Death of a Scholar (45 page)

‘I do not know,’ said Clippesby wretchedly. ‘I have thought of little else for days.’

‘Why did he not tell
me
his suspicions?’ demanded Langelee. ‘I am not exactly a novice in thwarting criminals.’

‘Because you always discuss such matters with the Fellows,’ explained Clippesby. ‘And he was afraid that William or Thelnetham would blurt out the secret in one of their stupid rows. He also thought that I could find a more secure hiding place than anyone else.’

‘You have,’ conceded Langelee grudgingly. ‘I cannot imagine any thief searching a hencoop.’

‘Yet I do not think they left Michaelhouse empty-handed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They would have had to go through the kitchen to reach the cellar, and what was lying on the kitchen table on Friday? William’s tract, left there by Suttone for Agatha to burn on the fire. They must have snagged it on their way out, in revenge for being foiled over the hutch.’

‘Which means that the thieves and the blackmailers
are
one and the same, just as we thought,’ surmised Michael. ‘And almost certainly the poisoners, too.’

Langelee hefted the hutch on to his shoulder. ‘I shall look after this now. However, I want all the Fellows – except Thelnetham, of course – available at midnight tonight.’

‘Why?’ asked Clippesby.

‘Because instead of fifty marks behind this tomb, these damned rogues are going to find some very angry Michaelhouse men.’

While Michael disappeared to follow some leads he claimed to have gleaned from interviewing the College’s guests that day, Bartholomew escorted Edith home to Milne Street, where both were relieved to find that Richard and Goodwyn were out. With a weary sigh, she summoned Zachary Steward, and opened the box containing her husband’s documents.

‘She is finding more evidence of Master Stanmore’s trickery now we are nearing the bottom,’ Zachary confided, watching her. ‘Obviously, he did not have time to dig this deep when he set about destroying what he did not want his family to see.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘How do you know—’

‘I was his right-hand man for fifteen years. He did very little without my knowledge, and I am amazed that he managed to wipe so much clean before he passed away. I noticed the tang of burning around him several times during his last few days, but it never occurred to me that he was destroying evidence until this week.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘If you are right, then it means he knew he was going to die, and took steps to put his affairs in order first. To protect his reputation.’

Zachary nodded towards Edith. ‘To protect her. You already knew he was not always ethical, and he did not care about anyone else, except perhaps Richard. But you are right: I think he did know his end was near, although I have no idea how.’

The revelation troubled Bartholomew, as did the notion that the discoveries Edith had made were probably slight compared to what Oswald had managed to conceal. He watched the pair work for a moment, then took his leave, loath to be a witness when she found something else that would upset her.

He hesitated once he was outside, not sure where to go. He did not want to return to College, where all the talk in the conclave would be about Thelnetham’s defection, Clippesby’s antics and the blackmailers, and he had no patients needing attention. He found himself walking towards the High Street, feeling a sudden need for the haven of Eyer’s shop. He arrived to find the apothecary preparing a salve for Bon, steeping ragwort and rose petals in a bowl of water. Eyer’s welcoming smile was strained; clearly, he had not forgotten what had transpired earlier.

‘May I have some of that for Langelee?’ Bartholomew asked, nodding towards the dish. ‘Someone threw sand in his eyes.’

‘At a camp-ball practice? I do not know why that game is legal. It nearly always ends with someone being hurt.’

‘I think that is why Langelee likes it.’ Bartholomew sat down and helped himself to a stick of liquorice root. He could not remember the last time he had eaten a decent meal, and its earthy flavour reminded him that he was hungry. ‘It caters to the innate soldier in him.’

‘Did you mean what you said in Michaelhouse?’ blurted Eyer. ‘You will still use my services, even though you now know me as a disgraced physician?’

‘I know you as a good apothecary – which is all that matters, as far as I am concerned. And I shall say so to Rougham and Meryfeld if they ask.’

Eyer grasped Bartholomew’s shoulder in gratitude. Neither spoke for a while, and they sat in companionable silence, Bartholomew relaxing after his fraught day and Eyer concentrating on his salve. Eventually, the apothecary began to confide details of the Oxford debacle, and Bartholomew felt the reserve that had existed between them begin to lift. He was sorry the matter had not come to light sooner, as it would have eliminated weeks of unnecessary wariness.

