Bartholomew knocked on the door, but the enraged screeches that emanated from within were so loud that he was obliged to hammer another three times before a harried maid finally heard him over the commotion. He was about to follow her inside when a tiny movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He spun round, and saw Thorpe leaning against a doorway, half hidden by shadows.
‘What are you doing there?’ he demanded, unsettled by the man’s sudden appearance.
Thorpe uncoiled himself and jerked a thumb in the direction of Tulyet’s home. ‘I was passing and heard a racket. I was curious to know what is going on. Will Brother Michael offer his services in the form of reinforcements tonight? It sounds as though you might need a burly arm.’
Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Dickon only fights battles he is sure he can win.’
‘Very wise,’ said Thorpe, giving one of his unpleasant grins before walking away towards the town centre. Bartholomew watched him go in puzzlement, but Dickon’s shrieks reached a new level in volume and the maid appealed to him with desperate eyes, so he pushed Thorpe from his mind and entered the small hell that comprised Dickon’s domain.
‘Thank God,’ said Tulyet shakily, when Bartholomew was shown into the solar. ‘I do not think I can stand much more of this. He is in pain, but we do not know what to do.’
Young Dickon, a child of just over three years of age, was perched on his mother’s knee. His little face was scarlet with the effort of producing the ear-splitting screams that were having exactly the effect he wanted on his long-suffering parents. Adults fluttered around him, trying to calm him with kisses and sweetmeats, while the little hellion learned how he might manipulate them even more efficiently in the future.
Dickon already knew he could achieve almost anything with a tantrum, and had recently realised this could be taken to new heights if his doting parents thought he was hurt, too. As a consequence, Bartholomew was frequently summoned to treat minor bruises and scratches that most children would not have noticed, and an increasingly imaginative array of ‘accidents’ that included invisible splinters, an alleged surfeit of carrots, and an array of bizarre objects inserted into various orifices – although none embedded deeply enough to cause genuine pain. Dickon was not stupid.
‘You say there is a pea in his ear,’ shouted Bartholomew over the howls, kneeling next to Mistress Tulyet and taking the lad’s head to tilt it gently towards the light. Dickon’s reaction was instant and predictable. He twisted quickly, and his sharp little teeth clicked in empty air, just as the physician jerked his hands away.
‘Dickon!’ exclaimed Tulyet in horror. ‘You know you must not bite!’
Dickon began to scream again, this time because his attack had been thwarted and he was angry. Meanwhile, his mother petted and fussed over him, believing the shrieks were a result of the mishap with the pea. Bartholomew was baffled. Tulyet was astute when it came to dealing with the felons who came his way, and was seldom taken in by their lies and deceits. The physician had no idea why he did not apply the same rules to his son. As a baby, Dickon had been snatched by blackmailers, and his parents had coddled him ever since. They were now reaping the rewards of spoiling a boy who had needed a firmer hand.
Tulyet spread apologetic hands. ‘I am sorry, Matt. He is beside himself with agony and does not know what he is doing.’
Bartholomew thought Dickon knew exactly what he was doing. He took the child’s head in a firmer grip. There was an immediate struggle, with Dickon screeching his outrage when he saw he could not escape. His face turned from red to purple.
‘You are hurting him!’ cried Mistress Tulyet, trying to prise Bartholomew’s hands from her son.
‘I am not,’ replied Bartholomew, releasing his patient and wondering whether he would be obliged to wait until the brat fell asleep before removing the pea. It would not be a difficult operation, and would have taken only a moment with any other child. He sat back on his heels and considered his options, most of which involved sending the parents from the room, and a gag. Rescue – for patient and physician – came from an unexpected quarter.
‘Dickon,’ said Quenhyth brightly, kneeling next to the boy. ‘Would you like a rat?’
Dickon’s wails stopped abruptly. ‘Rats bite,’ he said. But he was clearly interested. His screeches did not resume, and he waited for Quenhyth to elaborate.
‘This one will not,’ said Quenhyth, gesturing to the horrified parents that he did not have a real rodent in mind. ‘And it will have a tail as long as a dog’s. Would you like to see?’
‘Give,’ said Dickon, thrusting out a hand that was sticky from the treats his mother had been feeding him ever since he had first looked her in the eye and pressed the pea into his ear.
‘Here,’ said Quenhyth, reaching into his bag – modelled rather obviously on the one Bartholomew carried – and withdrawing an object that was all stick legs and clumsily sewn fur. ‘I was making this for my little brother, but you look like a lad who will appreciate a rat.’
‘Give,’ ordered Dickon again, chubby fingers stretching for the prize.
‘It has proper eyes,’ said Quenhyth, flaunting the object just out of Dickon’s grasp. He reached into his bag a second time and pulled out a length of twine that had been woven to look uncannily like the tail of a rodent. ‘All I need to do is attach this, and it will be finished. What do you say?’
