Death of a Scholar

‘I am trying to save your College,’ snarled Michael. ‘Although God knows it does not deserve it. And you have a lot of explaining to do. Where is Potmoor?’

‘Potmoor? How should I know where he-’

‘Enough!’ snapped Michael, as a vengeful cheer from the Market Square indicated that the speakers had almost inflamed their listeners to the point where they would be ready to march. ‘This is no time for lies. Where is he? In the Provost’s Suite?’

He stalked towards the rooms in question without waiting for a reply, leaving Illesy too startled to stop him. Bartholomew followed, his nerves jangling with tension. He entered the building full of disquiet, then gaped in astonishment as he looked around.

Illesy’s quarters belied their grand name, and were poor and mean, their furnishings shabbier than anything at Michaelhouse. There were no books on the shelves, and the floor was bereft of rugs. The bed was old, and there did not seem to be enough blankets. No fire was lit in the hearth, and the only personal items were a bronze statue and a ceramic bowl.

‘Now you know why we always entertain in the parlura,’ said Illesy sourly. His habitual oiliness had been replaced by a dark, sullen resentment. ‘We do not want outsiders to know that we are not yet as wealthy as we would have everyone believe. It was a scramble to deceive you when you came to help Ratclyf.’

Michael gestured to the ornaments. ‘These were in his room…’

‘Potmoor lent them to us. We deploy them when they are needed to impress, although we keep people away from our private rooms if we can.’

‘But you have plenty of money,’ objected Michael, although Bartholomew chafed at the discussion. ‘A beautiful new hall, the promise of churches and manors in your endowment-’

‘Precisely,’ snapped Illesy. ‘The promise of churches and manors. We do not have them yet, and we need money now. The student fees we have collected do not cover all our bills — builders, carpenters, tilers, bakers, brewers, the stationer. Then there is the staff needed to run the place. Why do you think I have not replaced Jekelyn?’

‘But your fine new livery.’ Michael looked pointedly at Illesy’s hands. ‘Your rings.’

‘Potmoor’s. He also bought the Fellows’ clothes; the students are rich, so they purchase their own. We know how these things work, Brother. One whiff of weakness and the other Colleges will home in on us like jackals. They will use our fleeting moment of poverty as a stick with which to beat us, and we might never recover our rightful status as premier foundation.’

Michael blinked his surprise. ‘So Winwick Hall is destitute?’

‘No, we have a temporary problem with our cash flow,’ corrected Illesy stiffly. He grimaced. ‘It is because we came so rapidly into being. John Winwick should have ensured that our endowment was in force before raising buildings and opening our doors to pupils.’

‘But you provided lavish refreshments after the debate and Hemmysby’s funeral-’

‘The Guild of Saints helped with the debate, while Potmoor paid for Hemmysby. It was all a ruse, to maintain the illusion of affluence.’ Illesy’s voice was bitter. ‘You will not understand the necessity, of course.’

‘No,’ lied Michael. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh, stunned. Then he caught Bartholomew’s agitated expression. ‘But fascinating though this is, it is not why I am here. I ask again: where is Potmoor?’

For a moment, it seemed that Illesy would deny entertaining the felon, but then he shrugged, and led the way to the hall. As they walked, Bartholomew glanced across the blustery yard and saw with alarm that the students’ barricade was perilously top-heavy. Cynric thought so, too: he made a frustrated gesture to say that he had said as much, but had been overruled.

‘Potmoor has been good to us,’ Illesy was saying. ‘He not only made donations from his own purse, but he has encouraged the Guild to be generous as well. He and Julitta Holm. I do not know what we would have done without them.’

‘Yet some of your Fellows object to their College’s association with a criminal,’ remarked Michael.

‘Because none of them knew how heavily we rely on his largesse. Until today, that is, when I felt compelled to tell them.’ Illesy gave a rueful grimace. ‘Even in an enlightened establishment like a university, there are those who refuse to believe that malefactors can reform. My Fellows were among them, although I hope we have rectified that misapprehension now.’

‘Why today?’ demanded Michael.

‘A few disparaging remarks against Potmoor are not a problem — it reduces the chances of anyone guessing that he is a major benefactor. However, Bon in particular is a little too censorious, and Potmoor finally had enough. He understands that we cannot risk an open association, but he does not like being continuously insulted by those he is trying to help. But my Fellows know the truth now, so I hope we can strike some sort of balance.’