Death of a Scholar

Book 20: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

In the summer of 1358 the physician Matthew Bartholomew returns to Cambridge to learn that his beloved sister is in mourning after the unexpected death of her husband, Oswald Stanmore. Aware that his son has no interest in the cloth trade that made his fortune and reputation, Oswald has left the business to his widow, but a spate of burglaries in the town distracts Matthew from supporting Edith in her grief and attempting to keep the peace between her and her wayward son.

As well as the theft of irreplaceable items from Michaelhouse, which threatens its very survival, a new foundation, Winwick Hall, is causing consternation amongst Matthew's colleagues. The founder is an impatient man determined that his name will grace the University's most prestigious college. He has used his wealth to rush the construction of the hall, and his appointed Fellows have infiltrated the charitable Guild founded by Stanmore, in order to gain the support of Cambridge's most influential citizens on Winwick's behalf.

A perfect storm between the older establishments and the brash newcomers is brewing when the murder of a leading member of the Guild is soon followed by the death of one of Winwick's senior Fellows. Assisting Brother Michael in investigating these fatalities leads Matthew into a web of suspicion, where conspiracy theories are rife but facts are scarce and where the pressure from the problems of his college and his family sets him on a path that could endanger his own future ...

Release date: June 5, 2014

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 464

Sample

Oswald Stanmore knew he was dying. He also knew it was time to push earthly concerns from his mind and concentrate on his immortal soul, but he could not bring himself to do it. At least, not yet. His beloved wife Edith sat at his bedside, and her good opinion was important to him – he did not want her to learn that not everything he had done during his long and very successful career as a clothier had been legal or ethical.

He had managed to destroy all evidence of his more serious transgressions – the reek of burnt parchment still hung about him – but what about the rest? It had not been easy to be a merchant in such turbulent times. The interminable war with France, famine, plague, years of unpredictable weather – all had taken their toll on trade, and only the strongest had survived. Stanmore had done what was necessary to protect his family from the wretchedness of poverty.

He closed his eyes, aware that he was deluding himself, which was hardly wise at such a time. The truth was that he loved the darker side of commerce – outwitting competitors, avoiding the King’s taxes, driving a ruthless bargain. His willingness to bend the rules had given him an edge his rivals had lacked, and had made him one of the wealthiest businessmen in the shire. Edith knew nothing of it, of course, and the thought that she might find out when he was dead sent a pang of distress spearing through him. He groaned aloud.

‘Doctor Rougham will be here soon,’ said Edith, misunderstanding the cause of his anguish. Her bright smile reminded him that she had no idea of the gravity of his condition. ‘You have chosen a bad time for a fever, dearest. Matt is away.’

She referred to her brother, Matthew Bartholomew, considered by the family to be the town’s best physician. Rougham, on the other hand, was an indifferent practitioner, more interested in making money than in his patients’ welfare. Stanmore grimaced. He could hardly blame Rougham for that – a fondness for money was a failing he owned himself.

The door clanked, and Rougham entered the room. As befitting a man of his academic and social standing, he had spent a small fortune on his clothes. The material had come from the Stanmore warehouses, naturally, but there was a flaw in the weave that prevented the tabard from hanging as well as it might, and Stanmore was gripped by a sense of shame. He remembered that particular bolt, and should not have charged Rougham full price for it.

‘Marsh fever,’ announced Rougham, after the briefest of examinations. ‘It always strikes at this time of year. Indeed, I have only just recovered from a bout of it myself.’

Stanmore knew otherwise, but made no effort to say so. Why bother, when it would make no difference? Rougham and Edith began to discuss remedies and tonics, so he let his mind wander to what he had done that day.

He had spent most of it in his solar, frantically destroying records in the hope of sparing Edith some worrisome discoveries – a difficult task when the deceitful was so intricately interwoven with the honest. A summons had come in the early evening, inviting him to a secret meeting. He had gone at once, hoping it might win him a little more time. It had not, for which he was heartily sorry – another day would have seen evidence of all his misdeeds eliminated, and he could have died safe in the knowledge that Edith would never learn what he had kept from her for so many years.

If he had known then that he would not see another dawn, he would have hurried home and spent his last few hours finishing the task he had started. Instead, he had attended a gathering of the Guild of Saints. The Guild was a charitable organisation that he himself had founded as a sop to his nagging conscience. He had encouraged other rich citizens to join, too, and was proud of the good work they had done. He had gone that night to reassure himself that it was strong enough to continue after his death. After all, it might count in his favour when his soul was weighed.

