Susanna GREGORY - Death of a Scholar

‘Do you want me to do it?’ The prospect did not fill Bartholomew with enthusiasm, and would be yet another demand on his precious time, but there was little he would not do for Edith.

She shook her head. ‘I wish Oswald were here, though. He would know how to handle Richard. I wake up each morning thinking it has all been a bad dream, and that he is still alive.’

‘Me, too,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘His death … I know we have discussed it ad nauseam, Matt, but I am sure there was something amiss. Why did he die of marsh fever? His previous attacks were never very serious.’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, as he had done many times before. ‘I was not there.’

‘No,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘You were off running errands with Michael in Peterborough when he needed you. If you had been in Cambridge, Oswald would still be alive.’

While Bartholomew knew that Edith’s words were born of grief, they still hurt, and he returned to Michaelhouse with a heavy heart. He doubted his presence at Oswald’s deathbed would have made any difference, given Rougham’s account of what had happened, but he still wished he had been there. While his colleagues slept, he sat in the conclave working on his lectures, aiming to distract himself from the guilt of failing Edith during the darkest hours of her life.

Michael arrived after a fruitless evening investigating Elvesmere’s murder, and immediately began forging deeds. He gave up when the words began to blur before his eyes, leaving Bartholomew slumped across the table, fast asleep. It was an uncomfortable position, and the physician woke with a stiff neck and backache when the bell rang for Mass the following dawn.

It was a subdued College that attended church. The only person who seemed unaffected by Michaelhouse’s desperate predicament was Goodwyn, the new medical student, who sang lustily and wore a smug grin through the entire rite. Michael homed in on him when the service was over.

‘I am dissatisfied with your explanation regarding your whereabouts for the time of the theft,’ he said briskly. ‘Tell me again.’

‘You cannot remember that far back?’ quipped the student with breezy insolence. ‘Shall I mix you a remedy for senile forgetfulness, then?’

‘That remark has cost you sixpence, payable by the end of the day.’ Michael held up an authoritative hand when a startled Goodwyn started to object. ‘It is expensive to annoy the Senior Proctor, so I recommend you curb your tongue. Now, to business. The hutch was stolen between nine o’clock on Sunday evening, when Langelee visited the cellar, and yesterday at noon, when Cynric discovered it missing. Where were you during all that time?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew set us a lot of reading on Sunday, sir,’ said Aungel, before Goodwyn could land himself in deeper trouble by arguing. ‘And it took us until supper to finish. Afterwards, we were restless after being cooped up all day so we went for a walk. We returned to Michaelhouse just as the bells rang for compline.’

‘Then we played dice … I mean we read our bibles until Doctor Bartholomew came back from seeing a patient,’ continued Goodwyn. Gambling was forbidden in College, on the grounds that it led to fights. ‘He will testify that we were all there – and that we stayed until morning. After that, we went to church, had breakfast, and read in the hall with the other Fellows.’

Bartholomew nodded, but the truth was that he was an unusually heavy sleeper, and the entire class could have thundered out during the night without waking him, so he was the last person who should be used as an alibi. Michael knew it.

‘Goodwyn is the culprit,’ he growled, as he and the physician walked back to Michaelhouse. ‘You were sleeping too deeply to notice he had gone, and his classmates are wary of exposing him as a liar, because he is older and bigger.’

‘And did what with the stolen hutch?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not in my room, I assure you.’

‘Hid it somewhere else.’

‘Where? Cynric searched the College from top to bottom, and Goodwyn is new to the town – he will not know any safe places outside.’

‘Perhaps he has accomplices.’ Michael turned to glare; Goodwyn glowered back, unfazed by the monk’s hostility. ‘And even if it transpires that he is innocent, you should watch him. Langelee should never have taken him on.’

‘He did it for the double fees.’

‘Fees that have now disappeared,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘But let us review again what we know about the hutch. The cellar was opened with the key from Langelee’s room, which was then replaced. You were out on Sunday evening. Did you notice anything odd when you came back?’

‘No, but the porter was away on his rounds, so I let myself in.’ A stricken expression crossed Bartholomew’s face. ‘Perhaps someone saw how easy it was, and simply copied me.’

‘Unlikely – Thelnetham was right to point out that if it were a random crime, the thief would not have known where to find the key.’ Michael’s expression hardened. ‘The culprit made a mistake when he targeted our home. You offered to help me catch him yesterday–’

‘I did not offer. You coerced me.’

‘–but I need help with the murders of Felbrigge and Elvesmere, too. No one has offered to take Felbrigge’s place, and it is difficult to manage so much without a Junior Proctor.’

‘I cannot, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Unless you can arrange for more hours in the day. I am struggling to cope as it is.’

‘Felbrigge and Elvesmere were fellow scholars. You should want justice for them.’

‘I do, but–’

‘Good, it is settled then,’ said Michael, with such relief that Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. There were dark bags under his friend’s eyes, and he realised that he had been so wrapped up with his own problems that he had failed to notice the toll Michael’s responsibilities were taking on him – murders to solve, a huge influx of matriculands to control, all the difficulties surrounding the birth of a new College, and now the stolen hutch.

‘I can give you until the start of term, Brother. A week. After that I shall be swamped with teaching. We both will. So we had better make a start. What have you learned about Felbrigge?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He was standing next to me when he was shot, but neither I nor anyone else saw a thing to help. My beadles found the bow, and we were able to deduce that it probably belonged to a professional archer, but that is all. In short, we still have no idea who did it or why.’

‘Perhaps Felbrigge was not the intended victim,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Maybe this professional archer was aiming at the Chancellor or you – the University’s most powerful scholar.’

‘I have already assessed that possibility and dismissed it. Such men do not miss their targets, and nor could they have mistaken Felbrigge for me or Tynkell. I wear my habit, Tynkell is thin and grey, and Felbrigge was short, fat and clad in a ceremonial robe of scarlet. The three of us look nothing alike.’

‘When I was at Winwick yesterday, Ratclyf said that Felbrigge was unpopular.’ Bartholomew spoke hesitantly, never happy with gossip. ‘That he was disliked by scholars and townsmen.’

‘It is true. Felbrigge managed to antagonise an extraordinary number of people while you and I were away in Peterborough. Clearly, I should never have left him in charge.’

‘Did you know he was arrogant and abrasive when you appointed him?’

‘Yes, but he was the only one who applied for the job, and I was desperate for help.’

It was no surprise that scholars were not queuing up to be Michael’s helpmeet. He was dictatorial, impatient with mistakes, and hated being challenged. Moreover, the post was poorly paid, sometimes dangerous and involved everything Michael did not fancy doing himself.