Death of a Scholar (44 page)

‘Of course I will! We do not take justice into our own hands in Cambridge.’ Michael smiled without humour. ‘Incidentally, Fulbut took a while to die, and talked a great deal before breathing his last.’

There was silence, and Bartholomew read unease in all four Winwick men. Illesy began to fiddle with his rings, Lawrence gulped, Bon paled, and Nerli hissed between his teeth.

‘It seems murder is not Jekelyn’s only crime,’ Michael went on. ‘We also have reason to believe that he set fire to St Clement’s Church – a blaze in which its vicar might have died.’

‘No!’ breathed Lawrence, shocked. ‘Jekelyn would never do such a wicked thing.’

Nerli and Illesy exchanged a brief glance that suggested they were not so sure.

‘I agree,’ said Bon. ‘Jekelyn is…’ He trailed off when someone approached their group, and tilted his head in an effort to identify the footsteps. It was Potmoor with de Stannell at his heels.

‘Are you discussing Goodwyn’s transfer to Winwick Hall?’ asked the felon. ‘He tells me there is a misunderstanding with his fees, so I hope it can be resolved.’

‘It is not a misunderstanding,’ countered de Stannell. ‘Michaelhouse took the lad’s money, but now refuses to give it back. It is brazen theft.’

‘Goodwyn,’ sighed Michael. ‘What a sad case! The lad has a pox that eats the brain, and one cannot believe a word he says. Have you accepted him yet, Provost Illesy? If so, you might want to give him his own room, as Matt thinks his condition might be contagious.’

‘Heavens!’ gulped Illesy. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Michael regarded de Stannell kindly. ‘You are
probably
safe, but you might want to take a few precautions. Eat a pound of raisins every day, and abstain from meat for a month.’

‘
I
need not worry,’ declared Potmoor smugly, although the deputy’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I have God’s protection, which is much better than raisins.’

He began to hold forth about his resurrection, and the Winwick men took the opportunity to drift away. Frustrated, Michael signalled to Langelee that the debate might as well start, muttering to Bartholomew that they were wasting their breath by trying to wring clues from the likes of Illesy, Bon, Nerli and Lawrence. They were lawyers, and it would be easier to lay hold of an eel.

‘Nerli is the main speaker today,’ announced the Master, once he had welcomed everyone and issued the unusual edict that the occasion would be in the vernacular, out of courtesy to those guests who had no Latin. ‘He will outline his thesis, Michaelhouse will rebut it, and Winwick will try to respond. Whichever side offers the best arguments will be deemed the victor.’

‘And what
is
your thesis today, Signor Nerli?’ asked Suttone pleasantly.

‘That the Bible lays out clear guidelines for the levying of taxes,’ replied the Florentine, in English that was a good deal less thickly accented than his Latin.

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ muttered Michael. ‘Could he not have chosen a more lively topic? I know nothing about the theology of taxation. How am I supposed to defeat him?’

‘Cheat,’ Langelee murmured back. ‘And that is an order.’

As there were not enough benches, the Michaelhouse Fellows were obliged to stand at the back of the hall. Bartholomew did not mind, as it gave him an opportunity to observe his suspects without them realising what he was doing. As far as he was concerned, there were only five: Nerli, Illesy, Holm, Potmoor and Hugo. He ignored the nagging voice which told him that perhaps Richard should also be included.

He watched Nerli first, noting the man’s arrogant confidence. If the Florentine had poisoned Hemmysby, then he suffered no remorse about being in his victim’s home. Meanwhile, Holm and Hugo sat indecently close together, whispering and giggling like teenagers. Potmoor was in the front row, looking around him with so much interest that Bartholomew wondered whether he was assessing it for a future break-in. Illesy was staring at Nerli, but creases of concern in his smooth face suggested that his mind was not on his colleague’s monologue.

‘He spoke well,’ murmured Langelee, when Nerli eventually sat and Suttone rose to refute some of his points.

Michael nodded. ‘His slight hesitation of manner says that he has not taken part in many of these occasions, but once he gains some experience, he will be formidable.’

‘He told me that he has been a scholar all his life,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much more experience does he need?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps debates do not take this form in Salerno.’

Bartholomew was about to inform him that they did when Suttone began his analysis. The Carmelite was followed by Illesy, who spoke for some time without saying anything of substance.