He had started to feel unwell during a discussion about the widows’ fund, but he had paid the signs no heed. However, when he had stood up at the end of the meeting, he had known that something was badly amiss. He had hurried home, and succeeded in burning a few more documents before pain and weakness drove him to his bed, at which point Edith had sent for Rougham.

Stanmore glanced at the medicus, who was haughtily informing Edith that the only remedy for marsh fever was snail juice and cloves. How the man could have made such a wildly inaccurate diagnosis was beyond Stanmore – Matt would certainly have seen the truth. But there was no point saying anything; it was not important. In fact, perhaps it was even better this way.

‘I have changed my will, Edith.’ Stanmore felt as though he was speaking underwater, every word an effort. ‘You will inherit this house, the manor in Trumpington and the business. Richard will have everything else. He will be pleased – he has never been interested in cloth, and this leaves him rich without the bother of overseeing warehouses.’

Edith blinked. ‘You are not going to die! You will feel better in the morning.’

He did not try to argue. ‘Richard is not the son I hoped he would be. He is selfish and decadent, and I dislike his dissipated friends. Do not turn to him for help when I am gone. Zachary Steward knows the business, and can be trusted absolutely. Matt will support you with everything else. He is a good man.’

A good man who would be guilt-stricken for being away when he was needed, thought Stanmore sadly. It was a pity. He would have spared him that if he could.

‘Stop, Oswald!’ cried Edith, distressed. ‘This is gloomy talk.’

He managed to grab her hand, but darkness was clawing at the edges of his vision, and he sensed he did not have many moments left. He gazed lovingly at her, then slowly closed his eyes. He did not open them again.

Mid-September 1358

Few foundations had ever been as unpopular as Winwick Hall. The University at Cambridge, a body of ponderous, exacting men, liked to take its time over important decisions, and was dismayed by the speed with which the new College had sprung into existence. One moment it had been a casual suggestion by a wealthy courtier, and the next it was a reality, with buildings flying up and Fellows appointed. Now, it was to receive its charter – the document in which the King formally acknowledged its existence – which would be presented at a grand ceremony in St Mary the Great.

John Winwick, Keeper of the Privy Seal, smiled his satisfaction as the University’s senior scholars began to gather outside the church, ready to process inside and begin the rite. Winwick Hall was his College, named after him. He had bought land on the High Street, he had hired masons to raise a magnificent purpose-built hall, and he had chosen its first members. He had even worked out the curriculum that would be taught.

It had all been an unholy rush, of course. Indeed, the mortar was still damp in places, and haste had rendered the roof somewhat lopsided, but Winwick was an impatient man who had baulked at the notion of waiting years while the University deliberated about whether to let him proceed. He wanted students to start their studies that term, not in a decade’s time.

Unfortunately, his aggressive tactics had earned enemies for the fledgling foundation. The other Colleges felt threatened by it, jealous of its prestigious position on the High Street and its connections to Court, while the hostels envied its luxurious accommodation and elegant library. The townsfolk were a potential source of trouble, too – they hated the University anyway, and were appalled by the notion of yet more scholars enrolling to swell its ranks. Bearing all this in mind, John Winwick had taken measures to safeguard his creation.

First, he had arranged for sturdy walls and stalwart gates to be raised, like the ones that protected the other Colleges, and had employed the most pugnacious porter he could find to oversee its security. Second, he had chosen as Fellows men who knew their way around the dark corridors of power, who would be adept at fighting back should rivals like Bene’t, King’s Hall or Michaelhouse conspire to do it harm. And third, he had secured an alliance with the Guild of Saints, a masterstroke of which he was inordinately proud.

The Guild of Saints was unusual in that it boasted both townsfolk and scholars as members, although only those who were very wealthy were invited to join. Oswald Stanmore had created it to help the poor, but its objectives had been changed since his death, so it now supported a much wider range of worthy causes. Winwick had persuaded it that his College was one, and had cajoled it into making a substantial donation. This was a clever move on two counts: it eased the pressure on his own purse – a relief, given that the venture had cost twice what he had anticipated – and it gave the guildsmen a vested interest in the place. They would defend it, should he not be on hand to oblige.

Now all he had to do was sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labour, although he would have to do it from afar. He would be with the King, making himself indispensable in the hope of winning yet more honours and wealth. And in time, clerks from his College – law was the only subject that would be taught at Winwick Hall – would help him in his designs, men who would be grateful for the chance they had been given, and who would repay him with loyal service and favours.

