Death of a Scholar

Michael gave a disgusted snort. ‘He is in a drunken stupor, and is likely to remain that way for hours. His deacons told me that someone sent him a gift of exceptionally strong wine, which, as a usually abstemious person, he should not have touched. It seems he then knocked over a candle as he staggered around. Foolish man!’

‘The altar was blazing when I found him.’ Bartholomew coughed as he looked around. ‘Fortunately, the damage does not seem to be too severe.’

‘A bit of scrubbing and a new table, and all will be right again. I was unimpressed with de Stannell’s reaction to the crisis today. He did nothing to take command of the situation, preferring instead to curry favour with Potmoor.’

Bartholomew started to describe his encounter with the felon in the guildhall, but Michael was not very interested, and cut across him with a lengthy account of his own efforts to identify the burglar who had visited so many of the University’s hostels and Colleges.

‘I know most people think Potmoor is the guilty party,’ he said. ‘And they may well be right. However, I feel obliged to investigate other suspects, too. I ordered my beadles to round up a few likely offenders, and I have passed the time since we last met with some very unsavoury villains.’

‘Did any confess to stealing our hutch?’

‘No. They all have alibis of one kind or another. My beadles will check them, but I imagine we shall be forced to let them go. I would have been spared the ordeal if Dick Tulyet were here — it is the Sheriff’s responsibility to interview these people, not mine. I asked de Stannell to oblige, but he said he is too busy. That man is a disgrace! Dick should never have left him in charge.’

When they returned to the street the apprentices had gone, so they aimed for the town centre, Michael walking unusually briskly, so as not to miss more of the debate. They joined three other scholars who were also heading in that direction — Bon, clinging to Lawrence’s arm, and Doctor Rougham, the haughtiest and least likeable of the town’s four physicians.

Rougham was Acting Master of Gonville Hall, and an inflexible traditionalist, which meant he and Bartholomew were diametrically opposed in their approach to medicine. Time had rendered their association a little less volatile, but relations were currently strained because Bartholomew had failed all Rougham’s students in their summer disputations. Rougham had still not forgiven him, although it should have been obvious even to his indignant eyes that his lads were well below par.

‘I am astonished to learn that Heyford was drunk,’ Rougham said. ‘Especially after his sermon on Sunday advocating abstinence.’

‘There is much to be said for abstinence,’ said Lawrence, eagerly seizing the opportunity for a medical discussion. ‘The great Maimonides says-’

‘It is for fools,’ interrupted Rougham uncompromisingly. ‘And I shall never practise it myself, or recommend it to my patients.’

As neither Bartholomew nor Lawrence were inclined to tackle such a rigidly held conviction, the debate ended there and then.

‘How are your enquiries into Elvesmere’s death, Brother?’ asked Bon, stumbling over a rut and scowling at Lawrence for failing to warn him. ‘The murder has not affected the number of lads who want to study with us, thank God, but I still do not like it hanging over our heads.’

‘Then help me,’ said Michael. ‘Have you remembered anything that might point to his killer, no matter how silly or insignificant it may seem?’

‘There is one thing,’ replied Bon. ‘We had a visitor late on the night that Elvesmere died. Potmoor, whom I distinctly heard leaving the Provost’s Suite.’

‘Provost’s Suite,’ sneered Rougham under his breath. ‘Why not Master’s quarters, like everyone else? I cannot abide these pretensions of grandeur.’

‘Potmoor might be a fellow guildsman and generous with donations,’ Bon went on. ‘But he is a criminal, and I do not want him inside my College. Moreover, I am not sure Illesy is fit to be Provost if he keeps that sort of company.’

‘There is nothing wrong with Potmoor,’ said Lawrence, more sharply than was his wont. ‘He is always perfectly gentlemanly when he summons me to remedy his headaches. However, this is a matter we should discuss later, Bon.’

His pointed glance was wasted, for obvious reasons, but Bon caught the physician’s meaning from the warning tone in his voice and fell silent, albeit reluctantly.

‘We had better have a word with Potmoor,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It would be a tidy solution if he murdered Elvesmere.’

The physician nodded without enthusiasm, then turned to help Lawrence guide Bon across a particularly uneven section of the High Street. Lawrence thanked him, but Bon did not bother, and went on the offensive instead.