The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 9

Michael was intrigued by the fact that Paxtone and Wynewyk had fled the orchard when they thought they were about to be caught there together, but still declined to tackle either scholar until he had something more specific to ask them. But the more Bartholomew thought about their furtive, secret discussion concerning the Water of Snails and Rougham, the more worried he became. What if Rougham was innocent of giving the medicine to Warde, as he claimed, and Paxtone had been the one to send it, knowing it might aggravate Warde’s cough to danger point? Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. But Rougham’s writing had been on the accompanying note. And why would Paxtone do such a thing to Warde, anyway?

Then he recalled another conversation he had overheard in the orchard – some five or six days ago now. Paxtone had been talking to Wynewyk about Rougham, and his words were still etched clearly in Bartholomew’s mind: ‘Rougham foils me at every turn, and is making a damned nuisance of himself. I may be forced to take some radical steps.’ Had Paxtone taken ‘radical steps’ against Rougham, by dispensing remedies to unsuspecting patients in his name? And what business of Paxtone’s had Rougham been foiling ‘at every turn’?

From the outset, Bartholomew had remained firm in his belief that Warde’s death had been due to natural causes – regardless of what his students and Matilde, and even Rougham, had claimed – but now doubts began to clamour at him. It was odd for an otherwise healthy man to die of a cough, and it was also odd that Warde’s sudden and dramatic decline had occurred after swallowing Water of Snails. But Bartholomew’s years as a physician had taught him that odd and inexplicable things happened to the human body all the time, so was he reading too much into the matter? However, Paxtone’s words to Wynewyk in the orchard continued to nag at him.

‘Paxtone knows about poisons, because he is a physician,’ he said aloud. ‘He could easily have slipped something toxic to Bosel and Warde – and even to Deschalers – by telling them it would improve their health. And while Rougham and I destroy each other with accusations, he will encourage all our bewildered and wary patients to employ him instead.’

‘You think Paxtone is killing people in order to expand his practice?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘He does not seem the kind of man to stoop to those depths, Matt. I thought you liked him.’

‘I do!’ Bartholomew accepted that acquiring more patients was an unusual motive for murder – and that Paxtone was hardly likely to use someone like Wynewyk to help him to do it – but there was no other solution that he could see. ‘How else can we explain his behaviour?’

Michael made no bones about the fact that he thought his friend was over-reacting. ‘There is no point in confronting him – or Wynewyk,’ he said practically. ‘You heard them discussing Rougham and the Water of Snails together, but so what? Half the town is speculating about that this morning.’

‘So we do nothing?’

‘We watch and wait. They will reveal themselves eventually, and then we will have our answers. They do not know you are suspicious of them, so we have some advantage.’

‘They do know, Brother – or Paxtone does. He said as much when I overheard them last week.’

But Michael still refused to act, and even claimed that a member of his own College and a respected medicus would never engage in anything overtly untoward, and that although their behaviour was suspicious and odd, there was probably nothing illegal going on. Bartholomew gaped at him, knowing from experience that decent-seeming men often indulged themselves in all manner of heinous deeds, but he saw the monk would not be convinced otherwise, and there was no point in pressing the matter further. Unhappily, he tried to put it from his mind.

A while later, when the light of late afternoon began to fade into the gentler hues of early evening, he heard raised voices coming from the College’s main gate. He abandoned his reading and went to look through the window to see what was happening. His students were in the room with him, but Redmeadow and Quenhyth were studying, and neither so much as glanced up at the commotion. Deynman, however, readily abandoned his Dioscorides and came to stand next to him.

Walter was hurrying across the yard towards them, his cockerel tucked under his arm. It did not look pleased when the porter broke into a trot and it found itself vigorously jarred, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more outraged expression on the face of a bird. Walter burst into the hallway and hammered on Bartholomew’s door.

‘Lenne’s son has just been,’ he said, clutching his pet firmly. ‘He wants you to visit his mother’s house. He says there is something seriously amiss, and asks if you will go at once. No, Bird!’

The chicken had wriggled out of his grasp and shot into Bartholomew’s chamber. It fluttered straight under the bed, where it knew it would be difficult to oust. Bartholomew snatched up his medicine bag and headed for the door, content to let his students deal with the feathered intruder. Deynman had already grabbed a sword to encourage it out, and Walter was screeching his horror that a sharp implement might hurt it.

‘I hope so,’ muttered Deynman, poking furiously. ‘It does not deserve to be in a College like Michaelhouse, with its dirty manners and unwelcome visitations. It should be at Valence Marie, where no one cares whether it wipes its teeth on the tablecloth.’

‘Hens do not have teeth,’ said Redmeadow, jumping forward to prevent the agitated Walter from hurling himself on to Deynman’s back.

‘Do not let it near my books,’ warned Bartholomew as he left. He started to run across the yard, not surprised when he heard footsteps behind him and saw Quenhyth following. Redmeadow was not far behind, more than happy to let Deynman manage Bird and its angry owner alone.

‘You might need us,’ said Redmeadow breathlessly, trying to keep up with the rapid pace Bartholomew was setting. ‘And I have been reading about diseases of the lungs all afternoon.’

They dashed up St Michael’s Lane, then along the High Street and left into Shoemaker Row, where the cobblers were beginning to close their shops for the night. Awnings were lowered, windows shuttered, wares carried inside, and the familiar tap of hammers on leather was stilled.

The door was opened immediately and they were ushered inside. As usual, the room was hazy with smoke, and the remains of a simple meal – weak broth and a crust of bread – sat on a stone by the hearth. Mistress Lenne lay on her bed, the covers folded carefully around her. The room had been swept and dusted, and her few belongings arranged neatly on the shelves. Her son had not been idle, and had ensured she would not die in a house that was dirty or untidy.

‘She is not breathing as she should,’ said Lenne, gesturing to the pale, sunken-eyed figure. There was panic in his eyes. ‘I do not know what to do.’

‘You can summon a priest,’ said Bartholomew, crouching next to the old woman and taking one of her bony wrists to feel a weak, thready pulse that beat erratically. ‘You have made her comfortable and she is not in pain. There is no more either of us can do now.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Lenne, aghast. ‘So soon?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, standing. ‘It will not be long now.’

‘This is my fault,’ whispered Lenne, stricken. ‘I should not have done what she asked.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping he was not about to be burdened with the confession that Lenne had given her some potion prescribed by Rougham – or by Paxtone, for that matter.

‘She asked me to carry her to St Mary the Great,’ said Lenne tearfully. ‘She wanted to visit the Hand of Justice. I told her I did not want to take her, but she begged me so pitifully.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Perhaps the journey did hasten her end, but I doubt she would have lived beyond tomorrow anyway. You did what she asked, and I am sure she appreciates that.’

‘I thought the Hand might save her,’ whispered Lenne. ‘I thought it might be moved by her suffering, and reach out to cure her. But I was wrong.’

‘I do not think she wants a cure,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what had induced the old woman to undertake a painful and exhausting journey in the last hours of her life. He was certain it was not to ask for her own recovery, since she had cared little about that after her husband’s death. Perhaps it was to ask forgiveness for ancient sins – long forgotten by humans, but ones she feared would be remembered when her soul was weighed.

Lenne’s eyes filled with tears. Quenhyth offered to fetch a priest, then slipped quietly out of the house when Lenne was unable to reply. Soon he returned with Father William, whom he had spotted leaving St Mary the Great after a hard day of supervising access to the Hand of Justice. William knelt next to Mistress Lenne, and began the final absolution. He spoke in a confident, booming voice that attracted a small group of neighbours, who removed hats and crossed themselves, and stood in a silent, deferential semicircle outside to wait for the end.

It was not long before William completed his business – his absolutions were almost as rapid as his masses, although people liked them because what they lacked in length they more than compensated for in volume. He promised to pray for her that night, then headed for the door, graciously declining Lenne’s offer of a penny for his services. Before he left, he took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him to one side.

‘Sheriff Tulyet took that poison business seriously,’ he whispered in the physician’s ear.

‘What poison business?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention still fixed on his patient. ‘Bosel?’

