Death of a Scholar

‘We did well at the debate yesterday,’ said Clippesby, speaking quickly to avert a spat. He had Ethel in his arms, and clearly intended to take her to the service. The hen’s leery expression suggested she was not entirely comfortable with the idea, but she made no attempt to flap away.

‘I did well,’ gloated Thelnetham. ‘Michael and Hemmysby were adequate.’

‘Hurry up with the door, Master,’ ordered William. ‘I want to return to the tract I am composing. I have some concluding remarks to make, and then it will be ready for your enjoyment and edification. You will learn a great deal from it, I promise.’

‘I am sure he will,’ said Thelnetham snidely. ‘Such as the fact that you have wasted a lot of perfectly good ink and parchment on your foolish ramblings.’

A row blossomed, but Bartholomew stopped listening when Goodwyn gave Aungel a shove that was vigorous enough to make the younger lad stagger. Both returned to their places when they saw they were being watched, but he suspected Goodwyn would not behave for long. Langelee had noticed, too, but was unsympathetic when Bartholomew put his case for expelling troublemakers.

‘Impossible! How will we refund their fees? And think yourself lucky. Yours at least look respectable — the ones enrolled with me have the appearance of escaped convicts.’

Goodwyn and his cronies, along with the ruffians from Langelee’s class, shuffled and snickered all through Mass, although they settled down at breakfast. Bartholomew poked dispiritedly at the pottage in his bowl. It comprised a watery broth flavoured with fish heads, accompanied by the kind of oat mash that was more usually fed to horses.

Afterwards, Cynric was waiting with a long list of patients, while the other Fellows — and Ethel — went to attend the rest of the debate. Before he left, Michael murmured that he would need Bartholomew’s help that afternoon, as they had to follow up on what Bon had told them the previous day — that Illesy had entertained Potmoor at Winwick Hall on the night that Elvesmere had been murdered.

‘And a gold candlestick has been stolen from Gonville,’ the monk added. ‘Rougham assures me that the culprit is Potmoor, so we had better interview him, too.’

‘Does Rougham have evidence for this accusation?’

‘If only! He bases it on the brag that Potmoor once made to his henchmen — that he commits burglary as a way of ensuring that he does not lose his felonious touch.’

‘Did Potmoor really say that, or has it been quoted out of context?’

‘Oh, he said it, and not in jest either. However, as I keep telling everyone, he is not the only burglar in the shire, and I shall continue to hound other suspects. Seven hostels, three Colleges and the Dominican Priory have been targeted now, while de Stannell says he has lost count of the number of thefts in the town. It is imperative that the culprit is caught before he beggars us all.’

‘What about Fulbut? You said you would arrest him yesterday, and persuade him to tell you who ordered the murder of your Junior Proctor. Did he identify the culprit?’

‘Unfortunately, he has disappeared and my beadles cannot find him.’ Michael sighed. ‘It is one step forward and two back with these cases. But do not be too long with your patients. We must make some headway today, or term will be on us and we shall expire from the pressure.’

Bartholomew began his rounds by visiting those patients who lived south of the College, walking carefully along a High Street that was littered with debris from the storm. There were a lot of smashed tiles on the ground outside Winwick Hall, but builders were already scrambling across the roof to replace them. Lawrence and Bon were watching, Lawrence describing what he could see to his colleague. Bartholomew went to exchange pleasantries with them.

‘No, we did not enjoy yesterday’s debate,’ snapped Bon, turning his milky eyes to the grand church next door, from which already came the sound of haranguing voices. ‘Michaelhouse savaged us cruelly, which was unkind, given that it was our first appearance.’

‘Your colleagues could have been gentler, Matthew,’ agreed Lawrence. ‘But Illesy and Nerli will salvage our reputation today, and the refreshments we shall provide afterwards will put us in everyone’s good graces. Ah, here comes Eyer with the poultice for your eyes, Bon.’

‘About time,’ muttered Bon savagely. ‘He is late again.’

‘I do not like to speak ill of a colleague,’ muttered Lawrence, as Bon stamped away on the apothecary’s arm, ‘but Bon really is a surly devil. He cannot open his mouth without saying something unpleasant, and living with him will be a sore trial, I fear.’

Bartholomew suspected he was right.