Death of a Scholar (30 page)

‘There is only so much we can be expected to endure,’ added Agatha. ‘Folk will snap soon.’

‘I will tell Michael.’ Bartholomew held out his hand for the phial. ‘Meanwhile, you had better give that to me. It is almost certainly toxic, and I should have disposed of it already.’

‘If it is toxic, then it means the magic is all the stronger,’ said Cynric, pleased. He clutched the little bottle to his chest, and Bartholomew knew he was not going to relinquish it without a fight – which was not something the physician was fool enough to attempt. ‘And that is a good thing for us.’

Bartholomew worked in the kitchen until Agatha doused the lamp, obliging him to return to his own quarters. His students were asleep, and unwilling to wake them by lighting a candle, he retreated to the storeroom, where he read until his eyes burned with fatigue. When he closed them for a moment he fell into a deep drowse, and was difficult to wake when Michael came to collect him in the small hours. After several moments of futile shoulder-shaking and increasingly frustrated hisses, the monk solved the problem with a bucket of cold water.

‘What?’ Bartholomew demanded groggily, wiping the drops from his face. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘If they were, I would not want you tending them,’ whispered the monk waspishly. ‘I have never known a man sink so deeply into repose. You were smiling. Was it a pleasant dream?’

It had been. Julitta was in it, and so was Richard, back when he had been a sunny, likeable lad of fifteen. Matilde had made an appearance, too, armed with a heavy purse and announcing her intention to marry Bartholomew that afternoon. Annoyingly, Michael had hurled his water just as Richard was about to divulge a way to wed her and still keep Julitta.

‘What do you want, Brother? It is the middle of the night.’

‘Yes, and we have work to do. Surely you have not forgotten?’

Bartholomew struggled to rally his sluggish wits. ‘What work?’

‘Ratclyf. And depending on what you find, perhaps Elvesmere and Knyt, too.’

Bartholomew’s mind snapped into focus. ‘No, and I have already explained why. Call it superstitious nonsense if you will, but it felt very wrong.’

Michael scrubbed at his face, and Bartholomew noticed again how weary his friend looked. ‘You have allowed your imagination to run riot because Hemmysby was a friend. Well, Ratclyf was not, and as I said yesterday, your second victim should be easier than the first. Langelee agrees. Something very sinister is unfolding, and unless we have the full facts we may never catch the villain who has set it in motion.’

‘But what if people find out?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

‘No one will,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘We shall take precautions. Besides, think of your sister and her beloved Oswald. She will certainly want to know if there is a poisoner at large. You must do it for her sake.’

Bartholomew scowled: it was unfair to use Edith as a lever. ‘We will never know what happened to Oswald, regardless. Even if you found someone to dissect him – and I can tell you now that it will not be me – he has been in the ground too long.’

‘Please, Matt. I understand your reluctance, believe me. I even share it – I would much rather be asleep than helping you defile corpses – but we have no choice. We
need
answers.’

‘There must be another way to get them.’

‘Langelee and I sat for hours trying to think of one. Nothing came to mind.’

‘I shall be decried as a warlock for certain,’ grumbled Bartholomew.

‘We have until Monday before the blackmailer makes good on his threat,’ Michael went on, ‘which means we have until Monday to catch him. To do that, we need to know how many victims he has claimed, because Langelee is right – he and the poisoner
are
one and the same. Besides, now you know what to look for, you will use a lighter hand than you did on Hemmysby.’

‘Not necessarily. It depends on the—’

‘No details, please,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Now are you coming or not?’

Profoundly unhappy, Bartholomew donned his cloak and followed Michael to the gate. Cynric was waiting there, having sent the porter on some spurious errand so that the three of them could leave the College unseen.

‘Follow me and do everything I say,’ he ordered. ‘I will keep you from prying eyes.’

He did his best, but neither scholar was very good at creeping around in the pitch black. They tripped over unseen obstacles, Michael squawked when his cloak caught on a shoe-scraper, and Bartholomew dropped his medical bag. By the time they reached the church, Cynric was thoroughly exasperated. He led them through the graveyard, shoving them rather roughly into the shadows when a group of matriculands staggered noisily past. Several women were with them, including two of the town’s less discerning prostitutes.