William sighed in gusty exasperation. ‘Where Rougham accused you of killing Warde with angelica, but then was caught delivering noxious potions himself. Rougham was taken to the Castle this afternoon, to answer questions about his Water of Snails.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Tulyet cannot do that. Rougham is a scholar, and is bound by the canon law of the Church. The University will riot for certain if it thinks the town is interrogating its clerks.’

‘It was Rougham’s own fault. He refused to acknowledge Brother Michael’s authority. He said Michael is your friend, and is therefore biased. Michael called his bluff, and turned the matter over to Tulyet. But Tulyet could not prove Rougham murdered Warde.’

‘I am not surprised. There is no evidence to suggest Warde was poisoned.’ But even as he spoke, he knew the doubt showed in his face.

‘Are you sure about that?’ demanded William, noticing it. ‘Did you assess the exact nature of the substance in Rougham’s so-called Water of Snails?’

‘No, but–’

‘The whole incident is highly suspicious,’ William went on. ‘You have a man with a minor ailment, who becomes disheartened when his own physician is unable to make him well. So, he hires a second physician. Meanwhile, the first physician sends him a potion, which the patient takes and promptly expires. The first physician denies sending the potion, and accuses the second physician of the crime he committed.’

‘I am not sure it happened quite like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was–’

‘Most folk believe Rougham murdered Warde,’ said Quenhyth confidently. ‘He is the kind of fellow to kill, then watch an innocent colleague hanged for his crime.’

‘I agree,’ said William. He nodded towards Mistress Lenne. ‘But you have work to do, Matthew. We can discuss this later, over a cup of mulled ale in the conclave.’

Bartholomew returned to the sickbed and put his head to his patient’s chest to listen to her heartbeat. It was slow and weak, and he knew it would stop altogether in a matter of moments.

‘Say your farewells,’ he said softly to Lenne. ‘She may still be able to hear you.’

‘Now?’ asked Lenne fearfully.

Bartholomew nodded, and moved away to give him some privacy. Quenhyth rubbed a sleeve across his eyes and sniffed as Lenne began to tell his mother that he loved her.

‘I do not know how you do this,’ Redmeadow whispered to Bartholomew in a strangled voice. ‘How can you hear these things day after day, and still want to be a physician?’

‘Being at a deathbed is part of the service you must provide for a patient. You need to ensure she is not in pain, and that she is comfortable. And then you must tell her kinsmen when she is finally dead, so they can prepare her for the grave. It is not unknown for them to start the process while she is still alive, unless a physician is on hand.’

‘This is not right,’ whispered Quenhyth unsteadily, as Lenne began to tell his mother in a broken voice how much he would miss her, and that his world would be a sad place without her smile. ‘She should not be dying. This is Thomas Mortimer’s fault, because of what he did to her husband.’

‘Not now, Quenhyth,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And not here, either. I think she has gone. Go to her, and put this piece of polished pewter near her mouth. If she is breathing, it will mist over. Then listen to her chest, and see whether you can hear her heart beating.’

‘Me?’ asked Quenhyth in horror.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You will have to do it sooner or later, and this is as good a time as any. It is quiet, and you will find it easy to test for the signs of life.’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth, backing away. He swallowed hard. ‘Redmeadow can do it, and I will take the next case.’

‘All right,’ agreed Redmeadow shakily. His face was white and, when he raised one trembling hand to smooth down his ginger hair in preparation for what he was about to do, Bartholomew noticed that the sleeve of his tunic was still peppered with the pale substance he had noticed before, and that Matilde had remarked upon.

Bartholomew took Lenne’s arm and sat him at the table, offering him a cup of strong wine in a vain attempt to calm some of his distraught sobs. Meanwhile, Redmeadow held the pewter at Mistress Lenne’s mouth for so long that Bartholomew began to wonder whether he had forgotten what to do next, but eventually the student placed his tousled head against her chest and listened as hard as he could, eyes screwed tightly closed as he concentrated.

‘She has gone,’ he said, wincing when Lenne began to weep afresh. He tucked the blankets around the old lady’s shoulders, as though she was being put to bed, then stood with his hands dangling helplessly at his side. ‘We cannot do any more for her.’

Both Redmeadow and Quenhyth were unusually silent when they left the Lenne house a little later. Neighbours had come to help with the grim ritual of preparing the body for burial, and Bartholomew saw the distressed Lenne was in kind and competent hands. Redmeadow was generally full of chatter and questions after they had visited patients, sometimes to the point of aggravation, but he said nothing at all as they walked back to Michaelhouse. Quenhyth excused himself and virtually fled, tears pooling in his eyes. He made no attempt to disguise the fact that he intended to head straight for a tavern for a fortifying drink. Since he never broke the University’s rules, Bartholomew saw the experience had shaken him badly.

Unfortunately, just as Bartholomew and Redmeadow were passing the Brazen George – both turning a blind eye as Quenhyth aimed for a discreet back entrance – Thomas Mortimer emerged through the front door. The miller was not drunk, but he was not sober, either, and had reached a point between the two states that rendered him dangerous, moody and unpredictable. Redmeadow stopped dead in his tracks and regarded him with considerable venom. Bartholomew grabbed his arm and tried to drag him on, not wanting a confrontation that might end in violence.

‘No!’ shouted Redmeadow, pulling away from his teacher. When he pointed at Mortimer, his finger shook with rage, and Bartholomew was reminded that the lad possessed a fiery temper to go with his flaming red hair. ‘That man is a killer. He murdered Mistress Lenne.’

‘I do not know the woman,’ said Mortimer, beginning to walk away. It was the wrong thing to say.

‘That is because you are a monster!’ yelled Redmeadow, pushing Bartholomew away a second time. ‘You are a devil, who kills the innocent and leaves behind him a trail of misery and sorrow. You are like the Death – and just as welcome.’

Mortimer took a threatening step towards him, but the student held his ground. Bartholomew saw that Redmeadow’s face glistened wet with tears. Behind Mortimer, the inn door opened again and Edward stepped out with a couple of his cousins. He saw his uncle engaged in an altercation with a student, and his face broke into an amused grin.

‘Come home,’ said Bartholomew softly to Redmeadow. ‘We cannot win this fight. Take your complaint to Sheriff Tulyet in the morning, and let him see justice done.’

‘Justice!’ sneered Redmeadow contemptuously. ‘What do we know of justice in Cambridge?’

‘I know about it,’ said Thomas Mortimer, deliberately inflammatory. ‘I prayed to the Hand that I would be free of accusations from the likes of Mistress Lenne, and look what has happened. Her malicious tongue saw her sicken – and I am told she will die.’

‘She is dead,’ said Redmeadow hotly. ‘A short time ago, and you are responsible.’

‘She brought it on herself,’ said Mortimer. ‘It was not my fault her husband wandered under my wheels, and I was more than patient with her wicked allegations. But the saints in Heaven have taken pity on me. Mistress Lenne is dead, and will not sully my good name again.’

‘You have no good name,’ shouted Redmeadow furiously. ‘None of your miserable family do. Edward was the first to bring you disgrace, but evil will out, and the rest of you are following him down the road of infamy and wickedness. It is–’

‘You insolent dog!’ snarled Mortimer, advancing on Redmeadow with fury etched on his purple-veined face. Bartholomew stepped forward to reason with him, but was almost knocked from his feet as Edward launched an attack of his own. Before the physician could say or do anything to prevent it, he was embroiled in a brawl – he and Redmeadow pitched against four Mortimers.

He saw the glint of steel in the fading light. Edward had drawn a dagger. Hastily he groped in his bag for one of his surgical knives, but Edward knew what he was doing and darted forward with the weapon flashing. Bartholomew only just managed to raise the bag in time to prevent himself from being run through. Edward tore it from his hands and tossed it away, advancing relentlessly with the encouraging howls of his cousins ringing in his ears. Bartholomew recalled what both Redmeadow and Ufford had said about Edward: that during his exile he had learned fighting skills that made him a formidable opponent. And Bartholomew had allowed himself to be manoeuvred into a position where he was facing him alone, without so much as a stick to defend himself.

‘It is just you and me, physician,’ taunted Edward, beckoning him forward with one hand while he waved the dagger with the other. Bartholomew cursed Redmeadow for his hot temper. ‘You have insulted and denigrated me ever since I returned, and it is time you paid for your insolence.’

