Death of a Scholar

‘Of course not,’ said Richard, although he had the grace to blush. He changed the subject in a transparent attempt to avoid a lecture. ‘Did I tell you that I plan to apply for a Fellowship at Winwick Hall? Provost Illesy said he would put in a word for me with the College’s founder.’

‘You want to be a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Richard shrugged. ‘Such a life has much to commend it — long holidays, not much to do during the day, sumptuous feasts in the evenings.’

Bartholomew laughed.

‘I was sorry to hear about Knyt,’ said Edith. She stood a little taller and looked her brother straight in the eye. ‘He was a decent man, and I shall miss him.’

Bartholomew regarded her warily. He knew that particular posture. It meant she was leading up to something — a something that would almost certainly horrify or disconcert him.

‘His wife is not decent, though,’ gossiped Richard meanly. ‘I was just telling Mother — I happened to be walking past their house yesterday morning, and I saw Potmoor sneaking out through the back door. He should not have been visiting Olivia when Knyt was out.’

‘How do you know Knyt was out?’ asked Bartholomew.

It was Edith who replied. ‘Because Knyt was with me when Richard was on the Chesterton road. We were discussing the number of blankets we shall need for the poor this winter.’

‘Was his house burgled yesterday?’ Bartholomew felt a surge of hope. Perhaps this would allow Michael to arrest Potmoor and charge him with the thefts. A search of his home might even reveal the Stanton Hutch, and Michaelhouse’s problems would be over.

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Edith briskly. ‘But its owner died a few hours later. That is what I wanted to discuss with you.’ She glanced at Richard. ‘With both of you.’

Richard frowned uneasily. ‘I am not sure I follow. Are you suggesting that Potmoor had something to do with Knyt’s death?’

‘Yes,’ replied Edith with total conviction. ‘And it is not the first time he has killed either.’

‘No,’ agreed Richard wryly. ‘The taverns are full of tales about his many victims — some slaughtered by his own hand, and others by that army of henchmen he has recruited. Of course, not everyone believes he is such an outright villain. Provost Illesy says-’

‘Everyone thinks that Oswald died of marsh fever,’ interrupted Edith. ‘But I have never been happy with that explanation, as you know. I have thought of little else these last few weeks, and Knyt’s sudden and unexpected death has given me the answers I have been looking for. He was poisoned. And so was Oswald.’

Bartholomew blinked. This was a wild conclusion, even for a woman desperate to understand why a much-loved spouse had been snatched away with so little warning. ‘I hardly think-’

‘By Potmoor,’ finished Edith. ‘He is a wicked slayer of innocent men, and I mean to bring him to justice. And I want your help.’

CHAPTER 5

Bartholomew scrubbed hard at his face with his hands. His sister was not easily dissuaded from a course of action once she had decided on it, and preventing her from tackling one of the most dangerous criminals the town had ever known was going to be a challenge. He glanced at Richard, hoping that a combined assault by both would convince her that her deductions were questionable, and that accusing Potmoor was certainly not something Oswald would have wanted.

But Richard’s expression was troubled, and Bartholomew’s unease intensified. Was Edith’s allegation a possibility that Richard had already considered? Or was his nephew merely afraid that such an accusation might damage his chances of being accepted at Winwick Hall — a place that benefited from Potmoor’s largesse?

‘Oswald was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew, quietly but firmly in the hope that calm reason might nip the situation in the bud before it blossomed into something dangerous. ‘Whatever gave you such an outlandish idea?’

‘There is evidence,’ replied Edith, and Bartholomew’s heart sank. She had spent too much time brooding, and he realised he should have done more to prevent it. ‘Oswald challenged Potmoor when he first began to ply his nasty trade in Cambridge, and Potmoor did not like it. Oswald was also a powerful voice in the Guild of Saints, and took his responsibility to the poor seriously. So did Felbrigge, Elvesmere and Knyt, and now all four are dead. Tell me that is not suspicious.’

‘It is not suspicious,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘Oswald and Knyt died of natural causes, and you cannot compare their deaths to what happened to Felbrigge and Elvesmere. If you wander down that path, you will drive yourself mad.’

‘I am right,’ insisted Edith. ‘I guessed the truth ages ago. Now Knyt is dead, I am sure of it.’

‘She may have a point,’ said Richard. Bartholomew shot him an exasperated glance: encouraging her was hardly helpful. ‘But we shall need solid evidence to convict Potmoor in a court of law.’