Death of a Scholar

‘I have it,’ said Edith with savage triumph, pulling a piece of parchment from her sleeve. ‘I found it today when I was sorting through Oswald’s documents.’

Richard frowned. ‘The ones in the box? I told you to leave those alone.’

Edith shot him a look that expressed exactly what she thought of his gall in daring to give her orders, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘It is a letter inviting Oswald to a meeting, to discuss “certain delicate business”. Well, Potmoor’s dealings with him were certainly “delicate”. Oswald refused to listen to anything that vile rogue had to say.’

With Richard peering over his shoulder, Bartholomew read the message quickly. It was in French, nicely penned and perfectly grammatical — and nothing like the kind of communication the boorish Potmoor was likely to send.

‘It is unsigned,’ noted Richard. ‘How do you know it is from him?’

‘Because it is on expensive parchment,’ Edith replied, ‘which he is wealthy enough to afford.’

‘So are many others,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Especially Oswald’s merchant friends.’

‘Yes, but they would have sent a servant with a verbal invitation,’ she argued. ‘Potmoor is the only man obliged to converse by letter. He cannot ask his horrible henchmen to recite messages on doorsteps, because no one would be foolish enough to answer their knocks.’

Bartholomew regarded her sceptically. He could name dozens of people who penned communiqués to friends, kinsmen and acquaintances. Moreover, when Potmoor had been ill, he had used Hugo to fetch medical help, thus proving that he did issue verbal invitations.

‘I doubt Potmoor speaks French,’ he said. ‘And even if he does, or he hired a clerk, he is not so stupid as to leave written evidence of a murder he planned to commit.’

‘Perhaps he did not intend to kill Oswald when he sent it. Maybe he just wanted to persuade him to turn a blind eye to the illicit activities on the wharves. And when Oswald refused … Look at the date on this letter: Lammas Day.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘What is the significance of that?’

‘You were not here, so I suppose there is no reason for you to remember,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘Oswald died on Lammas Day.’

‘Are you sure he actually went to this meeting?’ asked Richard, while Bartholomew flailed around for a way to tell her that it was probably just coincidence.

‘Of course.’ She shot him a disdainful glance, one that then turned to her brother. ‘I remember everything about that day, as I have told you on countless occasions before. It was a lovely warm evening, and there was to be a Guild function later. Oswald and I were in the hall with Agatha, who happened to be visiting, when this letter arrived.’

‘How do you know it was that letter?’ pounced Bartholomew.

‘Purple ink,’ replied Edith, showing it to him. ‘It is unusual and distinctive. And there is the date, of course. Anyway, Oswald read it, then told us that he needed to go out before the Guild gathering, to take care of a small piece of business.’

‘But he did not specify that the “business” was with Potmoor,’ said Bartholomew. They were covering old ground — he had lost count of the number of times they had combed through every last detail of his brother-in-law’s final few hours.

‘No, but this missive proves it was,’ said Edith stubbornly.

Bartholomew did not want to be unkind, but he had to make her see sense before there was a serious problem. ‘Not all Oswald’s affairs were wholesome, Edith,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘Perhaps that invitation is from another dubious contact who-’

‘Matt!’ cried Edith, while Richard’s face darkened with anger. ‘He might have sailed a little close to the wind on occasion, but he was always honest.’

Not for the first time, Bartholomew marvelled at the extent to which Stanmore had managed to pull the wool over his family’s eyes regarding his creative business practices. He tried again to reason with her. ‘Yet you told me only yesterday that you had uncovered evidence of unscrupulous dealings with King’s Hall.’

‘There was another with Mistress Tulyet, too,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘I discovered it this morning. But these were isolated incidents, and I am sure there was a good reason for them.’

‘Of course there was,’ snapped Richard, clenching his fists at his side. ‘And if you had left his personal affairs alone, as I suggested, we would not be having this shameful discussion.’

‘Shall I tell you again what happened when he returned home that night?’ asked Edith, and before either could tell her there was no need, she began. ‘He was sombre, which was odd, as he usually enjoyed Guild meetings.’ She favoured Bartholomew with a frosty glare. ‘And it was not because he had had too much to drink.’

At one point, Bartholomew, familiar with maudlin drunks from College feasts — back when Michaelhouse had been able to afford them — had asked how much Oswald had imbibed. Edith had still not forgiven the impertinence of the question.