He leapt forward again, and Bartholomew managed to grab his wrist, trying to shake the weapon from his grasp. Edward used his free hand to seize the physician by the throat. As the younger man’s fingers started to tighten, Bartholomew used his greater size and strength to force him back against the wall. They crashed against it hard enough to make Edward grunt in pain. But it did not stop him for long – he tipped back his head, then brought it forward sharply, intending to break Bartholomew’s nose with his forehead. Unfortunately for Edward, Bartholomew had seen this particular move before. He twisted away, turning Edward as he did so, and heard the man’s head crack against the wall with considerable force. While Edward staggered, dazed, Bartholomew knocked the dagger from his hand.

But the Mortimer cousins were not willing to stand by and see one of their own defeated. They moved in quickly and Bartholomew saw they both carried knives. He wondered how many moments he would have on Earth before one of them speared him.

‘If you kill him, you will have to kill me, too,’ came a calm voice from the other side of the street. ‘I will be a witness to your crime, and I will certainly testify against you. I will see you hang.’ It was Master Thorpe of Valence Marie, who had been attending a mass in nearby St Mary the Great.

‘You!’ sneered Edward, turning on him with an eagerness that was frightening. Master Thorpe did not flinch. ‘I will happily kill you as well, you traitorous pig!’

‘But then you will have to kill me,’ said Thomas Bingham, stepping out of the shadows and standing shoulder to shoulder with the Master of his College.

‘And me,’ said Pulham of Gonville Hall, swallowing hard. He lacked the calm courage of the Valence Marie men, and his eyes showed that he was terrified, but he stood firm nonetheless.

‘And then you can try to kill me, but I run fast and will reach Michaelhouse and tell the Senior Proctor what you have done long before you complete your slaughter,’ added Ufford, joining them. He still limped from his last encounter with Edward, so Bartholomew doubted he was telling the truth about his speed.

Other scholars began to move forward, too, none armed and all senior members of the University. There was Tynkell – standing apart, because even in a tense situation, no one wanted to be too close to him – and Paxtone from King’s Hall. Michaelhouse was also represented, and Wynewyk, Kenyngham and Clippesby hurried to wait at Bartholomew’s side. Bartholomew felt a sudden guilt for his suspicious thoughts about Wynewyk and Paxtone, who were prepared to risk their lives to save him.

There was a slight flicker in the shadows nearby. Bartholomew spotted Dame Pelagia, watching the scene with her bright, thoughtful eyes. He saw something glint in her hand, and supposed she held one of her famous throwing knives, ready to hurl it with deadly precision should the incident not end as she wanted. He sincerely hoped she was not a secret supporter of the Mortimer clan.

‘Put up your weapons and go home before anyone is hurt,’ said Kenyngham, ever the peace-maker. ‘All of you.’

The Mortimers knew they were beaten. Rubbing his wrist and looking more dangerous than Bartholomew had ever seen him, Edward stalked away. Nervously, as though anticipating a sly attack from behind, his cousins followed. Thomas hurried after them, flinging Redmeadow away from him as he went. The student scrambled to his feet, and Clippesby was obliged to grab his arm to prevent him from running after the miller to fight him again. Kenyngham murmured softly in his ear until the lad’s rage began to subside. When Bartholomew glanced into the shadows again, Dame Pelagia was nowhere to be seen.

‘You are lucky we happened to pass when we did,’ said Wynewyk, looking Bartholomew up and down to ensure he was unhurt. ‘Master Thorpe heard the commotion, and suggested we investigate.’

Master Thorpe was white-faced, his bravado turning to shock now the danger had passed. ‘You must not fight the Mortimers or my son, Bartholomew. You will not win against them.’

‘But I did win,’ objected Bartholomew, thinking he had comported himself rather well against a man whom everyone seemed to hold in such fear. ‘But then his cousins joined in.’

‘The Mortimers always fight as a pack,’ said Bingham. ‘Our students often complain about it.’

Tynkell fixed the physician with a stern stare. ‘Cambridge teeters on the brink of serious civil unrest, and I had hoped my senior masters would know better than to add to the turmoil by brawling in a public place like the High Street.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, knowing it would be churlish to point out that the quarrel was none of his making.

‘Good,’ said Tynkell with a faint smile. ‘That is what dark alleys are for.’

‘It is not what I use them for,’ said Wynewyk, leaving the other scholars very curious as to what the lawyer did do in the shady lanes to which the Chancellor referred. Bartholomew longed to ask, especially since Paxtone was there, but it did not seem appropriate after what they had just done for him.

‘I owe you an apology, Matt,’ said Paxtone, raising both hands in the air, as if in surrender. Bartholomew felt an immediate uneasiness. ‘I should have asked you first, but he seemed so keen to learn about Galen that I felt it unprofessional not to help. On reflection, I think I was unwise.’

‘Rob Thorpe?’ asked Bartholomew, a little disappointed that that was all. ‘And your letter recommending him? It did not matter. He sat at the back and I forgot he was there.’

‘Perhaps my first impressions were right, then,’ said Paxtone, relieved. ‘He really did want to learn about Galen. After I had written it, I began to wonder whether I had done the right thing. Still, I shall not do it again. I do not think it is a good idea for us to let killers visit any College they fancy.’

Bartholomew wholly agreed with him. ‘Do you often come to Michaelhouse?’

Paxtone seemed surprised by the question, then laughed, although Bartholomew was sure he caught a glitter of alarm in the man’s eyes. ‘That is a nice association of sentiments, Matt! I talk of killers in our Colleges and you ask me whether I frequent your own! But you know I do not. You are the only one I know from Michaelhouse, and you say you will not invite me to dine until the food improves.’

Bartholomew did not know what to make of his answer, but did not like the fact that Paxtone was lying to him. He grabbed Redmeadow by the scruff of his neck and hauled him away, leaving his colleagues proudly discussing their outwitting of the Mortimers.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Redmeadow sheepishly. ‘I was upset about Mistress Lenne. I did not mean to drag you into a fight.’

‘Well, do not do it again,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘We might not be so lucky next time.’

‘I gave that murdering bastard a good punch in the eye, though,’ added Redmeadow, with the shadow of a smile. ‘And I saw blood. Perhaps I have done him more harm than he knows. Especially if he goes to Rougham for a cure.’

‘I would not take Rougham’s accusations too seriously, Matt,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat in the conclave the following morning after breakfast. ‘Dick Tulyet saw them for what they are: feeble and transparent attempts to shift the blame for Warde’s death on to someone else.’

‘It is not Dick I am worried about,’ said Bartholomew, stretching muscles that were stiff after the fracas of the previous evening. ‘I am concerned about folk who do not know me so well, and who might believe Rougham is telling the truth. He has not stopped talking about me since Warde died on Saturday night – and it is now Tuesday. There is hardly a soul in Cambridge who has not heard that I killed Warde with angelica in order to inherit a book.’

‘People are not stupid, Matt. They can see Rougham is a pompous, blustering fool. You are right not to respond in kind, because each new outbreak of accusations merely serves to underline the fact that he is a graceless, undignified oaf.’

‘I do not understand why he has taken against me so rabidly. We have never been friends, but we have tolerated each other politely enough until just recently. What has changed?’

‘He does not like your students, particularly Redmeadow and Quenhyth,’ said Michael. ‘But it is hard to condemn him for that – I do not like Quenhyth myself, while Redmeadow is a hot-headed brawler. He was also furious when you were made Corpse Examiner, because he wanted the post for himself. He says he needs the fees to help pay for Gonville’s chapel.’

‘But these are hardly good reasons to declare war on me.’

‘Envy is a powerful emotion,’ preached Michael. ‘I told you before: he is jealous of your success.’

‘And his claim that I caused Warde’s death is unfair,’ Bartholomew went on, barely hearing him. ‘If he had not forced Warde to speak, then perhaps he might not have died.’

Michael’s eyes were round. ‘Are you accusing him of murder now? I thought you had Paxtone in mind for that particular crime.’