He smiled. Life was good, and he looked forward to it being even better. Smugly, he turned to his scholars, and told them the order in which he wanted them to process into the church. Unfortunately, both the Guild and the academics themselves had other ideas, and an unseemly spat began to blossom. A short distance away, three men watched as tempers grew heated. They were the University’s Chancellor and his two proctors.

‘I still cannot believe this happened so quickly,’ said the Senior Proctor, a plump Benedictine named Brother Michael. ‘I go to Peterborough for a few weeks, leaving you two to maintain the status quo, and I return to find Winwick Hall half built and its doors open to students.’

‘Its founder has a very devious way with words,’ said Chancellor Tynkell defensively. He was a timid, ineffectual man, and it was common knowledge that it was Michael, not he, who ran the University. ‘I found myself agreeing to things without realising the consequences.’

‘I did suggest you let me deal with him,’ said John Felbrigge, a stout, forceful individual who liked being Junior Proctor because it gave him the opportunity to tell other people what to do. ‘I would not have been bullied.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, not entirely approvingly. Felbrigge had not been in post for long, but had already managed to alienate an enormous number of people. Moreover, he had designs on the Senior Proctorship, and Michael disliked an ambitious underling snapping at his heels. ‘Having a ninth College does make our University stronger, yet I am uneasy about the whole venture.’

‘You worry needlessly,’ said Tynkell, comfortable in the knowledge that he would retire soon, so any trouble would not be for him to sort out. ‘Besides, would you rather John Winwick took his money to Oxford?’

‘Of course not!’ Michael hated the Other Place with every fibre of his being. ‘But I do not like the kind of men who have flocked here, hoping to study in Winwick Hall.’

‘True,’ agreed Felbrigge. ‘There have already been several nasty brawls with the townsfolk.’

‘Things will ease once term starts,’ said Tynkell, although with more hope than conviction. ‘These young men will either become absorbed in their studies, or Winwick Hall will decline to take them and they will leave.’

‘You are half right.’ Michael eyed him balefully. ‘Many will leave when their applications are rejected. However, some will win places, and as Winwick Hall is taking only the richest candidates, regardless of their intellectual ability, we shall have a lot of arrogant dimwits strutting around.’

All three looked towards Winwick’s Fellows. So far, there were five and a Provost, although provision had been made to add more during the year. They were resplendent in their new livery – blue gowns with pink hoods – a uniform far more striking than the sober colours favoured by the other foundations.

‘Provost Illesy,’ said Michael sourly. ‘Why not Master or Warden, like everywhere else? “Provost” implies that he has control of a collegiate church, and as Winwick Hall is in the parish of St Mary the Great, he might try to take the place over. And we work in that church.’

‘It is a concern,’ agreed Felbrigge. He lowered his voice to a gossipy whisper. ‘John Winwick said that he chose Illesy as Provost because he is the most talented lawyer in Cambridge. Yet I cannot forget that Illesy has represented some very unsavoury clients in the past – criminals, no less. However, I have taken steps to keep him and his College in their place.’

Michael was indignant at the presumption. ‘What steps?’

‘I am a member of the Guild of Saints, as you know,’ replied Felbrigge. He smirked superiorly: Michael and Tynkell would never be asked to join, as neither was sufficiently affluent. ‘And we have a say in what happens at Winwick Hall, because it could not have been built without our money. So I have used my influence to install one or two safeguards.’

‘Such as?’ demanded Michael.

‘I am afraid I cannot say, Brother. Blabbing about them will undermine their efficacy. But do not worry. Everything is under control.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Michael tightly. ‘But if it affects my University, I want to know what—’

‘Your University?’ interrupted Felbrigge insolently. ‘I thought it belonged to all of us.’

Michael was so unused to anyone challenging his authority that he was startled into silence. Then Winwick’s procession began to move, and his belated rejoinder was drowned out by shouts from onlookers – a few cheers, but mostly catcalls and jeers. He heard a hiss and a thump over the clamour, but thought nothing of it until Chancellor Tynkell issued a shrill shriek of horror.

He turned to see Felbrigge on his knees, an arrow protruding from his middle. He glanced around quickly, but the road was so full of buildings and alleys that the archer might have been anywhere. Pandemonium erupted. Scholars and spectators scrambled for cover, while Felbrigge slumped face-down on the ground. A physician hurried to help him.

