Death of a Scholar

Bartholomew had locked it, but now it stood open. He looked up at the top shelf, where he kept his most expensive and dangerous compounds, and was horrified to see that the jars had been thoroughly raided. He also noticed that several lads were green about the gills, so he ordered them all outside into the fresh air.

‘I thought I had made it clear that no one was to enter the storeroom without me,’ he said, once the coughing and wheezing had eased. His voice was soft, but even the densest student could hear the anger in it. ‘Some of those mixtures are poisonous, and you are not yet qualified to handle them. And especially not to conduct silly experiments unsupervised. If it happens again, you can all find another College.’

‘You cannot dismiss us,’ said Goodwyn challengingly. ‘We paid good money to-’

He stopped speaking when Bartholomew glowered furiously at him, and stared at his feet instead, flushing a deep, resentful red. The other students exchanged uncomfortable glances, and there was a tense silence until Cynric broke it.

‘Knyt, boy,’ he said softly. ‘We should go.’

‘I will sort out the mess later,’ said Bartholomew in the same tightly controlled voice. He would have liked to tell the students to do it, but there was a danger that two substances might come together and harm them, and tempting though it was to wish the likes of Goodwyn in the cemetery, he had no wish to put the others in danger.

He stalked away. Goodwyn and the other newcomers immediately began muttering, and he was half inclined to sneak back to see if they were plotting revenge, but he was a senior scholar and such antics were beneath him. He kept walking, Cynric trotting at his side and Knyt’s servant scurrying behind. Eventually, he shot the book-bearer a rueful grin.

‘Now we have even more reason to find the Stanton Hutch. I want it back so we can return Goodwyn’s fees, because I am not teaching him next term. He is a bad influence on the others.’

‘Good,’ said Cynric fervently. ‘Because I do not like him either. Did I tell you that I caught him stealing wine from the kitchen today? He was fortunate it was me, not Agatha.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘So if he does it again, stand aside and let him walk into the dragon’s mouth. That would solve all our problems.’

‘Damn!’ Cynric was disgusted with himself. ‘Why did I not think of that?’

It was a long way to Knyt’s house, a pretty mansion on the Chesterton road. The weather had changed since Bartholomew had been in the conclave. Clouds had scudded in, brought by a gusty wind that made the trees sway and roar. It was unusually dark, too, and although Cynric had brought a torch, it was not easy to see the ruts and potholes in its guttering light. The air smelled of the fens, a dank, rich aroma of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, but there was also the sharper, cleaner tang of fresh-fallen autumn leaves.

After a while, they saw another torch bobbing on the road. It was a servant sent to meet them. The man grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and urged him into a trot, sobbing that Knyt was the best master in the country, genuinely loved by everyone who worked in his household.

When they arrived, Bartholomew’s cloak was whisked off, and he and his bag were bundled with polite but urgent speed along a corridor and up a flight of stairs; Cynric was escorted with equal briskness into the kitchen for refreshments. The house spoke of quietly understated wealth, Knyt’s affluence visible not in showy tapestries and gaudy ornaments, but in the quality of the furniture and the discreet luxury of the rugs on the floor.

In a large chamber on the upper storey, a fire crackled comfortably and lamps emitted a gentle, golden glow. It was dominated by a bed piled with furs. A number of servants stood around it, nearly all of them weeping. A woman stood at its foot, and Bartholomew recognised her as Olivia, Knyt’s wife of twenty years or more.

‘You are here at last,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘Good. My husband died an hour ago, but you raised Potmoor from the dead, so now you can do the same for John.’

Bartholomew took several steps away, cursing himself for a fool. Knyt had never been his client, and he should have been suspicious of a summons out of the blue. Then he saw Rougham in the shadows by the window, while Surgeon Holm, physicians Lawrence and Meryfeld, and Eyer the apothecary stood near the hearth. Bartholomew’s arrival meant that all Cambridge’s medical professionals were now present, just as they had been when Potmoor had ‘died’.

‘Mistress Olivia would like a miracle,’ explained Rougham icily, clearly outraged by the fact that she had called the others. ‘She will not believe me when I say her husband is gone.’

‘He had a seizure,’ added Eyer helpfully. ‘A major one, of the kind that is always fatal. I have seen many such cases before, so it was not difficult for me to diagnose it in Knyt.’