‘I did … do. Well, perhaps.’ Bartholomew rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I do not know.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘You have not mentioned your suspicions about Rougham before. Perhaps I should ignore his refusal to acknowledge the authority of the Senior Proctor and arrest him anyway. Who knows? He may confess to killing Bottisham and Deschalers, too. After all, they were both his patients.’

‘I doubt he killed them deliberately,’ said Bartholomew wearily.

‘A nail through the roof of the mouth is not deliberate?’ asked Michael. ‘What was he doing, then? Practising some obscure method of cautery, to effect a cure for Deschalers’s canker?’

‘I mean I do not think Rougham is their murderer. I would like him to be – to be rid of him and to solve the mystery at the same time – but he is so averse to surgery that taking a nail to someone would be anathema to him.’ He smiled. ‘Matilde is certain he killed Warde.’

‘And his motive?’ Michael answered his own question. ‘To attack the King’s Commission – partly because Gonville men are the Mortimers’ lawyers, and partly because Gonville has been promised Mortimer money for their chapel if they win against the Millers’ Society.’

‘That is what she thinks. But there is no evidence that Warde was murdered. He just choked.’

‘But you just said Rougham’s actions brought about Warde’s death. Make up your mind, Matt. Which is it: did Rougham kill Warde with his ministrations, or did he not?’

‘Not on purpose. I think he genuinely believed he was helping, although even Deynman would have known not to make a gagging man speak – and not to mention deathbeds and graves.’

‘Then what about the Water of Snails?’ asked Michael. ‘Could that have killed him?’

‘You mean did it poison him? Aqua Limacum Magistralis is not a pleasant concoction, but it is basically harmless. However, Matilde said we only have Rougham’s word that it contained Water of Snails and not something else.’

‘She has a point,’ said Michael. He shuddered. ‘I would never drink anything with a name like “Water of Snails”. I would sooner eat cabbage – and that should tell you something!’ He rummaged in his scrip. ‘But I have the phial here, as it happens. I took the precaution of securing it when you examined Warde, for no reason other than that it was to hand. Will you test it now?’

Bartholomew took the tiny pottery container, and removed the stopper to inspect its contents. Warde had not obeyed Rougham’s instructions to swallow it all: about half was still left. It was a milky reddish colour, and Bartholomew recalled thinking in Lavenham’s shop that the apothecary had not taken as much care with its preparation as he should have done, because the potion had not been filtered through sand, to clear it.

‘I want to know exactly what is in that,’ Michael went on. ‘The note Rougham sent Warde urged him to drink its contents in their entirety. Now, I am no physician, but I have never heard you encouraging a patient to swallow an entire phial’s worth of a remedy.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You are right. Small pots, like this one, usually hold powerful medicines that are given only in minute quantities. I would never tell a patient to down the whole thing.’ He sniffed carefully at the contents. ‘That is odd.’

‘What?’ demanded Michael. ‘Do not tell me you really have discovered poison? I thought we were just devising ways to expose Rougham as dangerously incompetent.’

‘I can detect ingredients here that I would expect – such as coltsfoot for loosening phlegm – but it should also contain powered liquorice root. Liquorice root has a strong scent, and tends to mask other aromas. But it seems to have been left out.’

‘Perhaps Lavenham forgot it,’ suggested Michael. He regarded his friend intently. ‘What is the matter? You have noticed something suspicious – I can tell from your face. What is it?’

Bartholomew looked at the phial. ‘There is something nasty in this – a strongly scented herb that I cannot identify.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘I suppose we shall have to look elsewhere for ways to discredit Rougham, then, if you cannot be more specific.’

‘I have not started yet,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. His scientific method for analysing complex compounds comprised more than a few arbitrary sniffs and the conclusion that one ingredient smelled vile. And he had not been entirely honest when he said he was not able to identify the strong herb in the concoction, either. He had a notion that it might be henbane – a powerful poison that might well have caused the sweating and breathlessness Warde had experienced before his death – but he wanted to conduct proper experiments before he shared his concerns.

He left the conclave and went to the storeroom where he kept his medicines. Michael followed, intrigued to know what he planned to do. In the bedchamber next door, Quenhyth and Redmeadow were studying. Redmeadow was none the worse for his skirmish the previous evening, although he had expressed a reluctance to leave the College that day.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, when both students came to see why their teacher and Michael were crammed into the small room.

‘I am going to test this phial, to see whether it contains poison,’ explained Bartholomew.

‘Why?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘The label says it is Water of Snails. Used sometimes for coughs,’ he added triumphantly, pleased to show he had remembered his lessons.

‘It was the only thing Warde drank that his colleagues did not on the night of his death,’ said Michael. ‘So, we need to determine what is in it.’

‘It is a good idea to test it,’ said Quenhyth approvingly. ‘It came from Rougham, and we all know what kind of man he is. He may well have murdered Warde with “medicine” that he claimed would make him better.’ His eyes gleamed, and Bartholomew saw he was delighted with the notion that the hated Rougham might be unveiled as a villain. ‘I will assess it for you. It will not take a moment.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, wanting to know why he seemed so confident of success in so short a time.

‘I will feed it to the College cat. If the cat dies, then we shall know Rougham fed Warde poison. If the cat lives, then Rougham is innocent.’

‘And what about the cat?’ asked Bartholomew, who was fond of the burly tabby that prowled the kitchens in search of rats. ‘What has it done to deserve being used in such a manner?’

‘Its life is unimportant in the advancement of science,’ declared Quenhyth grandly. ‘But you seem to believe that Rougham is guilty, or you would not be worried about it.’

‘I do not think any such thing,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Quenhyth might start another dangerous rumour. ‘But leave the cat alone. If I find out you have harmed it, I shall see you are expelled.’

‘And I will run you through with Deynman’s sword,’ added Redmeadow. His voice was hard and cold, and Bartholomew was certain he meant what he said.

Quenhyth ignored him. ‘I am only offering to do what you have taught me: experiment and explore the evidence with an open mind. And besides, it is only a cat.’

‘I like cats,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Especially that one. So keep your hands off it.’

‘Very well,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘But how else will you prove Rougham is a killer?’

‘I am not trying to prove Rougham is a killer,’ said Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘I am trying to determine whether this Water of Snails contains an ingredient that might have hastened Warde’s demise. That is a different thing altogether.’ He did not explain that finding poison in the Water of Snails would not leave Rougham as the sole suspect for murder: there was Paxtone, too.

‘Rougham is a killer, though,’ said Quenhyth matter-of-factly. ‘And he is stupid. He told Redmeadow he believes in the existence of the secretum secretorum. Can you credit such nonsense?’

‘A secretum secretorum would come in very useful,’ said Redmeadow, who clearly did not share his room-mate’s scepticism about the fabled cure-all. ‘I would like to own one myself, but not nearly as much as Rougham would. He is desperate for one.’

‘Then he will remain desperate,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Because such a thing does not exist.’

‘It does!’ objected Redmeadow. ‘Bacon says so. I read it myself.’

‘You cannot believe all you read in books, Redmeadow,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Not even Bacon’s.’

‘Did you notice signs of poisoning as Warde died, sir?’ asked Quenhyth, changing the subject. ‘I do not think you did, or you would have denounced Rougham immediately – or he would have used the opportunity to denounce you.’

‘Not all poisons have obvious symptoms,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is why they are popular with killers who want to conceal a murder.’

Bartholomew stood on a bench to retrieve a piece of equipment from the top shelf in his medicines room. It was a small metal stand with a shallow dish on top, and there was room underneath it to light a candle. He made sure the dish was clean by wiping it on his sleeve, then poured half the phial’s remaining liquid into it. His first task was to strengthen the solution by evaporation. Then he would use the concentrate to test for specific ingredients.

Because the candle provided a very gentle heat, it would be some time before the excess liquid boiled away, and Bartholomew accepted Quenhyth’s offer to monitor its progress. He and Michael went to wait in his bedchamber, where Redmeadow started to read aloud from the new copy of Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum.

It was not long before a discussion began about the nature of the continuum, and whether or not it consisted of indivisible mathematical parts that could be finite or infinite in number. Redmeadow held his own for a while, but then just listened as the Fellows put their points with impeccable logic. Bartholomew enjoyed the debate, feeling that he and Michael were fairly evenly matched, while Michael grew positively animated. They were both so preoccupied that it was several moments before they became aware of Quenhyth standing in the doorway, holding a limp bundle of feathers.