‘Dead?’ asked the monk unsteadily, when the medicus sat back on his heels, defeated.

‘I am afraid so, Brother.’

Chesterton, the Feast of St Michael and All Angels(29 September) 1358

John Potmoor was a terrible man. He had lied, cheated, bullied and killed to make himself rich, and was hated and feared across an entire region. No crime was beneath him, and as he became increasingly powerful, he recruited more and more like-minded henchmen to aid him in his evil deeds. Yet it was a point of pride to him that he was just as skilled a thief now as he had been in his youth, and to prove it, he regularly went out burgling.

Although by far the richest pickings were in Cambridge, Potmoor did not operate there – he was no fool, and knew better than to take on the combined strength of Sheriff and Senior Proctor. Then an opportunity arose. Sheriff Tulyet was summoned to London to account for an anomaly in the shire’s taxes, and Brother Michael went to Peterborough. Potmoor was delighted: their deputies were members of the Guild of Saints, as was Potmoor himself, and guildsmen always looked after each other. He moved quickly to establish himself in fresh pastures, and they turned a blind eye to his activities, just as he expected.

Not every guildsman was happy with his expansion, though: Oswald Stanmore had objected vociferously to Potmoor’s men loitering around the quays where his barges unloaded. Then Stanmore died suddenly, and those who supported him were quick to fall silent. By the time Brother Michael returned, Potmoor’s hold on the town was too strong to break, and the felon was assailed with a sense of savage invincibility. But he had woken that morning feeling distinctly unwell.

At first, he thought nothing of it – it was an ague caused by the changing seasons and he would soon shake it off. But he grew worse as the day progressed, and by evening he was forced to concede that he needed a physician. He sent for John Meryfeld, and was alarmed by the grave expression on the man’s normally jovial face. A murmured ‘oh, dear’ was not something anyone liked to hear from his medicus either.

At Meryfeld’s insistence, Surgeon Holm was called to bleed the patient, but the sawbones’ expression was bleak by the time the procedure was finished. Unnerved, Potmoor summoned the town’s other medical practitioners – Rougham of Gonville, Lawrence of Winwick Hall and Eyer the apothecary. The physicians asked a number of embarrassingly personal questions, then retreated to consult their astrological tables. When their calculations were complete, more grim looks were exchanged, and the apothecary began to mix ingredients in a bowl, although with such a want of zeal that it was clear he thought he was wasting his time.

A desperate fear gripped Potmoor at that point, and he ordered his son Hugo to fetch Matthew Bartholomew. Although the most talented of the town’s medici, Potmoor had resisted asking him sooner because he was Stanmore’s brother-in-law. Potmoor did not know the physician well enough to say whether he had taken his kinsman’s side in the quarrel over the wharves, but he had been unwilling to take the chance. Now, thoroughly frightened, he would have accepted help from the Devil himself had it been offered.

Hugo rode to Cambridge as fast as his stallion would carry him, but heavy rain rendered the roads slick with mud on the way back, and Bartholomew was an abysmal horseman. Hugo was forced to curtail his speed – the physician would be of no use to anyone if he fell off and brained himself – so the return journey took far longer than it should have done.

They arrived at Chesterton eventually, and the pair hurried into the sickroom. It was eerily quiet. The other medici stood in a silent semicircle by the window, while Potmoor’s henchmen clustered together in mute consternation.

‘You are too late,’ said Surgeon Holm spitefully. He did not like Bartholomew, and was maliciously gratified that his colleague had braved the storm for nothing. ‘We did all we could.’

Hugo’s jaw dropped. ‘My father is dead? No!’

‘It is God’s will,’ said Meryfeld gently. ‘We shall help you to lay him out.’

‘Or better yet, recommend a suitable woman,’ said Rougham. It was very late, and he wanted to go home.

‘But he was perfectly well yesterday,’ wailed Hugo. ‘How can he have died so quickly?’

‘People do,’ said Lawrence, an elderly gentleman with white hair and a kindly smile. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘How do you know he is dead?’ demanded Hugo. ‘He might just be asleep.’

‘He is not breathing,’ explained Meryfeld patiently. ‘His eyes are glazed, he is cold and he is stiff. All these are sure signs that the life has left him.’

‘Declare him dead so we can go,’ whispered Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘I know it is wrong to speak ill of the departed, but Potmoor was a vicious brute who terrorised an entire county. There are few who will mourn his passing – other than his equally vile helpmeets and Hugo.’

