Death of a Scholar (31 page)

‘Of course not,’ declared Michael haughtily. ‘Satan would never dare enter St Mary the Great.’

‘Then maybe these sinister sounds are not a bird at all, but three souls crying out from Purgatory. Or rather one from Purgatory and the other two from Hell.’

‘Which two are in Hell?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘The pair from Winwick. I said from the start that the place was evil, and when that thieving Illesy was made Provost, I was sure of it.’

‘Are you sure about what happened in Westminster?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Illesy does not seem dishonest to me.’

‘Of course I am sure! He is a felon, and his criminal tendencies are what encouraged Potmoor to hire him as his legal representative. The pair of them conspired to burn me alive when I spoke out against their wicked ways.’

‘You may be right about Illesy, but that does not mean the rest of Winwick should be tarred with the same brush. There is no evidence to suggest that Elvesmere or Ratclyf were corrupt.’

Heyford pursed his lips. ‘Elvesmere was a bigot who disliked anything not within his narrow remit of virtues, while Ratclyf was the most deceitful rogue I ever met. Doubtless that is why they put him in charge of Winwick’s finances.’

‘I hardly think—’

‘It is common knowledge that if you want a foundation to prosper, you should appoint a villain to mind its coffers. Why do you think Potmoor was invited to join the Guild of Saints?’

‘Perhaps that explains why Michaelhouse is poor,’ said Michael wryly. ‘We have no mendacious felon to manipulate our accounts.’

‘Get Thelnetham to do it,’ advised the vicar. ‘He will see you wealthy in no time at all.’

When Heyford returned to his prayers, Cynric grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and bundled him out of the church, taking care to ensure that he did not drop anything else on the way. When they reached the graveyard, both took deep breaths to calm their jangling nerves.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, making them jump by speaking behind them. He handed the physician the scalpel he had retrieved – the truth would be out for certain if that were found lying around. ‘What did you discover? It had better be something worthwhile, because it was not pleasant spending all that time with an opinionated fool like Heyford.’

‘It was not pleasant being dragged out to perform anatomies in the middle of the night,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘It would not have been so bad if we could have worked openly, with the blessing of all concerned. But what we did felt shabby and sacrilegious.’

‘Yes, it did,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is over now, so what did you learn?’

‘That Elvesmere and Knyt have lesions consistent with
dormirella
, but Ratclyf does not.’

Michael frowned. ‘So Elvesmere and Knyt were murdered?’

‘I can only tell you that the toxin was inside them. I cannot tell you how it got there.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘Well, Hemmysby, Elvesmere and Knyt are unlikely to have swallowed the same substance by accident on three different days, and the chances of three separate suicides are highly improbable. I think we can safely deduce that they were unlawfully killed.’

‘But Ratclyf was not. At least, not with
dormirella
. Perhaps he really did die of a weak heart.’

‘So of the six deaths we are investigating, three were poisoned, one was shot, and one died of undetermined causes,’ summarised Michael. ‘That leaves Oswald…’

‘I will not dissect him for anyone,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Not even Edith. You will have to find the killer, and make him give you the names of any other victims.’

‘Yes, but how? I was hoping for more than a mere confirmation of what we suspected already. And because we can never tell another living soul what we did tonight, we cannot even reveal that these men were poisoned. People will ask how we know.’

‘I have an idea,’ said Cynric brightly. Both scholars regarded him warily: his suggestions were not always sensible. From under his cloak, Cynric produced a flask containing more of Goodwyn’s blue creation. ‘Do you recall how this stuff started off clear, but changed colour during the night? Well, you can claim that the same thing happens with the poison.’

‘I do not follow,’ said Michael.

Cynric grimaced impatiently. ‘You can say that
dormirella
is undetectable at the time of death, but that clues appear on the victim after a period of time. Who will know any different?’

‘Lots of people,’ replied Bartholomew promptly. He began to list them. ‘Langelee, Rougham, Meryfeld, Lawrence—’

‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Michael disdainfully. ‘Lawrence said he had never heard of
dormirella
before we mentioned it, so he is not in a position to argue, while the other
medici
are unlikely to know what the poison can do.’

