Death of a Scholar

‘How are your enquiries into Felbrigge’s murder, Brother? I do not believe you ordered him shot, of course.’ The tone of his voice suggested otherwise. ‘But the rumours that you did are damaging the University — and what damages the University also harms Winwick. I do not want my College sullied by association. Perhaps you should consider tendering your resignation.’

‘Bow to the dictates of petty gossip?’ demanded Michael indignantly. ‘I most certainly shall not, especially as the only people who believe such ludicrous tales are fools and scoundrels.’

Bon’s mouth tightened at the insult. ‘If your continued presence harms my College, I shall write to the King and demand your removal.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘It usually takes years for new foundations to inspire such deep loyalty among its members, yet Winwick Hall has-’

‘Yes, I do love Winwick,’ interrupted Bon fiercely. ‘And do you know why? Because I have much to offer academia, but no one else would hire me. Our founder alone saw past my blindness and recognised my abilities, so the least I can do is give his College my complete devotion.’

‘Yet your ailment must be a disadvantage,’ mused Michael. ‘How do you study the texts you are obliged to teach?’

‘I learned them by rote before my eyes grew dim. And if I need to refresh my memory, I pay students to read to me. There is nothing wrong with my mind, Brother. It is just as sharp as yours.’

‘Is that so?’ Michael tended to the opinion that few colleagues were his intellectual equal.

Bon bridled, and his voice turned even more acidic. ‘So what are you doing about Felbrigge’s killer? Or are you just grateful to the culprit for ridding you of an ambitious junior?’

‘Bon,’ murmured Lawrence warningly. ‘You shame us with these intemperate remarks.’

‘Yes, you do,’ agreed Michael coolly. ‘However, since you ask, Felbrigge’s murder is solved. The culprit will be in my cells by the end of the day.’

‘Will he?’ blurted Lawrence. He sounded alarmed, and Bartholomew wondered why. ‘Oh, look! We are at Eyer’s shop. I think I had better buy a remedy for queasiness, as I feel most unwell.’

‘He must be nervous about the debate,’ said Rougham, watching him dart inside. ‘He is unused to public speaking.’

‘Will you be taking part, Rougham?’ asked Bon.

‘Of course not,’ replied Rougham scathingly. ‘Do I look like a friar or a monk to you?’

Bon’s expression was cool. ‘You do not look like anything to me. I am blind, if you recall.’

‘Oh,’ said Rougham uncomfortably. ‘I suppose you are.’

Leaving the Gonville man to make obsequious apologies, all of which were received with icy disdain, Bartholomew and Michael continued alone.

‘Do you really know who killed Felbrigge, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes and no. I have the identity of the archer — Cynric heard him bragging in the King’s Head last night. However, word is that he was hired by someone else, who is the real culprit in my opinion. The archer will talk once he is in my cells. I have never met a mercenary yet who was prepared to sacrifice himself for his paymaster.’

‘A mercenary?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of how Richard had described the man they had seen lurking behind St Clement’s. ‘What is his name?’

‘Nick Fulbut. My beadles are hunting him as we speak.’

Bartholomew stopped walking. ‘He was watching the fire just now.’ He repeated what Richard had told him, omitting the uncomfortable truth that his nephew had made no attempt to report the matter to the authorities, regardless of the fact that he knew Fulbut was a wanted man.

Michael hurried back as fast as his legs would carry him, Bartholomew at his heels, but neither scholar was surprised to discover that their quarry was no longer there. The monk instructed two beadles to monitor the church lest the archer reappeared, then he and Bartholomew turned towards St Mary the Great again.

‘The news that Fulbut works for Potmoor is disturbing,’ said Michael. ‘Why would Potmoor want my Junior Proctor dead? And if Fulbut was lurking near the burning church, do you think he gave Heyford the strong wine and lit the fire? On Potmoor’s orders?’

‘I thought you said it was an accident. Besides, what can Potmoor have against Heyford?’

‘A lot of vicious sermons that accuse him of all manner of crimes. I have warned Heyford to curb his tongue, but he is not a man to listen to sound counsel.’

Despite his intention to stay away, Bartholomew did attend some of the debate. He heard Michael speak with his usual incisive eloquence, which had even friars nodding their appreciation. After Michael came Ratclyf, whose language was so flowery that it was difficult to distil any meaning from it, and Bon, who was uninspired and unoriginal. Hemmysby was next, and demolished the Winwick men with an intellectual agility that earned him a standing ovation.