‘I hear Brother Michael is no further forward with solving the murder of his Junior Proctor,’ said Ratclyf as they walked. ‘Why should we trust him to keep us safe, when he cannot catch his own deputy’s killer? Personally, I think he should resign.’
‘It only happened two weeks ago,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Give him time.’
‘Yet I cannot say I was surprised when Felbrigge was shot,’ Ratclyf went on. ‘He antagonised not only half the University with his hubris, but most of the town, too.’
‘You exaggerate,’ said Bartholomew curtly. He had not particularly liked Felbrigge, but he detested gossip, especially from someone like Ratclyf, who was hardly a paragon of virtue himself.
‘I do not! And had he lived, there would have been trouble. He had a heavy hand with students, and they would have rebelled. Michael is well rid of him.’
‘How many pupils have enrolled at Winwick Hall?’ asked Bartholomew, pointedly changing the subject to something less contentious.
‘Twelve. But we shall have ten times that number by the beginning of term. Men flock to apply for places, and I anticipate that we shall be bursting at the seams in no time at all.’
Bartholomew was sure of it, as the town was currently full of men who had come in the hope of being offered a place. It was always a dangerous time of year, because the applicants did not officially become students until they had matriculated – registered with a College or a hostel – and so were outside the University’s jurisdiction. Ergo, there was nothing the Senior Proctor or his beadles could do about their boisterous high spirits, and the town resented them. Affrays were frequent and sometimes serious.
The discussion ended as Ratclyf led the way into the parlura, a pleasant chamber that smelled of wet plaster and new wood. Its walls were plain, still to be covered with tapestries or murals, and its floorboards had not yet been stained or waxed. When it was finished, it would be a delightful place to sit of an evening.
Illesy was by the hearth, with his Fellows clustered around him, so Ratclyf began to make introductions. First he indicated Master Lawrence.
‘As you know, our lawyer-medicus was the late Queen Isabella’s personal physician. But most of us are distinguished in our fields, so his appointment is in keeping with the high standards we at Winwick Hall aim to promote.’ Ratclyf turned to his Provost, and suddenly his voice was far less friendly. ‘And you have met Illesy, of course. Legal adviser to the villainous Potmoor.’
‘And plenty of other clients,’ added Lawrence quickly, when Illesy began to scowl. ‘No one knows more about criminal law than he, and we are lucky to have him. When they graduate, most of our students will be bound for Court, so such knowledge will be very useful.’
He beamed affably, although Bartholomew was disconcerted to learn that the men who ran his country might need to call upon someone who possessed the same kind of sly skills that had kept Potmoor from the noose.
‘I am not the only member of Winwick with links to Potmoor,’ said Illesy tightly. ‘Lawrence is his physician, a post he took when the last medicus was dismissed for failing to save him. I understand the honour was offered to you, Bartholomew, but you declined it.’
Bartholomew had, because he had no wish to be at the beck and call of wealthy criminals, although the excuse he had given was that he had too many patients already.
‘I like Potmoor,’ said Lawrence. ‘And I have seen nothing but generosity and kindness in him.’
‘And here are our last two Fellows,’ Ratclyf went on, treating the claim with the contempt he felt it deserved by ignoring it. ‘Albizzo di Nerli is from Florence, and is an expert in civil law. He has a string of degrees from the University at Salerno, and will certainly attract the best students.’
Nerli was a darkly handsome man with long black hair, an olive complexion and hooded eyes. He did not smile when Bartholomew bowed, and there was something cold and predatory about his manner. He stood apart from the others, as if he did not consider them sufficiently worthy company.
‘I have been a scholar all my life,’ he said. The others had been speaking French, but Nerli used Latin, which he pronounced with a strong Florentine accent. ‘But only in the country of my birth. Thus I am delighted with the opportunity to ply my skills farther afield.’
‘And finally, William Bon will teach our students how to be notaries public,’ finished Ratclyf.
Bon had a sharp, narrow face and wispy fair hair. The pupils of both eyes were white, and a student had been detailed to stay with him to ensure he did not fall. He moved confidently across the parlura to greet Bartholomew, though, and the physician suspected he would fare better still once the College was not strewn with workmen’s tools and building materials.
‘So now we all know each other,’ said Illesy snappishly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘What have you learned from examining our unfortunate colleague?’
‘Very little,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Except that I suspect he was stabbed elsewhere and was brought to the latrine after he died, perhaps to delay his discovery.’
‘So he was definitely murdered?’ asked Lawrence in a small voice.
‘Yes. However, the wound would not have been instantly fatal, so I fail to understand why he did not call for help.’
‘Perhaps he did,’ suggested Ratclyf. ‘But starting a new College is exhausting work, and we all sleep very soundly.’
‘The killer will be a member of another foundation,’ said Bon unpleasantly. He had a shrill, nasal voice, and its tone was acidic. ‘King’s Hall, Gonville, Valence Marie, Michaelhouse – they all resent us, and would love us tainted by scandal.’
Before Bartholomew could object to the claim, the door opened and the porter entered. His name was Jekelyn, a surly, belligerent man who was not above greeting visitors with torrents of unprovoked abuse. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
‘Visitor,’ he announced sourly. ‘John Knyt, Secretary of the Guild of Saints, who is probably here to make sure the donations it has given us are not being squandered. Although it is none of his business if they are.’
Bartholomew had always liked Knyt, a principled, compassionate man who was generous to the poor. He had been the obvious choice to lead an organisation that was committed to doing good works, a task he had inherited in August after the sudden death of Oswald Stanmore.
‘Knyt!’ cried Illesy gushingly, indicating with a sweep of his arm that the visitor was to enter. ‘You have caught us at a bad moment, I am afraid. Poor Elvesmere has been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ echoed Knyt, shocked. ‘I heard he was dead – servants gossip, and one of yours told one of mine – but no one said anything about murder. What happened?’
‘He was stabbed,’ replied Ratclyf. ‘I imagine it was Potmoor’s doing.’
‘It was not,’ snapped Illesy. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’
‘I am inclined to agree,’ said Lawrence, as Ratclyf drew breath to argue. ‘There is a tendency to blame everything on him these days, and he cannot be guilty of every crime.’
‘No,’ said Ratclyf flatly. ‘Of course not.’
There was no more Bartholomew could tell the Provost and his Fellows, so he took his leave. Knyt went with him, murmuring that the College should be left to grieve in peace. He and the physician walked across the yard, where the great gates that led to the High Street were detached from their posts and stood propped against a wall – the carpenter had ordered the wrong hinges, so they were waiting for a set that would fit.
‘How is Edith?’ asked Knyt. ‘I see her at Guild meetings, and she is always so very sad.’
Bartholomew knew this all too well. Although his sister’s marriage had been arranged, she had loved her husband dearly, and his death had left her grief-stricken and lonely. Bartholomew hated seeing her so low, but was acutely aware that there was nothing he could do to help.