‘And Master Langelee will not contradict us when we explain what we are doing,’ added Cynric.

‘But what
are
we doing?’ asked Michael. ‘What kind of clues do you intend to invent, exactly?’

Cynric waved the phial. ‘We shall paint their faces blue.’

‘I doubt we could make that look convincing,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Moreover, one drip in the wrong place will expose the ruse in an instant.’

‘Their lips, then,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘Or even one or two judiciously placed spots. Anything that will be obvious to a casual observer.’

‘A casual observer who can see through wood?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘They are in sealed caskets, Cynric. And there is no reason to open them.’

‘Yes, there is,’ countered Michael, visibly warming to the idea. ‘We undid Hemmysby’s last night, because we forgot to include his pectoral cross. We can say we noticed these marks then. Concerned, I can order the other coffins opened, too. Cynric is right: we can say quite openly that these men were poisoned, and it may panic the killer into making a mistake. At which point we shall have him.’

‘But it is a lie,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I am not very good at those.’

‘It is not a lie – it is a trap to catch the beast who has taken at least three lives, stolen the Stanton Hutch and arranged for Hemmysby to be accused of it, and aims to destroy Michaelhouse by publishing William’s tract. Think of
that
if anyone challenges you.’

‘We should paint Ratclyf’s lips, too,’ said Cynric. ‘He was not poisoned, but only one person knows that – the culprit. Our deception will confuse and unsettle him.’

‘Excellent!’ crowed Michael. ‘It is high time we took control of the situation.’

Bartholomew was far from convinced that the plan was sound, especially when it became obvious that he was the one expected to apply the dye. Michael shoved him back inside the church, while Cynric informed Heyford that he had seen a suspicious shadow lurking. The vicar was more than happy to lock himself in the monk’s office until told it was safe to emerge.

‘Hurry, Matt,’ hissed Michael urgently when the physician took an inordinate amount of time to do what was necessary. ‘Our scheme will not work if we are caught.’

‘It needs to look realistic,’ Bartholomew whispered back irritably. ‘We will be accused of desecration for certain if we leave obvious brush strokes.’

He finished at last, having applied two or three discreet but noticeable stains on the lips of each corpse. They were as convincing as he could make them, and he left the church with relief. Cynric went to inform Heyford that it was safe to resume his vigil, but the vicar was unconvinced, and ordered the book-bearer to stay with him for the rest of the night. Cynric tried to demur, but Heyford was adamant.

‘I was almost incinerated once,’ he said. ‘I do not intend to give anyone a second chance.’

The escapade left Bartholomew with a deep sense of disquiet, and he knew he would not sleep for what remained of the night, so he sat in his storeroom, a blanket around his shoulders, working on his lectures. The knowledge that he was still far from ready for the start of term ahead forced him to concentrate, so when the bell rang to wake the College for its morning devotions, he was pleased to announce that he had managed to prepare everything that was needed for the second week of teaching. He ignored the fact that another seven and a half still remained, and congratulated himself on his progress.

He went to the lavatorium, where he washed, shaved and donned clean clothes. The lavatorium was a shed-like structure with water piped from the well and drains to channel it away again, built for those who cared about personal hygiene. Bartholomew usually had it to himself, especially after Langelee had declared hot water a frivolous luxury, so that only cold was available. Shivering, the physician trotted across the yard to where his colleagues were gathering.

‘Where is Clippesby?’ asked Langelee irritably. ‘Look in his room, would you, Suttone?’

‘He will not be there,’ sneered Thelnetham. ‘He will be with that chicken. If he were not totally witless, I would say he was communing with the Devil’s familiar.’

‘Well, he is a Dominican,’ said William, who could believe nothing good of that Order. Then it occurred to him that he had just agreed with Thelnetham, and hastened to put matters right. ‘But it is the Gilbertines who worship Satan, and if anyone communes with the Devil it is you.’

‘As you wrote in your poisonous little tract,’ said Thelnetham coldly. ‘Well, you had better hope it is never made public, because my Order will sue yours, and mine will win.’

‘It will
not
be made public,’ vowed Langelee. ‘We will outwit this villain, and stop him from harming us. We must.’