‘Rougham did poison Warde,’ he said triumphantly. ‘While I was waiting for your experiment to work, I performed one of my own. I took the rest of the potion from the phial and fed it to Bird. He is quite dead.’ He gave the feathers a vigorous shake, but there was no response.

Bartholomew gazed at him in horror. ‘You have killed Walter’s pet? How could you do such a thing? You know it is the only thing he loves.’

‘But nobody else does,’ said Quenhyth, unrepentant. ‘We all complain about Bird – even you – because he crows all night, and damages books and belongings. Look what he did to your Trotula.’

He pointed to the shelf above the window, where Bartholomew saw that part of his newly acquired scroll had peck marks all along one edge. An avian deposit had also been left on it.

‘We were going to tell you about that,’ said Redmeadow uncomfortably. ‘Bird got at it before we could stop him. We were leaving it to dry, so we could scrape off the lumpy bits without making too much of a mess.’ He brightened. ‘But he did not eat any parts with words on, so it is still legible.’

‘We all hate Bird for destroying our most precious possessions,’ Quenhyth went on, capitalising on his teacher’s dismay as he inspected the ravaged document. ‘And none of us will miss him. Agatha can put him in the stew tonight, and Walter will think he has flown away.’

‘His wings are clipped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He cannot fly.’

‘A fox, then,’ said Quenhyth, waving a hand to indicate that such details were unimportant. ‘But are you not pleased? You had long and tedious experiments in mind, and I have given you your answer instantly. Bird died almost at once. He fought for breath for a few moments, but then just perished, as I heard Warde did.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, then looked at the pathetic bundle under Quenhyth’s arm. Doubtless most College members would indeed be glad to be rid of the chicken that had plagued their sleep for years, but he did not know how he was going to tell Walter what had happened. He decided to let Quenhyth do it. Perhaps, when the student was forced to witness Walter’s distress, it might make him think twice about sacrificing animals in the future.

‘Where is the cat?’ demanded Redmeadow, looking around him suddenly. He came to his feet with a murderous expression in his face. ‘You did not–?’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth coolly. ‘You told me not to.’

‘Bird’s death is not enough to convict Rougham,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the ball of feathers closely in the hope that Quenhyth’s diagnosis had been premature and that there might be something he could do to revive it. There was not: the cockerel was quite dead. ‘For all we know, chickens might have an aversion to one of the ingredients in Water of Snails, and Bird’s demise might mean nothing as far as humans are concerned. There are other tests we need to conduct. Has the water boiled yet?’

Quenhyth blanched and dived quickly into the storeroom. Bartholomew followed, knowing exactly what he would find. He was not mistaken.

‘Oh, no!’ cried Quenhyth, running to where a small fire danced merrily on the bench top. ‘I only left it for a moment.’

‘But, unfortunately, it was a moment too long,’ said Bartholomew, throwing a cloth over the flames. ‘And now we have none of the mixture left. You fed half to Bird, and you allowed the rest to burn away.’

Quenhyth’s face was a mask of shame. ‘I was only trying to help. I did not mean to cause a disaster.’

‘It is not a disaster,’ said Michael, less fussy about empirical experimentation than Bartholomew. ‘I am a practical man, and believe what my eyes tell me. Bird died when he was fed Water of Snails from that pot, and that is good enough for me. We can conclude that Warde was poisoned.’

‘Not necessarily,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Nor do we know what kind of poison was used.’

‘Why does that matter?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘Poison is poison, and its type makes no difference to Rougham’s guilt.’

‘You can always make up a name, if someone asks,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. ‘Quenhyth is right: poison is poison, and trying to identify a particular kind is irrelevant to what was done with it.’

Bartholomew ignored them both, and continued to address Michael. ‘Nor do we know for certain that Rougham gave it to Warde. He says he did not. Someone else may have sent it in his name – Paxtone for example.’

Quenhyth was outraged. ‘That is a terrible thing to say! Besides, I heard Paxtone say in a lecture once that he has no use for Water of Snails, because it brings about excessive wind. He would never prescribe such an old-fashioned remedy.’

Redmeadow agreed. ‘I attended that lecture, too. Rougham is the guilty culprit here, not Paxtone. Paxtone does not go around poisoning his patients. I do not think the same can be said for Rougham.’

‘But we cannot prove that Rougham sent Warde the poison,’ insisted Bartholomew.

‘Well, Warde said he did, and so do Master Thorpe and Bingham,’ said Michael, exchanging a triumphant glance with the students. ‘Things are not looking good for Rougham at all.’

Bartholomew was not happy with Michael’s conclusions, and felt the ‘evidence’ was too open to alternative explanations for Rougham to be charged with Warde’s murder. He insisted they should investigate further before openly accusing the Gonville physician, and decided they would begin by visiting Lavenham the apothecary, to ask whether he recognised the phial and then to question him about the possibility of a mistake with ingredients. These were not questions he wanted to put to a man who supplied most of his medicines, but, he felt he had no choice.

‘Do you think Warde’s death is related to the murders in the mill?’ asked Michael, as they waited outside the porters’ lodge for Quenhyth to emerge. Bartholomew had forced him to confess immediately, and did not want to leave the College until he was sure the lad had done his duty. ‘That if Rougham killed Warde, then he also dispatched Bottisham and Deschalers? We did find that other phial in the King’s Mill. Remember?’

Bartholomew shrugged, most of his thoughts on Walter. ‘It is possible that Rougham murdered Deschalers using whatever was in the pot we found, then was obliged to kill Bottisham because he inadvertently witnessed the crime – and that he used the nails to disguise what had really happened. It is a simple enough solution, but, again, it is not one we can prove – especially given Rougham’s aversion to surgery and sharp implements. And we must remember Bernarde’s testimony: he did not see Rougham or anyone else escaping after the two men died.’

‘Ignore Bernarde’s story for now,’ said Michael. ‘Do you find Rougham a plausible suspect?’

Bartholomew considered the question for a long time. ‘I would not be surprised to learn he eased a patient into an early grave to benefit himself in some way. That is what he has been saying about me, so such things have obviously occurred to him. But I do not see him sneaking around dark mills armed with nails.’

‘You claimed originally that Bottisham and Deschalers both died from wounds to the mouth. Are you now saying that one might have been poisoned – and that only one actually died from stabbing?’

‘It is possible. Many poisons are impossible to detect, and we did find that phial: someone obviously swallowed some strong substance in the King’s Mill. However, if you recall, that pot was full of dust. It may have been dropped there the night Bottisham and Deschalers died. But, equally, it may have been there for a good deal longer and have nothing to do with their deaths.’

‘Do you still have it?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew handed it to him, and the monk held it up, next to the one from Warde. They were identical.

‘That does not mean anything, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing the monk’s eyes light up with glee. ‘All apothecaries use phials like that for powerful potions. We will never prove it contained something lethal; just that it once held something strong.’

‘Water of Snails?’ asked Michael hopefully.

‘Yes, perhaps. Along with a host of other things.’

‘I excelled myself in tact and cunning at Julianna’s house yesterday,’ said Michael, mulling over the information for a moment, and then addressing a different issue. ‘Acting on your suspicions, I mooted the possibility that Deschalers might have planned to change his will, but she did not put her hand in the air and admit to killing him before he could send for his clerk.’

‘I imagine not.’

‘Then I had a pry in his office, while the entire house-hold was preoccupied with a tantrum thrown by Julianna’s daughter – she is a feisty brat, just like Dickon. However, I found no stray wills. I think Deschalers really did leave everything to her, and did not change his mind at the last moment.’

‘She and her new husband would hardly leave a second will lying around for you to discover,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Edward can read, and neither is stupid. If Deschalers did change his mind about heirs, then you will never find evidence of it just by rummaging through his possessions.’

‘Here comes Quenhyth,’ said Michael, not deigning to acknowledge that his friend was right. ‘Crying like Julianna’s baby. Poor Walter. How will he manage without Bird?’

