Death of a Scholar (11 page)

The boy sneered. ‘He is not a
real
soldier. He pretends to be like Father, but he cannot even ride. I watched him all last night in the castle – he is taking secret lessons from Sergeant Helbye, so he will not make an ass of himself when he sits on a horse in town processions.’

‘You should have been in bed,’ said Mistress Tulyet weakly. ‘And what have I told you about spying on people?’

Needless to say, Dickon was unmoved by the reprimand. ‘It was fun. The lesson started at midnight, and finished at dawn. Poor Helbye was exhausted by the end of it, although de Stannell still cannot ride. But what can you expect from a man who looks like a monkey?’

‘He is very good at administration,’ said Mistress Tulyet, somewhat feebly. ‘And that is more important than horsemanship while your father is away.’

Tiring of the discussion, Dickon made a grab for the sword, obliging Bartholomew to raise it above his head where it could not be reached. He felt ridiculous, like a statue of Neptune wrestling a sea-serpent he had once seen in Rome, and he laughed out loud. Dickon regarded him with small, malevolent eyes, then sat down suddenly and presented his damaged hand. Bartholomew examined it cautiously, keeping a firm grip on the weapon, knowing the boy intended to retrieve it at the first opportunity. If Dickon succeeded, blood would be spilled – and it would not be his own.

As usual, the injury was superficial, and would have been disregarded by most children. Still on his guard, Bartholomew smeared it with a soothing paste.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘The horse bit me,’ pouted Dickon, submitting more readily to Bartholomew’s ministrations once he realised it was not going to hurt. ‘And I am going to shoot it in revenge.’

‘No, you are not,’ said Mistress Tulyet sharply. ‘You bit it first.’

‘He bit a horse?’ blurted Bartholomew.

‘It was looking at me,’ said Dickon. ‘Can I have my sword back now?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, and because Mistress Tulyet looked pale and tired, he mixed a mild soporific that would send Dickon to sleep and give her a few hours’ respite. He was not in the habit of drugging children, but Mistress Tulyet was also his patient, and her health was just as important as her hellion son’s. ‘Drink this and go to bed.’

‘I shall not,’ said Dickon, folding his arms sulkily. ‘I am not thirsty.’

Bartholomew was good with children, and rarely had trouble persuading them to take what he prescribed. Dickon was the exception, and the physician was ashamed of the dislike the boy always engendered in him. He was just trying to decide whether to let Dickon go without a battle, or stick to his guns and pour the medicine down the brat’s throat, when Edith walked in.

‘I heard there had been a mishap,’ she said. ‘So I came to help.’

‘You are not wanted here,’ snarled Dickon rudely. ‘Go away.’

Bartholomew gripped the sword rather tightly. While he did not care what Dickon said to him, his beloved sister was another matter altogther, and he was about to say so when she stepped forward.

‘Is this Dickon’s medicine?’ she asked, picking up the cup from the table.

‘To make him better,’ replied Mistress Tulyet, and Bartholomew was not sure whether he heard or imagined the murmured ‘if only that were possible’ that followed.

‘Then drink it,’ said Edith, holding it out. When Dickon hesitated, her expression became forbidding, and Bartholomew had a sudden flash of memory back to his own childhood, when some youthful prank had displeased her. ‘Or there will be trouble.’

Intimidated by the steel in her voice, Dickon accepted the cup and sipped the mixture. He pulled a face and opened his mouth to complain, but Edith raised an authoritative forefinger, which was enough to see the potion swallowed and the cup set meekly back on the table.

‘Now go to bed,’ she ordered. ‘And not a sound until morning, or you will answer to me.’

Dickon went without a word, and Mistress Tulyet followed, her face full of startled wonder. Edith grinned wanly once she and Bartholomew were alone.

‘I learned how to deal with naughty children when I raised you.’

‘I hardly think I was anything like Dickon,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘No, but you were worse than Richard by a considerable margin. He was an angel, and it is difficult to understand what has happened to him.’

‘There is still time for him to settle down,’ said Bartholomew, although he did not believe it, and neither did she. Richard was well into his twenties, so youthful exuberance could no longer be blamed for the deficiencies in his character.