‘I will not allow this sort of thing once term starts,’ vowed Michael. ‘I shall recruit more beadles, and we will soon have this riotous behaviour under control.’

‘I doubt it, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘If they cannot find a College or a hostel, they will fall under de Stannell’s jurisdiction. And he is useless.’

‘Dick Tulyet will not be gone for ever,’ said Michael curtly, disliking the reminder that his authority was not absolute. ‘He will support what I am trying to do.’

‘Then let us hope he does not return too late,’ said Cynric darkly.

He led them to the vestry door, and ordered them to hide behind a buttress while he reconnoitred the church and its environs. He took so long that Michael began to whisper, to stop himself from dwelling on the unpleasant task that awaited them within.

‘Did I tell you that twenty-seven new hostels have been founded in the last two months? Most are for clerks, as that is why so many lads came – hoping to study law at Winwick.’

Bartholomew was also glad to be thinking of something else. ‘You must be pleased. It means the University is expanding.’

‘Yes, but it is happening too fast. Of course, it is Oxford’s fault.’

‘Oxford’s?’ Bartholomew was startled by the claim. ‘Why?’

‘Because if they had kept their ideas on apostolic poverty to themselves, John Winwick would almost certainly have founded his upstart College there. Instead, he foisted it on us.’

‘He did not choose us because we are the better school?’ joked Bartholomew. ‘Besides, I thought you were pleased that he favoured Cambridge over them.’

‘I was,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘But the rising antagonism Winwick Hall is causing has changed my mind. Now I wish he had imposed his patronage on another foundation.’

Bartholomew, sensing a rant in the making, hastily changed the subject. ‘Have you found Fulbut yet?’

‘No, and as I said earlier, I suspect we never will. Meadowman is the only one still looking for him, as all my other beadles are needed out on patrol. Incidentally, did I tell you about the rumour that the town plans to attack the University at one of three places – this church, King’s Hall or Winwick?’

‘Why them?’

‘Because they are our most conspicuous holdings. I have a bad feeling that the assault will be on Tuesday, at the beginning of term ceremony – which will be grander than usual, as it marks Winwick’s official entry into our ranks. Its founder plans to be there, which is a nuisance. I could do without high-ranking courtiers to protect.’

‘Perhaps you should cancel it.’

‘That would be tantamount to letting the town dictate what we do, and that is a very slippery slope to start down.’ Michael sighed tiredly. ‘I have lost count of the spats I have quelled of late. There was an especially vicious one today between three new hostels and the bakers’ apprentices.’

‘What was it about?’

‘The burglaries. The culprit – who most people believe to be Potmoor – evades capture with such effortless ease that people are beginning to believe he has help. The students think it is de Stannell, while the town blames the University.’

‘Did you speak to Potmoor about the fire in St Clement’s?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or his connections to Illesy?’

‘Yes, but he refused to comment on either. Did you hear the choir sing my new
Jubilate
, by the way? It was very rousing.’

‘That is one way of putting it.’

‘It is meant to be loud,’ said Michael, offended. ‘It is music to celebrate, and you do not do that in a whisper. Here is Cynric at last. Good. If he had kept us waiting much longer, my nerve would have failed me.’

‘
Your
nerve,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘What about mine?’

St Mary the Great was dark and eerily silent, its thick walls and handsomely glazed windows blocking any outside noise. The only sound inside was the low murmur of prayers, which came from Heyford, who liked earning extra money and was always the first to volunteer when vigils were required. He was in the Lady Chapel with the three coffins.

‘He is the only person here,’ whispered Cynric. ‘You must lure him away, Brother. Then Doctor Bartholomew can do what he likes to these corpses, invisible to all but the spirits.’

Michael pulled a wineskin from under his cloak. ‘I shall offer him a little claret to keep out the chill. He claims never to touch strong beverages, but that it is a lie, or he would not have been drunk when his church caught fire. However, he will have to come to my office for it, as I do not approve of imbibing in the presence of the dead.’

Bartholomew snatched the flask and took a hearty swig. He rarely felt the need for a drink, but that night was an exception. He gulped so much that Michael was obliged to tug it away, afraid there would be insufficient left to distract the vicar.

