Death of a Scholar

‘Yes, it has suited me to have Potmoor blamed for the burglaries,’ whispered de Stannell. He glanced at Bon, but the murmured prayers did not falter. ‘Why do you think I have kept him such close company recently? It is so I shall know his whereabouts and plans. It has not been pleasant, but it has certainly worked.’

‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘People do think Potmoor is guilty. Unfortunately for you, they also think you are his accomplice, and that is not the sort of man they want running their shire. You will not retain your post for long after Tulyet returns.’

‘He will not return,’ said de Stannell confidently. ‘And if he does, I shall arrange for him to have an accident. Do not think of calling for help, by the way. I shall shoot whoever tries, and cut down the other with my sword. Bon will not see, and everyone else will assume the mob did it.’

‘So are we to believe that you are the burglar?’ asked Michael, eyeing him in distaste. ‘Slipping out to raid your town while Potmoor frolics with Olivia Knyt?’

De Stannell shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Of course not. Potmoor’s religious conversion left a number of his henchmen unemployed, and as Sheriff, I knew their names. They now work for me.’

‘But why involve yourself in such a vile scheme? You are already wealthy.’

De Stannell gestured to the hall. ‘This place is costly, and some guildsmen are beginning to object to the amount of money we plough into it, so I have been obliged to devise other ways of raising funds. None of the proceeds have been for me.’

‘So what do you gain from the arrangement?’

‘Immortality! The College will soon be renamed Winwick and de Stannell Hall.’

‘I think the founder will have something to say about that.’ Michael regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And Matt is wrong, because you are not the clever mastermind behind this scheme. To be frank you are not sufficiently intelligent.’

De Stannell scowled as he aimed the weapon, but the monk only gazed back defiantly, and the crossbow wavered. Young Dickon had been right to question the deputy’s abilities as a soldier, thought Bartholomew. Clearly, de Stannell did not have the courage to shoot.

‘Your master is Lawrence,’ Michael went on. ‘The man whose incompetence killed the Queen, who lied about his interactions with Hemmysby, who has poached his medical colleagues’ best patients, and who ensured that Hugo and Holm became friends so that he would have a second spy among Potmoor’s intimates.’

Bartholomew was suddenly assailed with an uncomfortable thought. All Michael’s ‘evidence’ had come from one source: Julitta, who had always been quick to disparage the elderly physician. Irritably, he pushed such treacherous suspicions away. This was the woman he intended to marry!

‘You should have asserted your authority as Senior Proctor more rigorously,’ said de Stannell, and the sly grin he flung at Bartholomew told the physician exactly what was coming next. ‘If you had put an end to your friend’s unseemly lust for the wife of-’

‘Stop,’ snapped Bartholomew through clenched teeth. ‘Leave Julitta out of it.’

‘She is a cunning woman,’ de Stannell went on gleefully. ‘The clever daughter of a powerful and extremely ruthless man, from whom she learned her business acumen and her ability to deceive. It has not once occurred to you that she has been using your infatuation for her own ends.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew fiercely. ‘She would never-’

‘She has been monitoring Michael through you ever since we feared he might interfere with our plans — long before you went to Peterborough. But you will never have her. She loves Holm and he loves her, as far as he is able. They are more similar in temperament than you know.’

‘And why would Julitta conspire with the likes of you?’ asked Michael scornfully.

‘Why do you think? The rewards for supporting Winwick Hall will be vast. Powerful men will appreciate clerks trained to their specifications, and the clerks themselves will be grateful for the opportunity to further their ambitions.’

‘So you ordered Felbrigge shot to ensure that the College could expand unfettered,’ surmised Michael, while Bartholomew shook his head, unwilling to believe de Stannell’s gloating words. ‘But why kill Elvesmere? Surely he was happy to have won such determined supporters?’

‘I thought the same, and was astonished when he announced his conviction that Winwick should remain a modest foundation. I was obliged to stab him, to shut him up.’

Illesy had mentioned Elvesmere’s preference for moderation, so that was likely to be true, thought Bartholomew, but de Stannell was no killer. Again, it was something Dickon had said that provided the proof that the deputy was no threat.

‘You were taking a riding lesson at the castle when Elvesmere died. You are not the culprit, so do not try to claim credit in the hope of making us think you are dangerous. You are a pitiful excuse for a villain.’