Dickon squirmed out of his mother’s arms, aiming to snatch the toy, but the student had anticipated such a move. He stood up quickly, and Dickon found himself unable to reach. He opened his mouth for another of his monstrous shrieks.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew sharply, before he could start. ‘You cannot have it if you screech.’
Dickon’s mouth snapped shut, eyes fixed on the toy that dangled so tantalisingly close. It was not an attractive thing, and Bartholomew thought normal children might have found it a little frightening. But Dickon was not a normal child. He was fascinated by the ugly wooden frame, inexpertly covered with fur salvaged from an old winter cloak. The four legs were of different lengths, the snout was long, thin and mean, and the eyes – made from polished stones – glittered in a way that was sinister. There was also a set of improbably large teeth, which had been fashioned from scraps of metal scavenged from the blacksmith’s forge and then hammered into its jaws.
‘You should not let him have that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Quenhyth had probably gone to some trouble to make it. It would not last long with Dickon, who tested new toys by hurling them against walls or dropping them from upstairs windows. ‘You are unlikely to get it back in one piece.’
‘I do not think my brother will like it, actually,’ admitted Quenhyth ruefully. ‘It did not turn out the way I expected. It ended up looking a trifle … demonic.’
‘It certainly has,’ said Tulyet, regarding it uneasily.
‘I have been carrying it about for weeks now,’ Quenhyth went on. ‘It seems a shame to throw it away, since it took me the best part of four Sundays to make. I am happy for Dickon to have it.’
‘It is very kind,’ said Mistress Tulyet gratefully. ‘It has already distracted him from his pain, and he has stopped that terrible crying.’
‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew. He edged closer to the boy again, ready to retreat if the brat tried to bite, kick, scratch, thump or pinch. He had suffered enough bruises from Dickon in the past to be cautious, even when it appeared his attention was captured by something else. ‘If you want the toy, Dickon, you must sit on your mother’s lap and tilt your head to one side. Quietly.’
Dickon regarded Bartholomew venomously, knowing that the pea was about to be removed, and that it might result in a little discomfort.
‘Let him have the toy first,’ suggested Mistress Tulyet. ‘He will sit still while he inspects it.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. Once Dickon had the rat in his possession he would never do as he was told. ‘Pea first, rat second.’
Dickon’s expression wa
s murderous, but he crawled on to his mother’s knee and put his head to one side. Bartholomew selected a tiny pair of forceps and had secured the pea before the lad had even taken a breath to bray his displeasure. Dickon eyed the pulse in astonishment, and Bartholomew saw the realisation register that he would have to find another excuse if he wanted to indulge in more bad behaviour that evening. The lad wriggled away from his mother and dashed to Quenhyth.
‘Give,’ he said firmly.
‘Do you want it to have a tail?’ asked Quenhyth. Dickon nodded slowly. ‘Then you will have to wait while I sew it on. Sit with me by the hearth, and watch.’
To Bartholomew’s surprise, Dickon squatted by Quenhyth as meekly as a lamb, and there was blessed silence while he watched the tail being appended. Tulyet heaved a sigh of relief.
‘I was beginning to think we might be up all night with the poor child. I shall pay your student as much as I give you for this consultation, Matt. I shall always be in his debt.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘It means Dickon will be his first official patient, and not one he will easily forget.’ He did not mean it as a compliment.
Grateful that another domestic crisis was over, Tulyet turned the discussion to town affairs, while Quenhyth and Dickon sat by the fire and Mistress Tulyet watched with a doting smile. Bartholomew noticed the servants were not nearly so soft-hearted. They exchanged glances indicating that they knew exactly how to deal with small, calculating fiends who frightened their parents and threw the whole household into disarray.
‘I am worried about Mistress Lenne,’ said Tulyet, pouring Bartholomew some wine. ‘She was ailing anyway, but her husband’s death under Mortimer’s cart has hastened her journey to the grave.’
‘Her son will be here soon,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about what Bottisham had told him – before he had met his own grisly end. He also recalled that Bottisham had been visiting both Isnard and the old woman, helping them with small, practical donations of money and food. He hoped someone else would take up where he had left off, and realised yet again what a good man the lawyer had been.
‘It is not right,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘Mortimer was clearly drunk, yet I am powerless to bring him to justice. Bosel was a poor witness, but at least he was something. Without him I have no case.’
‘Orwelle thinks no one will ever be charged with Bosel’s murder, either.’
‘It looks that way. If Mortimer had not been at that town meeting, I would have arrested him immediately. But I saw him with my own eyes – and what better alibi can he claim than me?’
‘I told you: he may have given Bosel the poison earlier in the day. Bosel drank it in the evening, but Mortimer may have passed it to him much sooner.’
Tulyet disagreed. ‘We are talking about Bosel here, Matt. He would not have waited before consuming a gift of wine. First, he would not have had the self-control, and second, he would have been afraid that someone would take it from him, if he did not swallow it immediately.’
Bartholomew knew this was true. Bosel was not the only beggar in Cambridge, and if any of them had seen him with wine they would have demanded a share – or would have taken it by force.