Bartholomew and Michael left Michaelhouse and its weeping inhabitants, and made their way to Lavenham’s premises on Milne Street. It was mid-morning and the town was busy, with folk flocking to and from the Market Square and barges arriving to deliver goods to the merchants’ warehouses. Milne Street was more congested than usual, because of the presence of a small group of men wearing dirty black gowns. They lay in the filth of the road with their arms outstretched in the pose of the penitent, while their leader informed anyone who would listen that unless some fervent repentance took place, the Death would return. Bartholomew saw Suttone nod heartfelt agreement, although he did not deign to soil his own robes by joining the zealots in the ordure.

When the leader rang a bell, his followers clambered to their feet. He handed them long, white candles, and they formed a line, chanting a psalm in unnaturally deep voices. Their tidings and singing were funereal, and they were allowed to go on their way without any of the jeering and ridicule such people usually attracted. When they had gone, and their sepulchral notes had faded among the clatter of hoofs and feet, people went about their business in a more sombre frame of mind, recalling loved ones lost the last time the plague had visited the town.

‘I hope they do not stay here long,’ said Stanmore disapprovingly, spotting his brother-in-law and coming to speak to him. The physician saw two mercenaries hovering nearby, hands on the hilts of their swords as they scanned passersby for signs of evil intent. Stanmore was taking no chances while his ex-apprentice was free to roam. ‘We would all rather forget the Death, and it does no one any good to dwell on it. I am sorry I could not dine with you yesterday, Matt. However, you should know better than to invite me on a Monday, when I am always busy with new deliveries.’

‘I did not invite you to dine,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘We are experiencing some financial difficulties at the moment and I would not ask anyone who does not have a penchant for nettles and mouldy bread.’

‘You did,’ said Stanmore indignantly. ‘You sent me a letter, but I forgot to reply.’

‘Tulyet had an invitation, too – allegedly from me,’ said Michael. He shook his head, amused. ‘Ignore it, Oswald. It is one of the students, thinking that rich townsfolk will take pity on us and make a donation once they see what we are obliged to eat.’

‘There is always a meal for you in my home,’ said Stanmore to Bartholomew. ‘You are welcome any time.’

‘We will come tonight, then,’ said Michael immediately, ever the opportunist. ‘But let us visit this apothecary first, and see what he has to say for himself.’

Lavenham’s shop was a hive of activity. The apprentices were in the back room, furiously mixing and boiling remedies for delivery later that day; Lavenham wielded a pestle and mortar, grinding something to within an inch of its life with powerful, vigorous strokes; and Isobel greeted customers. She leaned across the counter in her low-cut dress and gave Michael a smile that indicated she knew perfectly well he would rather admire her cleavage than purchase tonics or remedies. Meanwhile, a small, neat figure hovered silent and unobtrusive in the shadows thrown by the shelves. Bartholomew watched the unmistakable silhouette of Dame Pelagia uneasily, wondering what she was doing in a place where poisons could be bought.

‘Come and look at my leeches, Brother,’ invited Isobel, when she saw she might lose the monk’s attention to his grandmother. ‘They are best-quality creatures from France, and arrived this morning.’

‘Nothing that comes from France is of the best quality,’ Dame Pelagia muttered.

Bartholomew supposed a lifetime of spying in an enemy state might well result in that sort of opinion. ‘They look like English ones to me,’ he said, inspecting them with the eye of a professional.

‘But more expensive,’ said Isobel. ‘Foreign goods are always more costly than common English wares. Is that not so, husband?’

‘It true,’ said Lavenham, not looking up from his labours. ‘But I always say English best. The King English, and choose me for Commissioner. He know fine Englishman when he see one.’

Dame Pelagia turned a snort into a cough, and diverted her attention to a row of plants that were being dried against the wall.

‘We found a phial of Water of Snails in Warde’s possession when he died,’ said Michael. ‘How did he come by it?’

‘I not know,’ said Lavenham, sounding surprised that he should be asked such a question. ‘I not sell Aqua Limacum Magistralis to Warde. Doctor Bartholomew recommend angelica, and I sell he instead. I keep Aqua Limacum Magistralis for other occasion.’

‘Where is it, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Show it to me.’

Lavenham sighed and abandoned his pestle. He went to a wall cupboard in the main part of the shop, which he unlocked with a key – or which he pretended to unlock with a key. Bartholomew saw it was actually open, and the fact that the apothecary was ready to pretend otherwise indicated it was not the first time he or his household had been careless with security. Lavenham pointed to a row of identical phials on the bottom shelf.

‘He one of these,’ he said vaguely. ‘But I not know which one. I sell several in month.’

‘We do sell Water of Snails occasionally,’ agreed Isobel, adjusting her clothes so that an even more enticing expanse of bosom was on display. Bartholomew saw the monk’s attention begin to waver again. Dame Pelagia gave another cough, and her grandson’s eyes snapped back to Isobel’s face.

‘What do you put in it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The usual ingredients,’ replied Isobel, moving around the counter so she could rub past the monk, who did nothing to make her passage any less cramped. ‘Ground ivy, coltsfoot, scabious, lungwort, plantain and betony, all mixed with a touch of hog blood and white wine.’

‘What about snails?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

‘Well, snails of course,’ she replied irritably, straightening up and depriving Michael of his entertainment. She was wary now, and less inclined for fun.

‘Henbane?’ asked Bartholomew. Dame Pelagia turned sharply. He had surprised her.

‘Of course not henbane,’ snapped Lavenham. ‘He poison.’

‘Liquorice root, then?’ asked Bartholomew. Dame Pelagia was now giving the exchange her full attention. ‘It is one of the most important ingredients in Aqua Limacum Magistralis.’

‘Not always,’ countered Isobel furtively.

‘Always,’ stated Bartholomew authoritatively.

‘Perhaps in country that fashioned-old,’ argued Lavenham. ‘But not in country that have modern approach to disease. England can learn much from other country. Like Norway.’

‘You just said English goods were best,’ said Dame Pelagia softly. ‘Now you say we should be following examples set in Norway.’

Lavenham was confused. He glanced from Bartholomew to Pelagia, and his mouth worked soundlessly as he fought to come up with an answer.

‘Be honest, Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You did not add liquorice to the Water of Snails in the phial I saw, and, if I were to look at your remaining bottles, I would find them similarly lacking.’

‘No!’ cried Lavenham, backing up against his cupboard and protecting it with outstretched arms. ‘You leave alone! Liquorice expensive, because he not grow in England, and I have not much. It cannot be taste in Water of Snails anyway. It better to keep for other potions.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I suppose these “other potions” are ones you make for wealthy clients?’ Lavenham’s shifty eyes answered his question. ‘That is disgraceful!’

‘It is fraudulent, too,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘The King would not approve of such activities, especially in one of his Commissioners. I cannot imagine what he will say when he finds out.’

‘You tell him?’ whispered Lavenham, aghast.

‘I might,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘It depends on how helpful you are. The good doctor here wants to know what you put in your Water of Snails. I suggest you answer him truthfully.’

‘Just what we said,’ said Isobel, reaching under the counter to produce a book. She flicked through its thick pages, then pointed to an entry. Bartholomew read it quickly, and saw that Lavenham’s recipe for Aqua Limacum Magistralis was much the same as any other apothecary’s, or would have been, had he included a healthy dose of liquorice root to disguise what was probably a foul taste. Bartholomew was not surprised Warde had only swallowed half of it.

‘Who has bought Water of Snails in the last month?’ he asked, although since Lavenham was careless with his cupboard it really did not matter: anyone could have stolen a pot.

‘Rougham buy some,’ replied Lavenham.

‘Paxtone?’ asked Bartholomew casually. His heart beat slightly faster as he waited for the reply.

‘Paxtone will not use Aqua Limacum Magistralis,’ said Isobel. ‘He claims it causes wind,’

‘Lynton buy none, neither, because he say potion smell bad without liquorice.’ Lavenham shot Bartholomew a stricken look when he realised he had just admitted that other physicians had complained about the missing ingredient, too. He hurried on, as if he hoped his slip would not be noticed. ‘And Cheney and Bernarde, for pains in head. And Morice to soothe sore tail.’