‘Yet perhaps it is as well I did not become a scholar,’ Eyer concluded ruefully. ‘I barely understood a word of that debate, and the whole affair was unconscionably dull. But you look tired and sad, my friend. Would you care for a bowl of frog and bean soup? It is very nutritious.’

Bartholomew accepted, and was surprised to find it reasonably palatable, although he declined to gnaw on the bones at the bottom, as the apothecary encouraged him to do.

Alone in his storeroom later, he tried to work on his lectures for the third week of term, but his thoughts kept returning to his worries. He tried to push them to the back of his mind, but he knew Galen’s
De elementis
too well for it to hold his attention, and he was eventually forced to concede that he was wasting his time.

Idly, he picked up the scroll that Lawrence had lent him. He did not think he would be able to concentrate on it any more than he had his work, but Lawrence had an easy style, and he soon became engrossed. He had almost finished, when something made him frown. Lawrence described a condition known in the North Country as Pig Ear, defined as a thickening of the visible part of the ear following a blow or other trauma. Langelee was beginning to show signs of it from his love of camp-ball, but it was far more pronounced in Uyten, who had earned it from his fondness for brawling.

Something was scratching at the back of Bartholomew’s mind, and he knew it was important. It was to do with Fulbut’s dying words, when the mercenary had talked in his distinctive brogue about the man who had hired him to shoot Felbrigge – someone who had had a ‘big year’. Understanding came in a flash. Fulbut had not been saying ‘big year’ but ‘pig ear’. He had been referring to Uyten!

Flushed with triumph, Bartholomew raced up the stairs to Michael’s room, only to be told that the monk was out on patrol with Meadowman. He left the College at a run. On the dark streets, beadles were out in force, along with noisy bands of matriculands and apprentices, although troops from the castle were conspicuous by their absence.

‘De Stannell has recalled them all,’ said Michael, tight-lipped with fury when the physician finally caught up with him. ‘He says the trouble is of our making, so we must resolve it ourselves.’

‘The apprentices are not ours. Nor is that horde from the King’s Head. But never mind them, Brother. I think I know the identity of the killer.’ Excitedly, Bartholomew told the monk what he had read in Lawrence’s scroll.

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Do you think Lawrence lent you that text with the specific intention of leading you astray – to shift blame away from himself?’

‘Of course not!’ Bartholomew was disappointed by the monk’s response. ‘He could not know I would read it today. Or at all, for that matter. It would be an extraordinarily elaborate ruse.’

‘But why would Uyten poison all these people?’

‘You know why! Felbrigge was telling you just before he was shot that he had put measures in place to control Winwick Hall. Obviously, Uyten does not want his College regulated by guildsmen. He killed Felbrigge first, then dispatched Hemmysby, Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt to ensure that they could not put these safeguards into force either.’

‘But Elvesmere and Ratclyf were Winwick men. They were unlikely to support their College being manipulated by an external authority, and would have been in Uyten’s side.’

Bartholomew shrugged, unwilling to admit that Michael had a point. ‘Perhaps he felt they could not be trusted.’

‘And what about Oswald?’ pressed Michael. ‘I sincerely doubt
he
was interested in managing Winwick. He always kept out of University affairs, in deference to you.’

‘He founded the Guild to help the poor,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He would not have wanted its funds diverted to a wealthy College. And if Uyten did kill him, I want him brought to justice. For Edith’s sake.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Michael. ‘We shall tackle Uyten in the morning.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because Illesy has sent him to Ely for parchment, and he is not expected back until tomorrow. Bon told me when I asked why there was no student-guide to accompany him to the debate earlier. Do not worry, Matt. Uyten has no idea we suspect him, so he has no reason to flee.’

‘I imagine we will see him at midnight,’ said Bartholomew dourly. ‘At the Round Church, waiting for his fifty marks.’

‘Perhaps. But go home now, and try to sleep. One of us should be alert if we are to thwart blackmailers and killers later.’

Bartholomew started to walk to Michaelhouse, but happened to glance into the Cardinal’s Cap as he passed, and saw Rougham sitting inside with Meryfeld and two women. He entered the tavern, and joined their table uninvited.