Fortunately, Heyford was more than happy to shirk his duties, and Michael was hard-pressed to keep up with him when he surged to his feet and aimed for the Senior Proctor’s elegant office, which was located in the south aisle – a little too close for Bartholomew’s liking, but not so far that Heyford would baulk at the distance from where he was paid to be. Bartholomew waited until Cynric nodded to say the coast was clear, and then stepped towards the caskets. He glanced around anxiously.

‘Do not worry, boy,’ whispered Cynric. ‘I bought a charm to protect us. It contains real holy water, so you are quite safe from evil sprites. However, you will not be safe from Heyford if he comes back before you have finished, so you had better get on with … whatever you mean to do.’

He retreated into the shadows when Bartholomew unlatched the first lid, unwilling to witness what was being done in the name of justice. The coffin contained Elvesmere, waxy-faced and reaching the point where he had outstayed his welcome above ground. The body had been dressed in a shroud with a lot of fiddly laces, and by the time Bartholomew finally reached bare skin, he was so exasperated that making an incision seemed easy by comparison.

When the examination was complete, he re-dressed Elvesmere, and moved to the next box. His scalpel was just descending towards Ratclyf when there was a great thump on the door, which made him jump so violently that the metal blade slipped from his fingers and clattered ringingly on the flagstones. The muted murmur of Michael’s conversation with Heyford faltered.

‘Students,’ the vicar said disapprovingly, when tipsy giggles followed. ‘Relieving themselves in the porch. The scoundrels! I shall tell them what happens to brutes who—’

‘Let my beadles do it,’ said Michael quickly. ‘The troublemakers might be armed, and we do not want you hurt. More wine?’

The argument convinced Heyford, who held out his cup. Bartholomew released the breath he had been holding, and returned to Ratclyf with hands that shook. He finished quickly, then pulled the lid from Knyt’s ornate chest.

He stood for a moment, gazing at the kindly features. The Secretary had been a force for good in the town, and he and Oswald had relieved a lot of suffering through the Guild of Saints. It was a pity things were changing now that de Stannell was in charge. Or were they? Julitta and Edith were still members, and they would not condone funds being squandered on less deserving causes.

A burst of laughter from Michael’s office pulled him from his reverie – it was hardly the time to ponder such matters. He took a deep breath and began his examination. It took no more than a moment to learn what he needed to know, and he was just straightening Knyt’s gown when Cynric came to demand what was taking so long.

‘I have finished now,’ Bartholomew replied shortly, tempted to point out that dissection was an art, not an excuse for butchery. ‘Help me put the lids back on.’

‘You have not done it yet?’ hissed Cynric in alarm. ‘Then hurry! Heyford has finished all the wine and will be out soon.’

At that point Bartholomew discovered that he was less adept at re-attaching clasps than at manipulating dissecting tools, and nervous tension made him more clumsy still. Cynric cursed when he realised they were trying to put Ratclyf’s lid on Elvesmere, and gulped audibly when Heyford’s returning footsteps sounded in the nave. Michael was at the vicar’s heels, gabbling about apostolic poverty in a desperate attempt to distract him a little longer. Then the last clip snapped into place, and there was just enough time to duck behind a pillar. Unfortunately, in his haste to escape, Bartholomew dropped his scalpel a second time. Heyford stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Someone is in here, Brother,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘A burglar, perhaps, hoping to steal all the ecclesiastical silver that your greedy University has accumulated.’

‘It was a bird,’ replied Michael. ‘One is trapped in here at the moment. But as I was saying, this schism about the relation of grace and merit to dominion is one that will see the whole of Christendom in flames.’

‘I hear it has already caused trouble in Oxford.’ Heyford dropped to his knees in front of the coffins. ‘The King himself has been forced to intervene, and he is said to be furious about it. But we had better discuss this tomorrow, Brother. Now, I must pray.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, surreptitiously kicking the scalpel backwards. To his horror, it rattled on the flagstones, causing Heyford to leap to his feet. ‘Lord! What an audacious bird!’

‘Perhaps we should look for it,’ gulped Heyford. ‘It should be roosting, not flying around making peculiar noises. Do you think the Devil has possessed it?’