‘He has a slippery tongue,’ murmured Michael. ‘I am not surprised he kept Potmoor out of trouble for so long.’

Bartholomew was startled when Langelee called on him to take the floor. He was not a lawyer or a theologian, and had expected to be spared. Then he saw that Clippesby had Ethel on his head, and understood the Master’s reluctance to rely on the Dominican to make a good impression. He stepped on to the dais, and managed to acquit himself adequately. Edith and Julitta clapped when he had finished, which put Holm in a jealous sulk.

Bon made some stumbling, uncertain points that Michael refuted with his usual incisive logic, and then it was Lawrence’s turn – a good-natured but rambling discourse that was difficult to follow. Langelee had saved the best for last. Thelnetham was an eloquent and witty orator, and some of his remarks had everyone roaring with laughter, no mean feat given the dry subject matter. The Gilbertine dismissed Lawrence with a few well-chosen words, destroyed Illesy in a sentence, picked Bon up on a few points that Michael had missed, then neatly demolished Nerli.

There was no need for Langelee to announce a winner, because it was obvious. The Winwick Fellows nodded curt acknowledgement of the applause that followed the Master’s concluding remarks, and prepared to leave.

‘I am sorry you felt the need to embarrass us a second time,’ said Bon coldly, when the Michaelhouse men went to thank them for coming. ‘We are still novices, and you might have made allowances accordingly.’

‘Moreover, I am not sure that all Thelnetham’s points were legitimate,’ added Nerli. ‘I shall check his references when I get home, and will be disappointed if he fabricated them.’

‘Of course he did not fabricate them,’ declared Langelee, conveniently forgetting that he had charged his Fellows to cheat. ‘We are simply more masterly than you in the debating chamber.’

‘For now,’ said Bon sulkily. ‘But that will change – unlike your status as inferior College. I may not be able to see your hall, but I warrant it is not as fine as ours.
And
we have more students.’

‘Come,’ said Lawrence, tugging on his arm before he could add more. ‘Our lads are meant to be reading Gratian’s
Decretum
, but they are a lively horde, and I have a feeling we shall find them doing something else. Thank you for your hospitality, Langelee. We enjoyed ourselves very much.’

With a stiff bow, Illesy swept from the hall, his Fellows at his heels. Most guildsmen followed with relief, having been extremely bored. Bartholomew went to speak to Edith, who confessed miserably that she did not want to go home in case Richard was there. She held a book, and twisted it agitatedly in her hands as she spoke. It had a gold-leaf cover, and was clearly valuable. Puzzled, Bartholomew took it from her. Inside were drawings of exotic beasts.

‘Clippesby asked me to look after it,’ she explained. ‘Ethel wants to read it, apparently, but he is afraid her beak will damage the binding. I assume he refers to the chicken and not a person? It is sometimes difficult to be sure with him.’

‘When did he give it to you?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘Just now.’ Edith frowned at the urgency in his voice. ‘Why? Is something wrong?’

‘Yes! I suspect this is the tome that Thelnetham left as a pledge in the Stanton Hutch.’

Like many people, the Gilbertine’s ears were attuned to hearing his name, even across a large room. Keen to know what was being said about him, he sailed over.

‘My bestiary!’ he cried, snatching it to clutch against his breast. His delighted shriek brought the other Fellows clustering around. ‘Thank God! I shall not ask how you came by it, Matthew – I am just glad to have it back. Now I can leave this accursed place with all that is mine.’

‘You will have to wait for another College to accept you first,’ said Langelee. ‘And—’

‘One has,’ interrupted Thelnetham. ‘Bon has just offered me a Fellowship at Winwick Hall. He was impressed by my performance today, and says I am exactly the kind of man he needs. So I resign from this house of thieves, fools and lunatics, and good riddance to you all!’

‘You cannot go to Winwick!’ cried Langelee, dismayed at the notion of losing his best disputant. He flailed around for a reason that would convince. ‘You told us that its hall has been raised too quickly, and sways in the wind. You said it would make you sick if—’

‘I have changed my mind. And now, if you will excuse me, I am going to pack.’

With mixed emotions, the other Fellows watched him flounce away. His acerbic tongue and haughty manners were a trial, but he was a gifted teacher, and he certainly raised Michaelhouse’s academic standing. They would miss him, no matter what William might claim to the contrary.

Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the Gilbertine’s retreating form. The return of the bestiary answered a lot of questions, and he now knew exactly where the Stanton Hutch was, and who had put it there. ‘Where is Clippesby?’ he asked.

‘In the henhouse, I expect,’ replied Langelee, after a quick glance around established that the Dominican was no longer in the hall. ‘He spends all his time there these days, except when I roust him out to attend his duties. However, I wish I had left him alone today. He should not have attended the debate with a chicken on his head.’

‘The Stanton Hutch is in there,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘We thought from the start that the culprit was someone in College, and he – citing Ethel as his source – has been oddly insistent that our money will be returned.
He
took it, then left the cup and the deeds in Hemmysby’s room, probably to ease our minds.’

‘He might be a lunatic, but he is not a thief,’ said Michael, shocked. ‘He would never steal from us or anyone else. And never put us through such torment, either.’

‘Well, there is only one way to find out,’ said Langelee. ‘Suttone, stay here and ensure that our remaining guests do not run off with the tablecloths. Bartholomew and Michael, come with me.’

He led the way to the orchard at a rapid clip, and began to bawl for the Dominican as he neared the coop. Clippesby’s muted reply could be heard within. As he declined to come out, Bartholomew was obliged to crawl in after him.

‘Oh, John,’ he said sadly, when he saw the missing chest against the back wall, partly covered in straw and with Ethel preening on top of it. ‘What have you done?’

Clippesby did not answer, and only watched as Bartholomew pulled the hutch outside, where Langelee flung open the lid and pawed through it. When the Dominican finally emerged, Bartholomew was appalled by the change in him. He was thin, and his face was grey with strain.

‘It is all here,’ said Langelee in relief. ‘Every penny. We are saved.’ He rounded on Clippesby. ‘But you owe us an explanation.’

‘I brought it here, as it was the safest place I could think of,’ replied Clippesby. ‘And I have stayed with it as often as I can. So has Ethel. But the damp was beginning to damage Thelnetham’s bestiary, so I took it out and gave it to Edith to mind.’

‘But why?’ asked Langelee, stunned. ‘You are not a thief. And please do not say Ethel did it.’

‘Do not be silly, Master,’ said Clippesby irritably. ‘She could not possibly lift something this heavy. I took it from the cellar because a thief
did
intend to make off with it. He has been burgling other Colleges with great success. You must have heard about him.’

‘Yes,’ said Langelee, struggling for patience. ‘But how did you know he wanted our hutch?’

‘Because Hemmysby told me. It was his idea to “steal” it and put it somewhere else. He made me promise not to tell anyone, and the hens said—’

‘
Hemmysby
told you?’ interrupted Bartholomew.

‘Yes,’ replied Clippesby. ‘He overheard some rats talking at a meeting of the Guild of Saints. They were discussing a plan to filch the Stanton Hutch from our cellar.’

‘I imagine he did hear rats,’ said Langelee wryly. ‘But human ones, not rodents.’

Clippesby frowned. ‘He was using the word as a term of abuse? He did not mean animals?’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘Are you saying that the people responsible for all these burglaries are guildsmen?’

‘Well, Hemmysby referred to the ones who aimed to go after us as “the rats in the Guild”. He was determined that they would not have our property, and asked me to help him thwart them. And we did: Ethel saw them invade our College on Friday, and leave empty-handed and furious. Poor Hemmysby was dead by then, of course, so never knew that his precautions had paid off.’

‘What did these villains look like?’ demanded Michael.

‘Ethel could not tell, because they kept their faces hidden. All she can say is that one was bigger than the other, and both were well dressed.’

Langelee shook his head in bewilderment at the revelations. ‘So why were the deeds and the Stanton Cup in Hemmysby’s quarters? Bartholomew thinks you put them there.’

Clippesby hung his head. ‘I could not bear your distress, so I took them from the chest, and was going to ask Hemmysby to return them to you while we kept the coins hidden until the danger was past. But he died and you ransacked his room…’

‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Because he heard the thieves plotting and so was in a position to expose them?’

‘He could not expose them because he did not see their faces,’ said Clippesby unhappily. ‘That was the problem.’

‘Then was he poisoned because they knew he had listened in on one of their discussions?’ pressed Bartholomew.