‘I owe you an apology, Matt,’ Edith began. ‘Last night, I said it was your fault that Oswald died, because you were away when he was ill. It was unkind – I know he would have passed away regardless. Yet I cannot escape the sense that something was amiss…’

‘Many bereaved people do,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘It is perfectly natural.’

She shot him a baleful look. ‘This is different. And I hate to admit it, but perhaps Richard was right about me sorting through that chest. There was a document this morning…’

‘What did it say?’

Edith glanced around quickly before lowering her voice. ‘It is all rather unclear, but I think Oswald charged too much for a consignment of cloth that went to King’s Hall. The figures do not tally, and his notes on the transaction seem to imply that he knew it.’

Bartholomew could hardly say that he was not surprised. ‘Perhaps you should let Richard sort through these records. He did offer.’

Edith grimaced. ‘I am not sure he is capable, to be frank. And nor would he appreciate being obliged to work when he could be out drinking with his cronies. Thank God Oswald left the business to me. Richard would have sold it by now – or run it into the ground with ineptitude – which would have been a disaster for the people we employ.’

Bartholomew agreed, but felt it would be disloyal to say so. ‘Is he going to the meeting of the Guild of Saints? I heard that one has been called.’

‘Of course,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘Wine will be served afterwards.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think of words that might comfort her. None came to mind.

Edith sighed unhappily. ‘He told me this morning that several friends have applied to Winwick Hall, so he has decided to stay on here, to enjoy their lively company. I never thought I would say it, Matt, but I wish he would leave Cambridge and go back to London. Just because I am a widow does not mean that I want a grown son under my feet – especially one who has an annoying aversion to anything that might be considered work.’

‘He will not be here much longer,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘Carousing will be forbidden to his scholar friends once term starts, so he will find himself drinking alone. He will soon tire of it.’

Edith gave him a hopeful smile and changed the subject. ‘There are a lot of nasty rumours circulating at the moment, including one about Michael…’

‘That he intends to inflict the Michaelhouse Choir on the beginning of term ceremony? It will not make our College very popular.’

‘Oh, Lord, does he?’ gulped Edith. ‘I had no idea. Perhaps that is why the Guild has called an emergency meeting – to discuss ways to prevent it. But I was talking about the gossip that says he arranged for Felbrigge to be shot for daring to set covetous eyes on the senior proctorship.’

‘Then the gossipmongers do not know Michael. He is perfectly capable of defeating rivals through non-fatal means.’

‘I am just reporting what is being said. However, the only way to put a stop to these nasty tales is by finding the real killer.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘The only problem being a marked absence of clues.’

It was not long before Mistress Tulyet reported with a relieved sigh that Dickon was asleep. The servants began to creep back, speaking in whispers lest they woke the brat, while the horse that had sparked the incident was whisked away to safety. Bartholomew walked Edith to the Guild of Saints’ headquarters, a timber-framed hall near St Clement’s Church. She was still a member, although a less active one since inheriting her husband’s large and complex business.

She faltered at the door, assailed by memories of happier times, so Bartholomew took her by the hand and led her inside. He would not be permitted to stay long, but no one would mind him escorting her to Richard. He entered the main chamber, and was astonished to find it packed with people – the Guild had not been half as big in Stanmore’s day. Most members stood, while the officers and more important individuals sat on a long bench at the front.

‘I thought this was an exclusive organisation,’ he whispered. ‘Open only to wealthy folk who are willing to be generous to the poor.’

‘It is. But people clamour to join because it is prestigious – a symbol of high status. Anyone who can pay an entrance fee is enrolled these days. Unlike when Oswald was in charge.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but knew for a fact that Stanmore had not been as particular as she believed. For a start, he had admitted Potmoor, a man who was openly proud of his criminal achievements. Bartholomew glanced around, suddenly uneasy. He had not seen Potmoor since tending him on his ‘deathbed’ and had no wish to renew the acquaintance.

‘Is John Knyt here?’ asked Edith, struggling to see over the heads of the people in front. ‘He is our Secretary, but I can only hear his assistant de Stannell speaking.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I cannot abide de Stannell – he has sly fingers in every pie.’

‘Deputy Sheriff de Stannell? He is Assistant Secretary of the Guild as well?’