Bartholomew stepped towards the bed, but immediately sensed something odd about the body. He examined it briefly, then groped for his smelling salts in the bag he always wore looped over his shoulder.

‘Sal ammoniac?’ asked Eyer in surprise, when he saw the little pot of minerals and herbs that he himself had prepared. ‘That will not work, Matt. Not on a corpse.’

Bartholomew ignored him and waved it under Potmoor’s nose. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Potmoor sneezed, his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright.

‘I have just been in Heaven!’ the felon exclaimed. ‘I saw it quite clearly – angels with harps, bright light, and the face of God himself! Why did you drag me back from such a paradise?’

‘That is a good question, Bartholomew,’ muttered Rougham sourly. ‘Why could you not have left him dead?’

It was an inauspicious start for a new College. Geoffrey de Elvesmere of Winwick Hall lay dead in the latrine, sprawled inelegantly with his clothes in disarray around him. Matthew Bartholomew was sorry. Elvesmere had been a fastidious, private man, who would have hated the indignity of the spectacle he was providing – three of his colleagues had come to gawp while his body was being inspected. Establishing why he had died was a task that fell to Bartholomew, who was not only a physician and a Doctor of Medicine at Michaelhouse, but also the University’s Corpse Examiner – the man responsible for providing official cause of death for any scholar who shed the mortal coil.

‘Our first fatality,’ sighed Provost William Illesy. He was tall, suave, sly-eyed and wore more rings than was practical for a mere eight fingers and two thumbs. ‘I knew we would lose members eventually, but I was not expecting it to be quite so soon.’

‘It will look bad in our records,’ agreed a small, sharp-faced Fellow named Ratclyf. His expression turned thoughtful. ‘So perhaps we should pretend he never enrolled. Officially, we are not part of the University until term starts next week, so there is no reason why—’

‘You do not mean that,’ interrupted the last of the trio sharply. Master Lawrence was unusual in that he was not only a medicus, but a lawyer as well. His long white hair and matching beard made him distinctive, and although he had not been in Cambridge long, he was already noted for his compassion and sweetness of manner. ‘It is shock speaking. Elvesmere was a lovely man, and we should be proud to count him as a colleague.’

Bartholomew kept his eyes on the corpse, lest Lawrence should read the disbelief in his face. He had only met Elvesmere twice, but had considered him rude, officious and haughty. A long way from being ‘lovely’ in any respect.

‘I suppose he suffered a seizure,’ mused Illesy. ‘He was very excited about the beginning of term ceremony, and I said only last night that he should calm himself.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘What ceremony? There is nothing to mark the occasion except a long queue to sign the register and a short service in St Mary the Great.’

‘This year will be different, because of us,’ explained Ratclyf smugly. ‘We are to be formally incorporated into the University, so there will be a grand procession.’

But Bartholomew’s attention had returned to the body, and he was no longer listening. Elvesmere was in an odd position, one he was sure the man could not have managed by himself. ‘Has he been moved?’

‘No,’ replied Illesy, pursing his lips in disapproval. ‘Although he should have been. It is disrespectful for an outsider like you to see him in such an embarrassing situation.’

‘But Lawrence would not let us,’ added Ratclyf, treating his colleague to a cool glance. ‘Even though we are not quite members of the University, he said its Corpse Examiner would still need to inspect Elvesmere in situ.’

There was a distinct sneer in Ratclyf’s voice as he spoke Bartholomew’s title, but the physician chose to ignore it. The post had been created by the Senior Proctor as a way to secure help with the many suspicious deaths that occurred in the town – when Brother Michael had first started calling on his expertise, Bartholomew had vehemently objected, feeling his duty lay with the living. Now he earned three pennies for every case, he was happy to oblige, as he needed the money to supply medicine for his enormous practice of paupers.

There was another reason why his objections had diminished, too: familiarity with cadavers had taught him that there was much to be learned from them. He felt this knowledge made him a better physician, and he was sorry the study of anatomy was frowned upon in England. He had watched several dissections at the University in Salerno, and it was obvious to him that they should form part of every medicus’s training.

‘Lawrence doubtless hopes that you will do for Elvesmere what you did for Potmoor,’ Ratclyf went on. ‘Namely raise him from the dead.’