‘For an aching lower back,’ translated Isobel quickly, before they could assume the Mayor had demonic physical attributes.

‘Cheney, Morice and Bernarde,’ mused Michael. ‘All members of the Millers’ Society. That is interesting.’

Bartholomew thought it would be more so, if Lavenham could guarantee that no other pots had been stolen. He knew the apothecary kept a record of who bought what – in order to help him predict what remedies might be needed at specific times of the year – and asked to see it. The entry under Water of Snails showed that ten phials had been sold: Rougham had purchased four at the end of February, while Morice, Cheney and Bernarde had each bought two the previous Tuesday. There were no other entries.

‘And you are sure you added no henbane?’ he pressed. ‘By accident?’

‘Of course not,’ said Isobel. ‘Henbane is poisonous – especially ours, which is concentrated. We would never use it in a potion that was to be swallowed. We always mix swallowing remedies on a different bench to the ones for external use, so mistakes such as the one you suggest cannot be made.’

‘Why do you ask about henbane?’ asked Dame Pelagia, taking Bartholomew’s arm and leading him outside. They left behind an apothecary who was more than a little alarmed by the encounter. Michael followed, first making an elegant bow to Isobel, although she was far too disconcerted to flirt with him. ‘Was it in the potion Warde drank before he died?’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I cannot be sure, and now Quenhyth has destroyed what remained of it, I never will be.’

‘Pity,’ said Pelagia. ‘I, too, have reached the conclusion that Warde was murdered, and have been assessing the possibility that someone poisoned him. He was a King’s Commissioner and, in my experience, when such men meet untimely ends it is always wise to investigate them with care. You would be surprised how often they transpire to be sinister.’

‘I assure you I would not,’ said Bartholomew, who had plenty of experience with such matters himself although, he suspected, nowhere near as much as Dame Pelagia.

She smiled. ‘What have you learned so far?’

‘That Lavenham will lie to protect himself, and that it would be very easy to steal medicines from the cupboards in his shop. However, what I do not know is whether he put the henbane in Warde’s Water of Snails himself, or whether someone else added it after it had been sold.’

Dame Pelagia nodded. ‘I am in complete agreement with your conclusions. We shall both have to probe a little deeper into these unsavoury affairs.’

Dame Pelagia disappeared on business of her own after their meeting outside Lavenham’s shop, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that the old lady was already several steps ahead of them. He went to St Botolph’s Church, where he inspected Warde’s body again, but there was little to see. The signs of henbane poisoning were impossible to spot after death and, apart from a faint rash on Warde’s face, the examination told him nothing. Then he attended Warde’s requiem, and returned to Michaelhouse. He felt dispirited and guilty, as though he had let the Valence Marie scholar down. When he met Michael in the conclave, the monk looked equally disheartened.

‘The Gonville scholars are back from Ely, and I asked them about this claim that they stand to gain the Mortimers as benefactors if they win the mill dispute. They denied the charge – and Rougham threatened to make an official complaint to the Bishop if I mentioned it again.’

‘Do you believe them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘About the Mortimers’ alleged promise?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Then I questioned Rougham about what happened on Saturday with Warde. Pulham forced him to co-operate, but he was not happy about being interrogated by the “Murderer’s Familiar”, as he called me. He denies sending the potion to Warde, and claims the writing on the accompanying note is nothing like his own. I compared it with something else he had scribed, and, while the two were very similar, there were enough inconsistencies to make me hesitate. The upshot is that I do not know whether Rougham sent Warde the potion and the letter telling him to drink it.’

‘Who else might have done it?’

‘Not Paxtone,’ said Michael, reading his friend’s thoughts. ‘But perhaps someone from the Millers’ Society. Or someone from Valence Marie for reasons we do not yet understand. We admired Warde, but that does not mean his colleagues felt the same way.’

‘They did, Brother. He was honest and kind, and even townsfolk liked him. But at least we are clear on one thing: Warde was definitely murdered. I was inclined to believe so when Quenhyth fed the contents of the phial to Bird, but your grandmother has dispelled any lingering doubts.’

‘You say – and Rougham certainly agrees – that we do not have sufficient evidence to prove he did it, though,’ said Michael.

‘No, we do not. However, we have plenty of clues that may help us identify the culprit. It is just a matter of understanding what they mean and how they fit together. I think your original suggestion was right: we will find our solution to these deaths – Bottisham’s, Deschalers’s and now Warde’s – in the mill dispute.’

‘I am not so sure about that any more.’ Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘I am beginning to think we shall never have our answers.’

‘Your grandmother will,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer had better hope we catch him first, because then he will just be exiled and can apply for a pardon. If Dame Pelagia wins the race, she may use some of the poison she stole from Lavenham’s shop today – and that will be the end of him.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You saw her steal poison?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘She made sure of it. I think she was trying to demonstrate how easily it can be done.’

‘We had better put our wits to work, then,’ said Michael, taking a deep breath to fortify himself and steering Bartholomew out of the conclave – William had arrived and looked ready for one of his dogmatic diatribes – and towards the orchard. Bartholomew was amused to note that Michael’s apathy had vanished like mist under the summer sun, and the notion that his grandmother might solve the case first was enough to spur him into action. The monk was so determined to prove his worth to his formidable forebear that he did not even bother to stop en route to see what edible treats might be worth pilfering. Or perhaps he had already conducted one kitchen raid that day, and already knew there was nothing worth having.

When they arrived at the apple tree they found Wynewyk there, legs stretched in front of him and a book open on his knees. He was fast asleep. Bartholomew wondered whether he was expecting another visit from Paxtone, and looked around to see if his fellow physician might be lurking among the trees.

‘Gratian’s Decretia,’ said Michael, lunging forward to catch the tome before it dropped from Wynewyk’s lap – the lawyer had awoken with a violent start. There was another book beneath it, but when he tried to read the title of that one, too, Wynewyk gathered it up hastily, so he could not see.

‘I am teaching Gratian next week,’ gabbled Wynewyk, fussing with his tomes in a way that made Bartholomew certain he wanted to hide something. ‘My students are studying that and De simonia this year. I must have fallen asleep; it is warm when the sun is out. Well, back to work.’

He began to read, and it was obvious he was not going to explain his peculiar behaviour, nor was it possible for Bartholomew and Michael to talk there as long as he remained. It occurred to Bartholomew that Wynewyk now behaved oddly – suspiciously, even – virtually every time they met. From the troubled expression on the monk’s face, Bartholomew saw he was also worried, and that he had finally accepted that the Michaelhouse lawyer might be embroiled in something untoward.

‘I have so many questions that my head is spinning,’ Michael said, as they left the orchard. ‘We should discuss what we know in the comfort of an inn, with a few edibles to fuel our questing minds.’

They had scarcely stepped across the threshold of the Brazen George when the landlord was scurrying forward to greet them, asking after the good brother’s health and ousting a pair of disgruntled merchants from a secluded back parlour so that the Senior Proctor could conduct his business in private. The chamber was a pleasant one, with a blazing fire and a stone floor covered in thick woollen rugs. Michael gazed expectantly at the landlord, who began to list the various dishes on offer that day.

‘I do not think I shall have the pike in gelatine,’ said Michael with great solemnity. The ordering of food was a serious business and required his complete and undivided attention. ‘Pike are dirty creatures, and I do not like the look of their teeth. I shall have the chicken roasted with grapes and garlic, some salted pork and a bit of fat beef. And bread, of course. No meal would be complete without bread. And perhaps a pear pastry. And–’

‘Enough, Brother!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, laughing. ‘No more “ands”! There are only two of us here, not you and the King’s army.’

‘You want some of it, too?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘I was ordering for myself, and thought to let you choose what you wanted separately.’

‘You can always ask for more later, if you find you are still hungry,’ said the landlord, although Bartholomew doubted that would be the case. The Brazen George was noted for its ample portions, which was one of the reasons Michael liked it. ‘You need to keep your strength up if you want to solve these nasty murders – Bottisham, Deschalers, Bosel and now poor Master Warde – to say nothing of making sure Thomas Mortimer has his comeuppance for Lenne and Isnard.’