‘Keep taking the tonic, mistress,’ said Rougham, blushing furiously because his companion was Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most popular prostitute. ‘Goodbye.’

‘And the same goes for you,’ said Meryfeld, shoving Yolande’s friend off his lap with such vigour that she stumbled. ‘And if you feel faint again, sniff the
sal ammoniac
I prescribed.’

She frowned her confusion. ‘But you gave us that for patrons who fall asleep in our beds after they have finished with us. We do not need it for ourselves.’

‘Come, sister,’ said Yolande, quicker on the uptake. ‘Let us leave these medical men to discuss dissection and anatomy. We have other fish to fry.’

‘Do not fry them too long,’ said Meryfeld, trying to wink meaningfully without Bartholomew seeing. ‘You may need to consult us again.’

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He had known for years that Rougham enjoyed a lively relationship with Yolande, and it came as no surprise that Meryfeld did likewise. ‘Your personal lives are none of my concern. I just wanted some company.’

‘Those were patients,’ said Rougham sternly. ‘You do not have a monopoly on paupers, you know. However, I am disturbed that they think we discuss dissection and anatomy when we are together. I have never talked about those in my life, except to condemn them.’

‘Nor have I,’ agreed Meryfeld in distaste. ‘They strike me as most unhygienic activities, as I cannot imagine that the inside of corpses are very clean.’

Bartholomew glanced at Meryfeld’s grimy paws, and thought a dissector could slice up a hundred corpses without his fingers being half as filthy.

‘Much can be learned from the art,’ he said, then wished he had held his tongue. He remained troubled by his examination of Hemmysby, and did not want to defend such procedures when he was not entirely sure they were ethical.

‘It would not result in anything
I
should want to know,’ declared Rougham. He leaned a little closer, and his voice turned gossipy. ‘Did Father William really pen those poisonous words about the Dominican Prior and Satan?’

‘William did not make them public,’ hedged Bartholomew. ‘And it is a foolish distraction when we should be concentrating on the murders of our friends and colleagues – Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere, Ratclyf, Felbrigge, Oswald Stanmore—’

‘Stanmore was not murdered,’ declared Meryfeld, startled.

‘Of course not,’ agreed Rougham. ‘Although you are not in a position to say so, Meryfeld. I was the one who tended him on his deathbed.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Meryfeld. ‘Edith sent for you. However, she was not to know that he was actually
my
patient. I had been treating him while Bartholomew was in Peterborough.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Treating him for what? And why did you not tell me?’

‘Because I did not want to distress you.’ Meryfeld glanced at Rougham. ‘Or embarrass
you
by revealing that you had made a mistake. You see, Stanmore did not die of marsh fever.’

‘Yes, he did,’ countered Rougham crossly. ‘I suffer from it myself, and I know the signs.’

‘Signs that are also consistent with a failing heart,’ said Meryfeld. ‘Which is what killed him. He came to me three weeks before he died, and every day after that. He was worse each time.’

He then gave a detailed account of Stanmore’s case. The symptoms were unequivocal, and when he had finished, both Bartholomew and Rougham were forced to concede that his diagnosis was correct.

‘I have no cure for sicknesses of that magnitude,’ he concluded, uncharacteristically humble. ‘So I did not attempt one. I prescribed a little peppermint and valerian to calm him, but that was all.’

‘So why did Edith not tell me all this?’ demanded Rougham irritably. ‘I might have treated him differently had I been in full possession of the facts.’

‘She did not know,’ explained Meryfeld. ‘He did not want to spoil the little time they had left together, so I was sworn to secrecy. He would not even let me visit their home. He always came to my house instead. Indeed, I summoned him there the evening he died.’

‘Why?’ demanded Bartholomew, ‘when there was nothing you could do to help him?’

‘Because Lawrence happened to mention that some chest pains can be eased by a hot compress. I knew Stanmore would struggle to sit through a long Guild meeting comfortably, so I made him one, and sent a note inviting him to visit.’

‘In French?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling the message that Edith had found.

‘Of course. I do not debase myself with the vernacular when dealing with wealthy clients. I cannot have them thinking me coarse. I used my best parchment and expensive purple ink. He said he felt a little better after I applied the compress, although the effects wore off all too quickly.’