Death of a Scholar

‘Michaelhouse is doing well,’ murmured Lawrence, standing at Bartholomew’s side. ‘But I fear Winwick’s entry into public disputation has been less than distinguished, and I doubt my contribution will redeem us. I am too nervous to shine.’

‘Address your remarks to your friends, and do not look at anyone else,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Speak slowly, clearly and loudly, and ignore any jeers.’

Lawrence smiled wanly. ‘Thank you. Oh, Lord! The Chancellor is waving to me — it is my turn to speak. Into the valley of the shadow of Death…’

He was far too diffident for the boisterous arena of the Cambridge Debate, and had barely finished his opening remarks before the hecklers weighed in. Tynkell should have silenced them, but he was a meek man himself, and his timid exhortations were ignored. When he saw the discussion had reached the point where no one was going to be allowed to finish a sentence, Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse to work on his lectures.

He made reasonable progress, and by evening he knew he could manage the first week with something approaching competence. Of course, that still left the rest of term, and he wondered whether he would be reduced to using last year’s material. Other masters did it, but he considered it a lazy habit and wanted to avoid it if possible.

After a miserable supper of stale bread smeared with some sort of brown paste, washed down with a liquid Agatha claimed was broth but that might equally well have been something in which she had washed the pots, he went to visit Edith. She was in angry tears following another spat with Richard over the documents she had been examining, but her seamstresses were providing fierce female solidarity, and Bartholomew sensed that his presence was an unwanted intrusion. He returned to Michaelhouse, and went to the conclave, where there was a lamp that was significantly better for reading than the flickering tallow candle in his own room.

‘I understand Potmoor paid you a princely sum today,’ said Langelee, watching him set scrolls, ink and pen on the table. He held out his hand. ‘It may stave off disaster for a few days.’

‘Who told you?’ asked Bartholomew resentfully. He had intended to replenish his medical supplies with the money — a matter of urgency now that there was no stipend to come. ‘Michael?’

‘Surgeon Holm.’ Langelee snatched the purse eagerly. ‘He was aiming to make trouble for you, so I lied and told him I already knew. That took the wind out of the bastard’s sails. I do not blame you for making a cuckold of the fellow. Julitta deserves a proper man.’

‘Let him keep a few coins for medicine, Master,’ said Hemmysby, watching Langelee pocket the lot. ‘I should not like to think of the poor suffering as a result of our temporary penury.’

‘It is not temporary,’ growled Langelee. ‘It is permanent. Even if Michael does manage to lay hold of the culprit, the money will have been spent by now.’

‘I disagree,’ said Hemmysby. ‘It is an enormous amount, far too large to dispose of without attracting attention. I am sure we shall have most of it back, if not all.’

No one else shared his optimism, but they did not argue about it for long, preferring instead to discuss how best to use Potmoor’s money. While they debated, Bartholomew struggled to work. The lamp had been turned low to save fuel, and the cheap oil smoked badly. It made his head ache, but he persisted anyway, and was still reading when Cynric arrived with a summons.

‘You are needed at John Knyt’s house, boy,’ the book-bearer announced. ‘You know — the Secretary of the Guild of Saints.’

‘I am?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘Why? He is Rougham’s patient.’

‘Rougham is unavailable, apparently. But Knyt lives on the Chesterton road, which is in Potmoor’s domain, so I had better go with you.’

Bartholomew was glad to escape from the reeking lantern. He hurried across the yard to collect his cloak, but as he approached his storeroom he detected a terrible smell emanating from within. He opened the door to see all his students crammed inside, amid a chaos of dirty flasks, broken pots and careless spillages. The far wall was barely visible through a thick fug of fumes, which was impressive, given the chamber’s modest size.

‘We are experimenting,’ explained Aungel brightly. ‘It was Goodwyn’s idea. We are testing what happens when you add different things to boiling urine. We aim to find one that explodes.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, perplexed. ‘What use would such knowledge be?’

‘All knowledge is useful,’ declared Goodwyn loftily. ‘Aristotle said so.’

Bartholomew was sure the philosopher had said no such thing. ‘I sincerely hope you did not use any of my supplies to test this ridiculous theory. I need them for patients.’

‘It is not ridiculous,’ objected Goodwyn indignantly. ‘And I am sure you cannot object to us expanding our minds. If you do, you should have locked your door.’