‘It is a daunting task,’ agreed Michael, fixing Bartholomew with a glare to indicate that the victuals ordered were wholly inadequate to fuel such monumental labours.

‘And you have to combat Rougham,’ added the landlord. ‘He was vocal in his denunciation of Doctor Bartholomew again this morning, and accused him of killing Warde with angelica. My wife uses angelica for cooking, and she has never poisoned anyone. I told Rougham to take his wicked tongue elsewhere. But I have just been told that he was the one who poisoned Warde all along!’

‘Told by whom?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

The landlord scratched his head. ‘I cannot recall where I first heard it, but the news is circulating the town like a fire in a hayloft.’

He went to fetch Michael’s monstrous meal, leaving Bartholomew uneasy that lies and rumours seemed to spread with such ease. Although he was not particularly worried about what folk thought of Rougham, he was concerned about what they might think of him. He had very few wealthy patients left, and could not afford to lose the last of them because of Rougham’s slanderous lies. And what of his less wealthy patients, who might be so alarmed by Rougham’s claims that they did not summon him when they should? How many people would die before the spat ran its course?

‘I did not think my grandmother would listen to Rougham’s yarns without striking back,’ said Michael comfortably, guessing the source of the tales about the Gonville physician. ‘She likes you.’

‘Which part of the case shall we discuss first?’ Bartholomew asked, suspecting that the old lady’s ploy had not made the situation any better. All she had done was add fuel to an already raging fire. He eyed with some trepidation the food that was beginning to pile up on the table. ‘God’s teeth, Brother! How much meat do you think we can eat? We are not wolves, you know.’

‘Meat is better for you than vegetables,’ declared Michael authoritatively. ‘I owe my sleek and healthy appearance to the amount of meat in my diet. If I confined myself to women’s foods, like cabbages, I would not be the same person at all.’

‘Women’s foods?’ asked Bartholomew, who had never heard vegetables so described before.

‘They are green, and so increase the phlegm in the spleen. They are something all women should eat because they make them more phlegmatic – less excitable. Men, on the other hand, should eat red foods – meat – which increase the blood and make them choleric. It is obvious.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Bartholomew, startled that the normally sharp-witted monk should invent such outlandish notions. But then, Michael was not a rational man where food was concerned.

The monk ripped the leg off a chicken. ‘Those peas are all yours, by the way. Peas are a waste of stomach space.’

‘We should discuss these murders,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael feed with weary resignation. The monk’s restricted diet had lasted a mere two days. ‘Where shall we start?’

‘At the beginning: with Deschalers and Bottisham.’ Michael took a knife from his scrip and began to hack chunks of pork from a bone. ‘They did not die naturally, but we do not know whether we have two murders, or a suicide and a murder. If the latter is true, we do not know which of the pair killed the other or why. We know they disliked each other, and we know Deschalers played cruel tricks on Bottisham. Each had a motive to kill.’

‘Deschalers may have used the last of his strength to stab Bottisham, but I am not convinced. I still think he was too ill.’

‘In which case we have Bottisham killing Deschalers, then himself. If he slew Deschalers by accident – although it is hard to imagine how he “accidentally” slipped a nail into his rival’s palate – then I suppose he may have decided that suicide was the only way to escape from his predicament without shaming his College. Still I find it hard to imagine anyone killing himself by driving a nail into his mouth. It cannot have been easy.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Neither man had been dead long before the bodies were discovered, and Bottisham was not the kind of man to make such a momentous decision without careful consideration. Besides, I still cannot believe that Bottisham would kill anyone, even an ancient enemy like Deschalers. I liked him, Brother. He was a good man.’

‘I know,’ said Michael, his mouth full of meat. ‘But we cannot afford to let sympathy cloud our judgement. However, do not forget the phial you found at the King’s Mill. It is possible there was something in that which lent Deschalers the strength to commit murder – or something that turned gentle Bottisham into a killer.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Bartholomew.

‘Bernarde,’ mused Michael. ‘What about him as the culprit?’

‘I can see him dispatching Bottisham, who was due to argue against him in the mill dispute. But not Deschalers, who was on his side.’

‘But Deschalers was not on his side,’ said Michael, spearing a slab of beef. ‘He refused to burn Mortimer’s Mill when the rest of Millers’ Society thought it was a good idea. And do not forget that he had recently become Edward Mortimer’s kin by marriage.’

‘I am more inclined to look elsewhere for our culprits – towards two men who we know have a liking for violent death.’

‘Thorpe and Edward,’ said Michael. ‘They arrive in the town, and within days two men are dead in odd circumstances. It is suspicious. But neither is stupid. Why would they indulge in a killing spree as soon as they return to the place that has charged them with such crimes before?’

‘Because Edward has gained a good deal from Deschalers’s death? He is now a wealthy man.’

‘But he will not reap the benefits of what has been a thriving business,’ said Michael, chewing thoughtfully. ‘He dismissed the trained apprentices, and it is only a matter of time before the enterprise Deschalers crafted so lovingly withers away.’

‘Do you think Edward is damaging it intentionally, to spite the town? Deschalers was a good grocer, and the loss of his services will be a serious blow to his customers.’

‘Possibly. Where else will we purchase fruit, onions, cheese and dried beans? But perhaps he just does not care about what might happen tomorrow. He is a young man, and they are often prone to live for the moment, with no thought for the future.’

‘But why kill Bottisham? Bottisham had never harmed either him or Thorpe.’

‘Perhaps Bottisham was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ suggested Michael. ‘Or perhaps Thorpe and Edward did the killing together. It would make sense. It could not have been easy to murder two men one after the other – one would have tried to escape. If Edward and Thorpe acted together, they could have dispatched both victims simultaneously. However, this assumes Bernarde and his boy are lying: that there were other people in the mill when they say it was empty.’

‘We must not forget Rougham, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There was henbane in the Water of Snails he is alleged to have sent one man. Gonville wants to make a great deal of money from the Mortimers, so we can conclude that Rougham did not care for their enemy Deschalers, despite the fact that he was a patient. He may well have poisoned Deschalers.’

‘You may be right about that, but he liked Bottisham – who was going to defend Mortimer’s Mill to the Commission, and who was a respected member of his own College. I doubt very much whether Rougham killed him.’

But Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘This chapel is important to Rougham, and I believe he will do virtually anything to see it built. Do you recall why Deschalers hated Bottisham? Because Bottisham refused to resort to bribery to win a case. It is possible that Rougham prefers his lawyers corruptible, too, so he can be certain Gonville will win for the Mortimers – and secure a handsome donation for the chapel into the bargain.’

Michael’s eyes were bright. ‘You argue this very strongly. It was not many hours ago that you were telling me the evidence against Rougham was thin.’

‘That was before we knew for a fact that Warde was murdered,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. Paxtone flashed into his mind, but he kept the thought to himself. ‘Also, we must not neglect Lavenham. He mixed Warde’s potion.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘And he might have added a fatal dose of henbane to it.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Either because he made a terrible and careless mistake. Or because Warde intended to represent the Mortimers’ arguments to the Commission.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘The Water of Snails arrived with the note, and Bingham took both to Warde. But who knows what happened to the phial while it was in Warde’s room? Any of his colleagues might have got to it. Last time I mentioned this, you told me they have no motive, but it may be that we just have not discovered one yet.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘So, our suspects for Deschalers’s murder are the Mortimers, Thorpe, Rougham and Bottisham. Our suspects for Bottisham’s death are the Mortimers, Thorpe, Rougham, Deschalers and the Millers’ Society. And our suspects for Warde’s death include Rougham, Lavenham and the scholars of Valence Marie.’

‘And the Millers’ Society. Do not forget who else bought Water of Snails, besides Rougham – Cheney, Morice and Bernarde.’

Bartholomew was disheartened. ‘So, we have a wealth of potential culprits, a few patchy motives, but not much else. We do not know what Deschalers and Bottisham were doing in the mill together. Nor do we know whether we can believe Bernarde’s testimony that they were alone when they died.’

‘But there is a common thread: Bernarde’s name crops up more often than it should. However, I have pushed him as far as I can without actually accusing him of lying. We shall just have to wait.’

‘Wait for what?’

‘To see if our felon leaves us any better clues the next time he claims a victim.’