‘He seems to like being second in command,’ said Edith with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘Or perhaps he intends to oust both his betters, and run shire and Guild at the same time.’

Aware that he would soon be asked to leave, Bartholomew looked around for Richard, but his eye lit on Julitta instead. She would look after Edith. He steered his sister towards her, glad that Holm had abandoned his wife for Hugo, with whom he was muttering and giggling.

‘I thought you told me that they had quarrelled,’ he said, watching the pair in distaste. It was inappropriate behaviour for two grown men in a public place.

‘They made up,’ Julitta replied, and Bartholomew experienced a surge of anger against Holm when he saw the misery in her eyes. She made an obvious effort to suppress it, and smiled as she brought Edith up to date with the meeting’s progress. ‘We are discussing the Michaelhouse Choir. Potmoor says they should be allowed to sing at the ceremony next week. Everyone else disagrees.’

‘Then let us hope the majority prevails,’ said Edith fervently, ‘or the occasion will be ruined. Oswald always said that he could not hear himself think once they started caterwauling.’

Heads together, she and Julitta began to exchange tales of their experiences with the singers, and seeing Edith was in kindly hands, Bartholomew aimed for the door. A number of Stanmore’s old friends nodded amiable greetings as he passed, and the patriarch of the powerful Frevill clan came to offer belated condolences.

‘I miss him,’ he sighed. ‘And I am sorry to say it, Bartholomew, but your nephew is not his equal. Not by a long way.’

It was true, but Bartholomew was unwilling to admit it to a man he barely knew. He mumbled a noncommittal reply, and was almost at the door when he was intercepted by another guildsman – Potmoor. He experienced a stab of alarm when the felon smiled, as there was something not entirely nice about the expression.

Potmoor looked like a criminal. He had small, shifty eyes, a flamboyant moustache of the kind favoured by pirates, and thinning hair kept in place by the application of copious amounts of goose-grease. He was not very big, yet he exuded an aura of evil menace, and Bartholomew was perfectly prepared to believe the many tales about his barbarity, greed and ruthlessness.

‘I never thanked you,’ Potmoor said. ‘For bringing me back from the dead.’

‘You were not dead,’ replied Bartholomew, although he knew he was wasting his time: Potmoor was enjoying the prestige that accrued from his so-called resurrection. ‘Catalepsia is—’

‘I was dead, and I saw the bright glory of Heaven,’ countered Potmoor, a little dangerously.

‘It was an illusion. There were a lot of candles burning in your bedchamber that night.’

‘I know what I saw. Or are you telling me that I mistook you and your medical colleagues for God and His angels?’ Potmoor gave a low, creaking laugh.

Bartholomew frowned, taking in the man’s pale face and unsteady hands. ‘Yet you are still not recovered. What ails you? Headaches? Fevers?’

‘Headaches, which I attribute to setting eyes on the face of Our Lord. Meryfeld’s remedies were worthless, so I dismissed him, and hired Master Lawrence instead. Provost Illesy recommended him, as he was once
medicus
to Queen Isabella, although he has not cured me either. Would you like the job? I am a very rich man.’

‘I have too many patients already,’ said Bartholomew, trotting out the excuse he had used the last time Potmoor had asked. ‘I am sure Lawrence will find a medicine that helps you soon.’

It was a lie, as he was not sure at all. Such symptoms should have eased by now, and their persistence did not bode well. Potmoor launched into another subject.

‘Has your sister recovered from her tragic loss?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, recalling that Oswald had vigorously opposed Potmoor’s expansion into Cambridge and his untimely death had certainly been to Potmoor’s advantage. Naturally, there had been rumours, although they had fizzled out eventually, due to a lack of evidence. However, Bartholomew did not like the smirk on the felon’s face.

‘Pity.’ Potmoor changed tack yet again. ‘Hugo informs me that we never paid you for bringing me back to life. I would rather have remained in Heaven, of course, but I am not a man who reneges on his debts. Here is your fee.’

‘There is no need.’ Bartholomew refused to take the proffered purse. He was being watched, and it would do his reputation no good whatsoever to be seen accepting money from such a man.

‘I hope you are not suggesting that my life is not worth it,’ said Potmoor coldly.

‘No, of course not, but—’