Death of a Scholar

‘Nothing,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He was standing next to me when he was shot, but neither I nor anyone else saw a thing to help. My beadles found the bow, and we were able to deduce that it probably belonged to a professional archer, but that is all. In short, we still have no idea who did it or why.’

‘Perhaps Felbrigge was not the intended victim,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Maybe this professional archer was aiming at the Chancellor or you — the University’s most powerful scholar.’

‘I have already assessed that possibility and dismissed it. Such men do not miss their targets, and nor could they have mistaken Felbrigge for me or Tynkell. I wear my habit, Tynkell is thin and grey, and Felbrigge was short, fat and clad in a ceremonial robe of scarlet. The three of us look nothing alike.’

‘When I was at Winwick yesterday, Ratclyf said that Felbrigge was unpopular.’ Bartholomew spoke hesitantly, never happy with gossip. ‘That he was disliked by scholars and townsmen.’

‘It is true. Felbrigge managed to antagonise an extraordinary number of people while you and I were away in Peterborough. Clearly, I should never have left him in charge.’

‘Did you know he was arrogant and abrasive when you appointed him?’

‘Yes, but he was the only one who applied for the job, and I was desperate for help.’

It was no surprise that scholars were not queuing up to be Michael’s helpmeet. He was dictatorial, impatient with mistakes, and hated being challenged. Moreover, the post was poorly paid, sometimes dangerous and involved everything Michael did not fancy doing himself.

‘Did you like him?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘Not really. On his first day in office he told me that he intended to step into my shoes by the end of the year. The audacity of the man! Anyway, he obviously angered someone less tolerant than me, and he paid for it with his life. Of course, he was a member of the Guild of Saints…’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you saying that one of them killed him? Lord, that would be awkward! They comprise the town’s most influential people — folk who will not appreciate being accused of murder. Who is on your list of suspects?’

‘I do not have a list, Matt. I have no evidence, remember? However, I keep coming back to the fact that Potmoor is in the Guild of Saints, and he is no stranger to murder…’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was wrong. It was bad enough being held responsible for all the burglaries Potmoor was supposed to be committing, but if the felon had murdered a senior member of the University … He changed the subject uncomfortably. ‘What did you learn about Elvesmere yesterday?’

‘Very little. You say the knife wound was not instantly fatal, but no one heard him cry for help. And you say he was moved after he died, but my beadles found no bloody puddles anywhere in Winwick Hall — and they explored it very thoroughly.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, other than the fact his colleagues disliked him. Their porter — Jekelyn — let slip that Elvesmere was always arguing with them.’

‘Do they have alibis?’

‘No. They claim to have been in bed all night — alone. Jekelyn says no one came a-calling and that he never left his post. It is a lie, of course — all porters slip away to nap from time to time. So all we know for certain is that Elvesmere was alive when the scholars of Winwick Hall went to sleep, and dead when they awoke.’

Because William had conducted the morning Mass, and he was noted for the speed with which he could gabble through the sacred words, the Michaelhouse men arrived home before breakfast was ready. Agatha, the formidable lady who oversaw the domestic side of the College, emerged from the kitchen to inform them that the food would not be ready until she said so. Women did not normally hold such sway in University foundations, but she had been Michaelhouse’s laundress for so long that not even Langelee was brave enough to challenge her authority.

It was a pleasant day to loiter in the yard, though, and no one minded. The Fellows stood in a huddle near the door, while the students retreated to the far end of the yard, where they could chat about things they did not want their teachers to hear — ways to smuggle women into their bedrooms, secret stashes of wine, and the illicit gambling league established by Goodwyn.

The weather was mild, and the sun shone in a pale blue sky. The trees were just starting to change colour, so summer green was mixed with autumn gold and orange. A blackbird sang from one, answered every so often, somewhat more shrilly, by the porter’s peacock. The chickens scratched happily in the dirt, and Clippesby went to talk to them when William raised the subject of the hutch, muttering that he could not bear to hear more speculation about the thief.

‘Perhaps he took it,’ said Thelnetham. A bloodstained rag around one finger marred his otherwise pristine appearance. ‘I know for a fact that he admired the bestiary I left in the chest, and he is mad. He told me last night that a goat plans to take part in today’s debate.’