Death of a Scholar

‘Precisely! It is the best position in the entire town, and shades even King’s Hall. Moreover, it will use St Mary the Great as a chapel, and the fact that its head is called a Provost implies a degree of ownership over the place. It is the University Church — it belongs to all of us, not just one College.’

‘If you had been Chancellor, none of this would have happened. Winwick’s charter would have needed your signature before it was sent to the King, and you could have procrastinated. Perhaps you should consider standing for election when Tynkell resigns.’

‘But I do not want to be Chancellor! I like things the way they are, with me making all the important decisions, and him taking the blame if things go wrong.’

‘When he retires, he may be replaced by a less malleable man,’ warned Bartholomew.

‘True — which would be a nuisance. Perhaps I should arrange to have myself elected, then. It will look good for when I am promoted to a bishopric or an abbacy.’

It was not the first time Michael had voiced the expectation that he would achieve high rank, and Bartholomew had always been amused that he expected to rise in a single bound, without the tedious steps in between. It had also not escaped his notice that Michael clearly intended to rig the vote, rather than risk the democratic process.

Meanwhile, Michael was eyeing a gaggle of youths on the other side of the road, some of whom bore obvious signs of brawling — torn clothes, bruised fists and bloody faces.

‘Yet another spat with the town, I warrant,’ he grumbled. ‘And no Dick Tulyet to help me keep these louts in order.’ He referred to the Sheriff who, besides being very good at his job, was also a friend. ‘It is unfortunate that his deputy is next to worthless. But here we are at Winwick Hall. Let us see what its Fellows have to say for themselves.’

The new College’s gates still leaned against the wall waiting for their hinges, and Jekelyn the porter stood in the gap ready to repel any visitors he did not like the look of. He regarded Bartholomew and Michael suspiciously when they asked to see the Provost, but stood aside for them to enter. As they walked across the yard, Bartholomew saw that scaffolding had been erected around part of the hall since his visit the previous day.

‘Subsidence,’ explained Illesy, as he came to greet them. ‘Our land is boggy, so it is to be expected. Have you seen our lovely library, by the way? Do come and look. The workmen finished laying the floor last night.’

He opened a door to reveal a room that was as handsome as any in Cambridge. Its walls were covered in bright white plaster to improve the light for reading, and its shelves had been fashioned from pale wood. They were poorly planed in places, though, and Illesy yelped as he ran a heavily beringed hand along one, only to be rewarded with a splinter. The windows were glazed, an almost unimaginable luxury, but not all the panes had been properly fitted, and several had dropped out — yet another indication of the speed with which the building had been thrown up.

Bartholomew began to browse the books, but was quickly disappointed. Winwick had been founded for clerks, so there was not a medical tome in sight. He scanned the titles. Most were standard texts that all lawyers would need to learn, and none were very good copies. In short, he thought the fine room was wasted on them.

‘The Guild of Saints has promised to buy us some carrels,’ Illesy was telling Michael with proprietary pride. ‘We aim to have them installed by the beginning of term.’

‘I hear you have a problem with your endowment,’ said Michael. ‘That the deeds to the churches and manors that will provide you with your steady income have not yet been delivered.’

Illesy waved a dismissive hand. ‘A minor delay, no more. They will be here soon.’

Just then, the door opened and the Fellows trooped in. Bartholomew studied them carefully, wondering whether there was any justification in Hemmysby’s belief that one might have stolen the Stanton Hutch. It took no more than a moment for him to decide there was not. All five were obviously wealthy, and their liveried tabards were made from the best cloth money could buy. Nerli’s and Bon’s were edged with fur, while Lawrence and Ratclyf had elegantly embroidered hems. Illesy was even more extravagantly attired, with a silk undershirt poking from one sleeve, and a beautiful lambswool cape around his shoulders.

None seemed particularly pleased to see the visitors, except Lawrence who smiled with his customary sunny charm. Ratclyf was irritable, clearly resenting the intrusion, while Nerli the Florentine had a sombre, brooding face that was not made for cheery greetings anyway. Meanwhile, Bon’s attention was on negotiating the still-unfamiliar terrain, and he clung hard to the arm of the student at his side.

‘We came to warn you about the recent spate of burglaries,’ lied Michael. ‘Michaelhouse was targeted last night, and we lost a valuable loan chest.’