‘Potmoor was not dead,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Reviving such an infamous criminal had earned him almost universal condemnation, and he was tired of people berating him for it. ‘He would have woken on his own eventually.’

‘So you say,’ harrumphed Ratclyf. ‘But you should have let him—’

‘Enough, Ratclyf,’ interrupted Provost Illesy irritably. ‘Potmoor has been very generous to our new College, and it is ungracious to cast aspersions on the way he earns his living.’

‘I am not casting aspersions on him, I am casting them on Bartholomew. If he had not used magic potions, Potmoor would have stayed dead. It was witchcraft that brought him back.’

‘Actually, it was smelling salts,’ corrected Lawrence with one of his genial smiles. ‘We call them sal ammoniac. Like me, Matthew buys them from Eyer the apothecary, whose shop is next door.’ He gestured down the High Street with an amiable wave.

‘Well, he should have left them in his bag,’ grumbled Ratclyf. ‘Potmoor might give us princely donations, but that does not make him respectable. It was God’s will that he should perish that night, and Bartholomew had no right to interfere.’

‘Certain ailments produce corpse-like symptoms,’ began Bartholomew. He knew he was wasting his time by trying to explain, just as he had with the many others who had demanded to know what he thought he had been doing. ‘One is catalepsia, which is rare but fairly well documented. Potmoor was suffering from that.’

‘I came across a case once,’ said Lawrence conversationally. ‘In a page of Queen Isabella’s. They were lowering him into his grave, when he started banging on the lid of his coffin.’

‘Yes, but he was not a vicious criminal,’ sniffed Ratclyf. ‘Bartholomew should have found a way to keep Potmoor dead.’

Bartholomew disliked people thinking that physicians had the right to decide their patients’ fates. ‘I swore an oath to—’

‘You saved one of the greatest scoundrels who ever lived,’ interrupted Ratclyf. ‘And if that is not bad enough, Potmoor believes that his glimpse of Heaven means he is favoured by God. Now his wickedness will know no bounds.’

‘How can you call him wicked when he gave us money to build a buttress when our hall developed that worrying crack last week?’ asked Illesy reproachfully. ‘There is much good in him.’

‘You would think so,’ sneered Ratclyf. ‘You were his favourite lawyer, and it was your skill that kept him out of prison for so many years.’

‘How dare you!’ flashed Illesy, irritated at last by his Fellow’s bile. ‘You had better watch your tongue if you want to continue being a Fellow here.’

Bartholomew was embarrassed. Most halls kept their spats private, and he did not like witnessing rifts in Winwick. Lawrence saw it, and hastened to change the subject.

‘I was probably the last person to see Elvesmere alive,’ he told his fellow physician. ‘It was late last night. He said he felt unwell, so I made him a tonic. He was not in his room when I visited at dawn, so I assumed he was better and had gone to church, but I found him here a little later.’

‘He is cold and stiff,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Which means he probably died hours ago. Why was he not discovered sooner? Latrines are seldom empty for long, even at night.’

‘Because no one uses this one except him and me,’ explained Lawrence. ‘The seats are not fixed yet, you see, and have a nasty habit of tipping sideways when you least expect it.’

‘The rest of us prefer the safety of a bucket behind the kitchen,’ elaborated Ratclyf. He addressed his Provost archly. ‘Do you think Potmoor will pay to remedy that problem, or is it beneath his dignity as a member of the Guild of Saints and an upright citizen?’

‘Is something wrong, Bartholomew?’ asked Lawrence quickly, thus preventing the Provost from making a tart reply. ‘You seem puzzled.’

‘I am. You say Elvesmere has not been moved, yet I doubt he died in this position.’

‘He must have done,’ said Illesy. ‘You heard Lawrence: he and Elvesmere are the only ones who ever come here. And Lawrence is the one who insisted that nothing be touched until you came, so you can be sure that he has not rearranged anything.’

‘His position looks natural to me,’ said Lawrence, frowning. ‘The fatal seizure caused him to snatch at his clothes in his final agony, which is why they are awry.’

‘His final agony was not the result of a seizure,’ said Bartholomew. He eased the body forward to reveal a dark patch of red. ‘It was because he was stabbed.’

Provost Illesy turned so pale after Bartholomew’s announcement that the physician was afraid he might faint, so he asked Lawrence to take him somewhere to sit down. Then, with Ratclyf watching his every move with discomfiting intensity, he finished his examination. Afterwards, they wrapped the body and carried it to St Mary the Great, where it would lie until it