Death of a Scholar

‘This may not be the best time to air controversial opinions, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Not with royal and papal ears alert for any hint of heresy — we do not want Michaelhouse to suffer the same fate as Linton Hall. And your unorthodox views are immaterial to our discussion anyway, which is that Bon cannot see, so committing murder would be something of a challenge. Especially one that involved lugging bodies around, given that you say Elvesmere was killed elsewhere.’

‘And I am sure that is what happened, which may be enough to exonerate all the Winwick men. If the body was moved, why not take it away from the College altogether?’

‘Perhaps the killer panicked, or did not want to risk going out with a corpse. My beadles have been assiduous in their patrols of late, because of all the new students who flock to join us.’

‘Then perhaps that is where we should be looking for a culprit — at the matriculands.’

‘It is possible … Oh, Lord! Here comes Cynric, and I can tell from the expression on his face that he has unpleasant news. I hope it has nothing to do with Michaelhouse.’

‘You have been summoned, I am afraid,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘By Dickon Tulyet, who has been bitten by a horse.’

Michael backed away. ‘We are friends, Matt, but there are limits to what I will do for you, and helping with Dickon is well past them. I am afraid you must confront the little beast alone.’

‘Sheriff Tulyet should have taken Dickon with him when he went to London,’ said Cynric as the monk departed with impressive speed for a man his size. ‘His son is Satan’s spawn, and should not have been left for his mother to manage on her own.’

There was a time when Bartholomew would have defended Dickon, but he had suffered far too much at the child’s vengeful hands to bother. Dickon was the Sheriff’s only son, a strapping lad who looked older than his nine or ten years. His father doted on him, although his mother had begun to recognise his faults. Dickon terrorised other children and the household servants, and even the grizzled veterans at the castle were wary of him. For a juvenile, he was a formidable figure.

‘Perhaps he stole the Stanton Hutch,’ suggested Bartholomew, aware that he was dragging his feet. He had good reason: treating Dickon was dangerous, as the boy was prone to kick, bite, punch and scratch. Worse yet, his misguided father had recently given him a sword.

‘And killed Felbrigge and Elvesmere,’ nodded Cynric. He was outspoken for a servant, confident in the knowledge that he was indispensable, and a friend into the bargain. ‘I would not put it past the brute. Would you like a charm to ward him off?’

Bartholomew declined, suspecting his priestly colleagues would have something to say if he was seen sporting pagan talismans. Cynric was the most superstitious man in Cambridge, and crucifixes and pilgrim badges jostled for space on his person with ‘magic’ ingredients tied in little leather bags around his neck. Bartholomew noticed that there were more of them than usual.

‘Because of the evil that I sense will soon befall us,’ the book-bearer explained matter-of-factly. ‘It is an inevitability with all these strangers wandering around our town.’

‘They want to be students,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing sinister about them.’

‘I beg to differ. Then there is Potmoor, who is more wicked than ever now he thinks he is destined for Heaven. There are rumours that he killed Felbrigge, you know.’

‘Yes, I have heard them, but Michael tells me that he has an alibi for the shooting — he was with his son and several henchmen. Besides, that was before he rose from the- before he was ill.’

‘He would not have bloodied his own hands,’ said Cynric scornfully. ‘He would have ordered one of his minions to oblige him. God knows, he has enough of them.’

CHAPTER 3

It was a market day, and as Bartholomew headed towards his ordeal with Dickon, he could hear the familiar clamour of commerce echoing through the streets: the cry of vendors hawking their wares, the clatter of iron-shod cartwheels on cobbles, and the heavier trundle of wagons carrying bulk goods to and from the wharves by the river. The taverns were busy, too, and beadles were out in force, ousting those drinkers who were students. Trouble arose when the matriculands challenged the beadles’ authority to give them orders, and more than one inn rang with acrimonious voices.

As Bartholomew passed the jumble of houses known as The Jewry, he glanced, as always, at the cottage that had once belonged to Matilde, the love of his life. He had been tardy in asking her to marry him, which had led to her leaving Cambridge one fine spring morning. He had spent months searching for her, travelling to every place she had ever mentioned. He had failed to find her, but had recently discovered that she had not gone as far away as he had believed. Their paths had crossed, and she had made a vague promise of a future together.