ said Lawrence, frowning. ‘The fatal seizure caused him to snatch at his clothes in his final agony, which is why they are awry.’

‘His final agony was not the result of a seizure,’ said Bartholomew. He eased the body forward to reveal a dark patch of red. ‘It was because he was stabbed.’

Provost Illesy turned so pale after Bartholomew’s announcement that the physician was afraid he might faint, so he asked Lawrence to take him somewhere to sit down. Then, with Ratclyf watching his every move with discomfiting intensity, he finished his examination. Afterwards, they wrapped the body and carried it to St Mary the Great, where it would lie until it was buried.

‘Come to our
parlura
and tell us what you have deduced,’ instructed Ratclyf, once they were outside. A
parlura
, or place to talk, was Winwick Hall’s name for the Fellows’ common room; other Colleges used the rather less pretentious term ‘conclave’. ‘It is only right that we should hear your conclusions before you report them to the Senior Proctor.’

Bartholomew was frantically busy. He had more patients than he could properly manage, and if he did not prepare lectures, reading lists and exercises for his students before the beginning of term, he would sink beneath the demands of a ridiculously heavy teaching load. Moreover, his sister was still in mourning, so any free moments he did have were spent with her. Thus he did not have time to linger in Winwick Hall. Yet he knew
he
would want details, if one of his colleagues had been murdered, so he nodded assent and followed Ratclyf across the yard.

He looked around him as he went, studying for the first time the place that would soon become the University’s latest addition. Like all Cambridge Colleges, it was protected by high walls and a stalwart gatehouse. Set in the exact centre of the enclosure was the hall. This was a magnificent building on three floors, perfectly symmetrical, with a large arched doorway in the middle. The ground floor comprised the
parlura
to the left, and a library to the right. The first floor was a huge room for teaching and dining, with imposing oriel windows and a hearth at either end, while the top floor was a spacious dormitory for students.

In addition to the hall, Winwick boasted living quarters for the Provost and his Fellows, a kitchen block with accommodation for servants, several stables, and sheds for storage. Most were new, and workmen still swarmed over the parts that were not quite completed. Some of the labourers were Bartholomew’s patients, and nearly all had called on him to tend cuts, bruises and even broken bones as a result of the speed with which the founder had compelled them to work.

‘I hear Brother Michael is no further forward with solving the murder of his Junior Proctor,’ said Ratclyf as they walked. ‘Why should we trust him to keep us safe, when he cannot catch his own deputy’s killer? Personally, I think he should resign.’

‘It only happened two weeks ago,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Give him time.’

‘Yet I cannot say I was surprised when Felbrigge was shot,’ Ratclyf went on. ‘He antagonised not only half the University with his hubris, but most of the town, too.’

‘You exaggerate,’ said Bartholomew curtly. He had not particularly liked Felbrigge, but he detested gossip, especially from someone like Ratclyf, who was hardly a paragon of virtue himself.

‘I do not! And had he lived, there would have been trouble. He had a heavy hand with students, and they would have rebelled. Michael is well rid of him.’

‘How many pupils have enrolled at Winwick Hall?’ asked Bartholomew, pointedly changing the subject to something less contentious.

‘Twelve. But we shall have ten times that number by the beginning of term. Men flock to apply for places, and I anticipate that we shall be bursting at the seams in no time at all.’

Bartholomew was sure of it, as the town was currently full of men who had come in the hope of being offered a place. It was always a dangerous time of year, because the applicants did not officially become students until they had matriculated – registered with a College or a hostel – and so were outside the University’s jurisdiction.
Ergo
, there was nothing the Senior Proctor or his beadles could do about their boisterous high spirits, and the town resented them. Affrays were frequent and sometimes serious.

The discussion ended as Ratclyf led the way into the
parlura
, a pleasant chamber that smelled of wet plaster and new wood. Its walls were plain, still to be covered with tapestries or murals, and its floorboards had not yet been stained or waxed. When it was finished, it would be a delightful place to sit of an evening.

Illesy was by the hearth, with his Fellows clustered around him, so Ratclyf began to make introductions. First he indicated Master Lawrence.

‘As you know, our lawyer-
medicus
was the late Queen Isabella’s personal physician. But most of us are distinguished in our fields, so his appointment is in keeping with the high standards we at Winwick Hall aim to promote.’ Ratclyf turned to his Provost, and suddenly his voice was far less friendly. ‘And you have met Illesy, of course. Legal adviser to the villainous Potmoor.’