‘You can try,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But I suspect he is cleverer than you, so I plan to transfer to another College as soon as one offers me a place. I shall announce my availability at the Saturday Sermon today. It is my turn to preach, and—’

‘No!’ barked Langelee with such anger that Thelnetham started in surprise. ‘You will
not
make self-serving declarations on the day of Hemmysby’s burial. And there will be no Saturday Sermon either, out of respect for him. We shall have it on Monday instead.’

Thus admonished, Thelnetham fell silent. Suttone returned to say that Clippesby’s room was empty, so Bartholomew went to see whether the Dominican was with the hens in the orchard.

Michaelhouse’s poultry led enchanted lives. High walls and secure gates meant they were safe from foxes, thieves and any other predator that might take a fancy to their overfed little bodies, while their coop was a veritable palace, built by a student who had wanted to be a master carpenter. It was not only sturdy, rainproof and airy, but boasted some of the best wood-carvings in Cambridge. Clippesby kept it spotless, and Bartholomew often thought that Ethel and her flock lived in greater comfort than the Fellows.

‘Clippesby?’ he called as he approached. ‘John?’

He was somewhat surprised to see the Dominican emerge through the pop-hole. He had expected him to be talking to the birds, or perhaps letting them out for the day, but he had certainly not anticipated that he might have crawled into the coop with them.

‘Is it time for church?’ yawned Clippesby. ‘I did not hear the bell. I must have been in a very deep slumber.’

‘You slept in there?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding him uneasily.

‘Ethel misses Hemmysby,’ explained the Dominican. ‘So I decided to keep her company.’

‘Please do not tell Thelnetham,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘We would never hear the end of it.’

‘Yes, he has grown opinionated of late. Especially about Hemmysby, who was
not
a thief.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, seeing tears fill the gentle Dominican’s eyes. ‘But Michael will find the villain who wants us to think so.’

Clippesby bent to scoop up Ethel, who was lurking in the hope of treats. ‘He said yesterday that it is the same person who aims to blackmail us over William’s nasty tract.’

‘Yes – the culprit has broken in three times now. Once to steal the Stanton Hutch, once to plant the Cup and the deeds in Hemmysby’s room, and once to take William’s essay. Our security has never been very tight, so it cannot have been difficult.’

‘Ethel heard Thelnetham’s response when William gave him that tract to read,’ said Clippesby, kissing the chicken tenderly on the head. ‘As did any number of students. He read a few pages in silence, then began to screech his rage and horror.’

‘Well, William did say he wrote it with that specific end in mind.’

‘The students must have gossiped about the incident outside the College, where the blackmailer overheard. It explains how he knew what to come here and take. The tract is a horrible piece, Matt – not just the heresy, but the hurtful remarks about other Orders and John Winwick. Our colleagues are right to fear what will happen if it is ever released.’

‘Then let us hope that Michael can prevent it.’

Clippesby nodded unhappily, and turned to another depressing subject. ‘How is your sister? I cannot imagine Richard is much comfort to her, given the company he keeps – Goodwyn, Uyten, some of the unruliest matriculands. The Bene’t hedgehog tells me that there are an unusually high number from London this year, which is why Richard knows so many of them. She wonders whether
he
told them to come and try their luck at Winwick Hall.’

‘Then I hope she is wrong,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

‘The swans predict trouble for Tuesday,’ Clippesby went on. ‘The town resents lavish displays of grandeur, and they fear an attack on our more ostentatious foundations – King’s Hall, Winwick and St Mary the Great.’

‘Michael heard that rumour, too. Let us trust that it is groundless.’

‘Yes, especially if the Keeper of the Privy Seal is here to witness it. It would be a pity if he told the King that we are as bad as Oxford for quarrels and riots.’

They walked to the yard, Bartholomew brushing telltale wood shavings from Clippesby as they went, lest Thelnetham guessed what the Dominican had been doing. They arrived to find the other Fellows talking in low, worried voices, while the students waited by the gate.

‘I say we charge William the twenty marks,’ Thelnetham was hissing. ‘It is his scribbling that caused the trouble. And afterwards, he should do the decent thing and resign. Extortionists never stop with one payment, and we do not want any more demands.’