Death of a Scholar

‘He will not be here much longer,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘Carousing will be forbidden to his scholar friends once term starts, so he will find himself drinking alone. He will soon tire of it.’

Edith gave him a hopeful smile and changed the subject. ‘There are a lot of nasty rumours circulating at the moment, including one about Michael…’

‘That he intends to inflict the Michaelhouse Choir on the beginning of term ceremony? It will not make our College very popular.’

‘Oh, Lord, does he?’ gulped Edith. ‘I had no idea. Perhaps that is why the Guild has called an emergency meeting — to discuss ways to prevent it. But I was talking about the gossip that says he arranged for Felbrigge to be shot for daring to set covetous eyes on the senior proctorship.’

‘Then the gossipmongers do not know Michael. He is perfectly capable of defeating rivals through non-fatal means.’

‘I am just reporting what is being said. However, the only way to put a stop to these nasty tales is by finding the real killer.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘The only problem being a marked absence of clues.’

It was not long before Mistress Tulyet reported with a relieved sigh that Dickon was asleep. The servants began to creep back, speaking in whispers lest they woke the brat, while the horse that had sparked the incident was whisked away to safety. Bartholomew walked Edith to the Guild of Saints’ headquarters, a timber-framed hall near St Clement’s Church. She was still a member, although a less active one since inheriting her husband’s large and complex business.

She faltered at the door, assailed by memories of happier times, so Bartholomew took her by the hand and led her inside. He would not be permitted to stay long, but no one would mind him escorting her to Richard. He entered the main chamber, and was astonished to find it packed with people — the Guild had not been half as big in Stanmore’s day. Most members stood, while the officers and more important individuals sat on a long bench at the front.

‘I thought this was an exclusive organisation,’ he whispered. ‘Open only to wealthy folk who are willing to be generous to the poor.’

‘It is. But people clamour to join because it is prestigious — a symbol of high status. Anyone who can pay an entrance fee is enrolled these days. Unlike when Oswald was in charge.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but knew for a fact that Stanmore had not been as particular as she believed. For a start, he had admitted Potmoor, a man who was openly proud of his criminal achievements. Bartholomew glanced around, suddenly uneasy. He had not seen Potmoor since tending him on his ‘deathbed’ and had no wish to renew the acquaintance.

‘Is John Knyt here?’ asked Edith, struggling to see over the heads of the people in front. ‘He is our Secretary, but I can only hear his assistant de Stannell speaking.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I cannot abide de Stannell — he has sly fingers in every pie.’

‘Deputy Sheriff de Stannell? He is Assistant Secretary of the Guild as well?’

‘He seems to like being second in command,’ said Edith with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘Or perhaps he intends to oust both his betters, and run shire and Guild at the same time.’

Aware that he would soon be asked to leave, Bartholomew looked around for Richard, but his eye lit on Julitta instead. She would look after Edith. He steered his sister towards her, glad that Holm had abandoned his wife for Hugo, with whom he was muttering and giggling.

‘I thought you told me that they had quarrelled,’ he said, watching the pair in distaste. It was inappropriate behaviour for two grown men in a public place.

‘They made up,’ Julitta replied, and Bartholomew experienced a surge of anger against Holm when he saw the misery in her eyes. She made an obvious effort to suppress it, and smiled as she brought Edith up to date with the meeting’s progress. ‘We are discussing the Michaelhouse Choir. Potmoor says they should be allowed to sing at the ceremony next week. Everyone else disagrees.’

‘Then let us hope the majority prevails,’ said Edith fervently, ‘or the occasion will be ruined. Oswald always said that he could not hear himself think once they started caterwauling.’

Heads together, she and Julitta began to exchange tales of their experiences with the singers, and seeing Edith was in kindly hands, Bartholomew aimed for the door. A number of Stanmore’s old friends nodded amiable greetings as he passed, and the patriarch of the powerful Frevill clan came to offer belated condolences.

‘I miss him,’ he sighed. ‘And I am sorry to say it, Bartholomew, but your nephew is not his equal. Not by a long way.’

It was true, but Bartholomew was unwilling to admit it to a man he barely knew. He mumbled a noncommittal reply, and was almost at the door when he was intercepted by another guildsman — Potmoor. He experienced a stab of alarm when the felon smiled, as there was something not entirely nice about the expression.