‘And plenty of other clients,’ added Lawrence quickly, when Illesy began to scowl. ‘No one knows more about criminal law than he, and we are lucky to have him. When they graduate, most of our students will be bound for Court, so such knowledge will be very useful.’

He beamed affably, although Bartholomew was disconcerted to learn that the men who ran his country might need to call upon someone who possessed the same kind of sly skills that had kept Potmoor from the noose.

‘I am not the only member of Winwick with links to Potmoor,’ said Illesy tightly. ‘Lawrence is his physician, a post he took when the last
medicus
was dismissed for failing to save him. I understand the honour was offered to you, Bartholomew, but you declined it.’

Bartholomew had, because he had no wish to be at the beck and call of wealthy criminals, although the excuse he had given was that he had too many patients already.

‘I
like
Potmoor,’ said Lawrence. ‘And I have seen nothing but generosity and kindness in him.’

‘And here are our last two Fellows,’ Ratclyf went on, treating the claim with the contempt he felt it deserved by ignoring it. ‘Albizzo di Nerli is from Florence, and is an expert in civil law. He has a string of degrees from the University at Salerno, and will certainly attract the best students.’

Nerli was a darkly handsome man with long black hair, an olive complexion and hooded eyes. He did not smile when Bartholomew bowed, and there was something cold and predatory about his manner. He stood apart from the others, as if he did not consider them sufficiently worthy company.

‘I have been a scholar all my life,’ he said. The others had been speaking French, but Nerli used Latin, which he pronounced with a strong Florentine accent. ‘But only in the country of my birth. Thus I am delighted with the opportunity to ply my skills farther afield.’

‘And finally, William Bon will teach our students how to be notaries public,’ finished Ratclyf.

Bon had a sharp, narrow face and wispy fair hair. The pupils of both eyes were white, and a student had been detailed to stay with him to ensure he did not fall. He moved confidently across the
parlura
to greet Bartholomew, though, and the physician suspected he would fare better still once the College was not strewn with workmen’s tools and building materials.

‘So now we all know each other,’ said Illesy snappishly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘What have you learned from examining our unfortunate colleague?’

‘Very little,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Except that I suspect he was stabbed elsewhere and was brought to the latrine after he died, perhaps to delay his discovery.’

‘So he was definitely murdered?’ asked Lawrence in a small voice.

‘Yes. However, the wound would not have been instantly fatal, so I fail to understand why he did not call for help.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ suggested Ratclyf. ‘But starting a new College is exhausting work, and we all sleep very soundly.’

‘The killer will be a member of another foundation,’ said Bon unpleasantly. He had a shrill, nasal voice, and its tone was acidic. ‘King’s Hall, Gonville, Valence Marie, Michaelhouse – they all resent us, and would love us tainted by scandal.’

Before Bartholomew could object to the claim, the door opened and the porter entered. His name was Jekelyn, a surly, belligerent man who was not above greeting visitors with torrents of unprovoked abuse. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

‘Visitor,’ he announced sourly. ‘John Knyt, Secretary of the Guild of Saints, who is probably here to make sure the donations it has given us are not being squandered. Although it is none of his business if they are.’

Bartholomew had always liked Knyt, a principled, compassionate man who was generous to the poor. He had been the obvious choice to lead an organisation that was committed to doing good works, a task he had inherited in August after the sudden death of Oswald Stanmore.

‘Knyt!’ cried Illesy gushingly, indicating with a sweep of his arm that the visitor was to enter. ‘You have caught us at a bad moment, I am afraid. Poor Elvesmere has been murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ echoed Knyt, shocked. ‘I heard he was dead – servants gossip, and one of yours told one of mine – but no one said anything about murder. What happened?’

‘He was stabbed,’ replied Ratclyf. ‘I imagine it was Potmoor’s doing.’

‘It was not,’ snapped Illesy. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

‘I am inclined to agree,’ said Lawrence, as Ratclyf drew breath to argue. ‘There is a tendency to blame everything on him these days, and he cannot be guilty of
every
crime.’

‘No,’ said Ratclyf flatly. ‘Of course not.’

There was no more Bartholomew could tell the Provost and his Fellows, so he took his leave. Knyt went with him, murmuring that the College should be left to grieve in peace. He and the physician walked across the yard, where the great gates that led to the High Street were detached from their posts and stood propped against a wall – the carpenter had ordered the wrong hinges, so they were waiting for a set that would fit.