Susanna GREGORY - Death of a Scholar

De Stannell shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Of course not. Potmoor’s religious conversion left a number of his henchmen unemployed, and as Sheriff, I knew their names. They now work for me.’

‘But why involve yourself in such a vile scheme? You are already wealthy.’

De Stannell gestured to the hall. ‘This place is costly, and some guildsmen are beginning to object to the amount of money we plough into it, so I have been obliged to devise other ways of raising funds. None of the proceeds have been for me.’

‘So what do you gain from the arrangement?’

‘Immortality! The College will soon be renamed Winwick and de Stannell Hall.’

‘I think the founder will have something to say about that.’ Michael regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And Matt is wrong, because you are not the clever mastermind behind this scheme. To be frank you are not sufficiently intelligent.’

De Stannell scowled as he aimed the weapon, but the monk only gazed back defiantly, and the crossbow wavered. Young Dickon had been right to question the deputy’s abilities as a soldier, thought Bartholomew. Clearly, de Stannell did not have the courage to shoot.

‘Your master is Lawrence,’ Michael went on. ‘The man whose incompetence killed the Queen, who lied about his interactions with Hemmysby, who has poached his medical colleagues’ best patients, and who ensured that Hugo and Holm became friends so that he would have a second spy among Potmoor’s intimates.’

Bartholomew was suddenly assailed with an uncomfortable thought. All Michael’s ‘evidence’ had come from one source: Julitta, who had always been quick to disparage the elderly physician. Irritably, he pushed such treacherous suspicions away. This was the woman he intended to marry!

‘You should have asserted your authority as Senior Proctor more rigorously,’ said de Stannell, and the sly grin he flung at Bartholomew told the physician exactly what was coming next. ‘If you had put an end to your friend’s unseemly lust for the wife of–’

‘Stop,’ snapped Bartholomew through clenched teeth. ‘Leave Julitta out of it.’

‘She is a cunning woman,’ de Stannell went on gleefully. ‘The clever daughter of a powerful and extremely ruthless man, from whom she learned her business acumen and her ability to deceive. It has not once occurred to you that she has been using your infatuation for her own ends.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew fiercely. ‘She would never–’

‘She has been monitoring Michael through you ever since we feared he might interfere with our plans – long before you went to Peterborough. But you will never have her. She loves Holm and he loves her, as far as he is able. They are more similar in temperament than you know.’

‘And why would Julitta conspire with the likes of you?’ asked Michael scornfully.

‘Why do you think? The rewards for supporting Winwick Hall will be vast. Powerful men will appreciate clerks trained to their specifications, and the clerks themselves will be grateful for the opportunity to further their ambitions.’

‘So you ordered Felbrigge shot to ensure that the College could expand unfettered,’ surmised Michael, while Bartholomew shook his head, unwilling to believe de Stannell’s gloating words. ‘But why kill Elvesmere? Surely he was happy to have won such determined supporters?’

‘I thought the same, and was astonished when he announced his conviction that Winwick should remain a modest foundation. I was obliged to stab him, to shut him up.’

Illesy had mentioned Elvesmere’s preference for moderation, so that was likely to be true, thought Bartholomew, but de Stannell was no killer. Again, it was something Dickon had said that provided the proof that the deputy was no threat.

‘You were taking a riding lesson at the castle when Elvesmere died. You are not the culprit, so do not try to claim credit in the hope of making us think you are dangerous. You are a pitiful excuse for a villain.’

‘Then who did dispatch him?’ asked Michael, while de Stannell blustered and huffed in indignation. Both scholars ignored him.

Bartholomew had been aware for some time that the devotions muttered by the window were gibberish. Bon was not praying, but listening to every word. And he knew why.

‘Bon,’ he said softly. ‘De Stannell is just his monkey.’

The wind was gusting so hard that it made the timbers in the hall creak and its steady roar was almost louder than the racket made by the invaders, who were pouring back into the yard after their fruitless foray to the Fellows’ quarters. Bartholomew jumped in alarm when a violent blast cracked one of the windowpanes, and there was a series of crashes as tiles were torn from the roof. There were screams, too, either because they had landed on the men milling outside, or as a result of Cynric’s resumed barrage from the dormitory.

‘Me?’ asked Bon, turning his milky eyes towards Bartholomew as he climbed to his feet. ‘How? I am blind, in case you had not noticed.’

‘You cannot deceive me about hypochyma,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know what it entails. You cannot read, perhaps, but you have sufficient vision to let you carry out your wicked plans. And you had Uyten. Through him, you hired Jekelyn and Fulbut to commit murder, and tricked Richard into bringing his friends here.’

Bon spread his hands. ‘Uyten told you that Illesy did all that.’

‘A claim you cannot have known unless it originated with you,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘We have told no one else, and he is in prison.’

‘In prison?’ echoed Bon uneasily.

‘You used and misled him, just as you have used and misled everyone else. He will not stand by you when he learns what you have done. He will tell us everything in an effort to save himself.’

‘But I cannot see,’ pressed Bon, all wounded reason. ‘How can I have written letters to Uyten purporting to be from Illesy?’

‘And there is another slip! How could you know that the orders came in the form of letters unless you had sent them? And you do not need to have written them yourself. You can dictate.’

For the first time, Bon looked directly at him, and the smile he gave was cold. ‘But no one can prove it. Uyten thinks he was following Illesy’s instructions, and you will not be in a position to put him right. I shall not bear the blame for any scandal that comes to light. Illesy will.’

There was a sudden cheering roar from the invaders below. Someone had found a robust piece of scaffolding that would serve as a battering ram.

‘What is going on, de Stannell?’ demanded Bon, going to the window. ‘I cannot make out who is doing what. Tell me!’

‘It is the sound of your machinations about to destroy you,’ said Michael. ‘The burglaries, the murders, the blackmail of another foundation – all these have made you enemies.’

‘I did what was necessary to ensure our survival. This is a noble venture, and I look to the day when the whole country is run by Winwick-trained lawyers. Nothing can stand in the way of such a dream. Our founder is a true visionary.’

‘Then I imagine he will be appalled when he learns what you have done.’

‘He will never find out. Everyone who knows the truth is either an ally or will be dead.’

Bon turned to de Stannell, to give the order to shoot, but both Bartholomew and Michael knew that by far the greater danger was the mob below. Desperately, the physician racked his brain for ways to restore calm, but nothing came to mind.

‘Elvesmere was your friend,’ said Michael, his voice full of distaste. ‘But you killed him without a second thought. You stabbed him, not this silly deputy here, but your poor eyesight prevented you from making a clean job of it.’