Death of a Scholar

‘He said he felt unwell and wanted to retire,’ she continued. ‘I stayed chatting to Agatha for a while, then went to see if he needed a tonic. He was clearly ill, so I asked her to fetch a physician. You were in Peterborough, so she called Doctor Rougham.’

Bartholomew did not look at her, afraid he would see accusation in her eyes again for being away. ‘Why do you find it so difficult to believe that he had marsh fever? He had bouts of it in the past, and August is a bad month for such ailments. Moreover, Rougham said-’

‘Rougham!’ spat Edith. ‘You have never trusted his diagnoses before. Why start now?’

‘Because he suffers from marsh fever himself. He knows the symptoms.’

‘But, as I keep telling you, Oswald’s last illness was not like his other attacks. I have spoken to his friends at the Guild, and they all say the same — he was not himself that evening. And I now know why: because Potmoor enticed him to a meeting first, and gave him poison.’

Bartholomew turned to Richard for support but his nephew was nodding slowly, an expression on his chubby features that was dark and rather dangerous.

‘I have often wondered why he succumbed so quickly to this so-called fever,’ Richard said. ‘Perhaps Potmoor is responsible. Or a so-called friend, jealous of Father’s success and integrity.’

‘So now you know the truth,’ said Edith, hands on hips as she regarded them both challengingly. ‘What are we going to do about it?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew firmly. ‘I doubt Potmoor is a poisoner. It is too subtle a method of execution for a man like him.’

‘Not with a victim like Oswald,’ argued Edith. ‘An official investigation would have exposed him as the one with the obvious motive for murder. But he will not get away with it, not as long as I have breath in my body.’

Bartholomew could tell that she had resolved to do what she thought was right, and the anger in Richard’s eyes suggested that he might help her. If he wanted to keep them safe, he had no choice but to explore the matter himself, or at least go through the motions.

‘I will look into it,’ he promised. ‘But on two conditions. First, that you say nothing to anyone else about your suspicions, and second, that neither of you will try to investigate.’

‘But we will be more efficient together,’ objected Edith, dismayed.

‘No, he is right,’ said Richard. ‘We may damage his chances of success if we butt in with questions of our own. We should let him work alone.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply, not sure what to make of the remark. Was it a blind, and Richard actually intended to initiate an inquest of his own? Was he genuinely acknowledging that two enquiries might be counterproductive? Or was he a coward, unwilling to tackle killers himself?

Edith considered the proposal for a long time before finally inclining her head. ‘Very well. But I am right about this. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’

Bartholomew entered the Jewry in an unsettled frame of mind, wondering how he was going to prove to his family’s satisfaction that Oswald had died of natural causes. It would be yet another demand on his time, and he was not sure how he would manage. He grew more flustered still when he remembered that his next patient lived in the house that Matilde had once owned.

It was not easy to enter a place that held so many poignant memories. Matilde’s parlour had been bright, clean and welcoming, full of the scent of herbs and honey. He associated it with laughter, love and warmth. The current occupant, however, had transformed it so completely that he would not have known it, which was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. It was crammed with dark, heavy furniture and horsehair pillows, and there was a powerful stench of burning fat.

The patient was Marjory Starre, a woman of indeterminate age, sometimes said to be a witch. She hated scholars with a passion that was barely rational, although she graciously allowed Bartholomew to tend her for a recurring tetter, a rash that was interesting enough to compensate for her insistence on outlining all the evils of his University each time they met. That day, however, she was more concerned with the storm that had battered the town the previous night.

‘It blew for John Knyt. Everyone knows that a strong wind means a great man is dead.’

Bartholomew had known no such thing, but most of his attention was on her hands, which exhibited an unusual and intriguing degree of inflammation.

‘Potmoor murdered him, of course,’ she went on. ‘Because back in the spring, Knyt voted against his election to the Guild of Saints. Potmoor was not the kind of man Knyt wanted in that venerable body, see.’

‘Knyt was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died of-’