‘Still,’ mused Tulyet, ‘perhaps Thomas will lose his lawsuit against the King’s Mill. That would hurt him far more than a mere charge of murder.’
‘How will the King investigate the mill dispute?’ asked Bartholomew, wanting to talk about something other than murderers who might go unpunished.
‘Four men will be appointed as commissioners, and they will reach a verdict based on an impartial assessment of the facts. Whatever they decide will be law in the King’s name.’
‘Will these men be the same ones who pardoned Thorpe and Edward? Because if so, then justice will have nothing to do with their decision. Whoever offers the largest bribe will.’
‘Now, now, Matt,’ admonished Tulyet mildly. ‘Watch what you are saying. I do not want my son’s physician hanged for treason. But how is Michael faring with the other business – Deschalers and that scholar … what was his name?’
‘Bottisham,’ said Bartholomew, displeased that the Sheriff had forgotten. ‘Nicholas Bottisham. And Michael is not faring at all. He has learned nothing to help him unravel the mystery.’
‘Then I hope he has better luck tomorrow. There are already rumours in the town that Deschalers was murdered by a scholar, and ill-feeling is beginning to fester. Cambridge will be in flames if he does not have a culprit soon.’
Bartholomew and Quenhyth took their leave of the Tulyets with grateful thanks ringing in their ears. Quenhyth hummed happily, and Bartholomew saw the student was pleased with himself – because of the Tulyets’ adulation as well as the much-needed donation of funds. Bartholomew congratulated him on his performance, and was surprised to see him blush as he admitted a talent for dealing with children. Bartholomew decided he would take Quenhyth with him the next time he was summoned to tend Dickon. Perhaps he could eventually relinquish him as a patient, since Dickon’s ailments were never anything a student could not handle. The future began to look brighter.
They parted company at the Jewry, where Bartholomew tried to guess the identity of the visitor to whom Matilde had alluded, hoping he would not be obliged to exchange pleasantries with one of her former lovers. He dragged his feet a little as he made his way to her home, apprehension mounting as he drew closer. She owned a handsome, albeit small, house that stood near the crumbling church of All Saints in the Jewry. He knocked on her door with some trepidation, and was ushered in by Matilde herself, who smiled her pleasure at his arrival. She gestured that he was to precede her into the comfortable ground-floor chamber where she entertained her guests.
The room was crammed full of people, with children perched on every knee, lap and available scrap of floor, and several adults sitting on the cushioned benches that ran around the walls. Michael was squashed uncomfortably between Yolande and her husband. He had a goblet of wine in one hand and Yolande’s smallest baby in the other. He was clearly nervous of the tiny scrap of humanity – not that his large hands might damage it or make it cry, but that something might leak through its swaddling clothes and leave a stain on his habit. He held it at arm’s length, like a man showing off a prize vegetable. The child surveyed the room from its unusual vantage point with startled eyes.
At first, Bartholomew could not detect any unexpected visitor in the sea of faces that greeted him. Then he realised that every single person, regardless of age or sex, was facing in one direction, towards a figure who sat in the seat of honour next to the blazing hearth. It was almost as though no one else existed; even the baby’s great blue orbs were drawn that way.
An old lady sat there, small, slight and almost swallowed up by an array of cushions and blankets. Yet she was upright and spry, and exuded the sense that here was a woman of great strength and determination. Her emerald eyes were unreadable, but unmistakably intelligent, and she had a large hooked nose. Bartholomew recognised her immediately and a sense of foreboding flowed through him. Matilde gestured to the old woman with an elegant hand.
‘You remember Dame Pelagia, I am sure, Matthew,’ she said. ‘She is Michael’s grandmother, and the King’s best and most famous agent.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew, as he fought to remember his manners and make a bow that was suitably low and deferential. It would not do to offend a woman like Dame Pelagia with inadequate shows of obsequiousness, even inadvertently. ‘Now the corpses will start piling up.’
Dame Pelagia’s elderly appearance was deceptive, and her hearing was just as sharp as it had been when she was a comely young maiden some sixty years before. Her smile was enigmatic and impossible to interpret.
‘Do not complain, Matthew,’ she replied, her green eyes, so like Michael’s, gleaming with mischief. ‘My grandson tells me you need all the fourpenny fees you can get.’
CHAPTER 5
The following morning, Bartholomew visited the small house on Shoemaker Row, ne
ar the Market Square, where Lenne’s widow lived. Michael went with him, on the understanding that the physician would then accompany him to interview the Fellows at Gonville Hall.
The Market Square was noisy and colourful that day. Apprentices were everywhere, carrying goods in barrels, sacks, crates and buckets, clad in liveries to advertise their masters’ businesses. Customers weaved among them – haughty retainers from wealthy households, friars and monks from religious houses and the University, and wide-eyed peasants from the surrounding villages. The air rang with sound, and Bartholomew and Michael had to shout to make themselves heard above the yelling of traders, the clatter of hoofs, the squealing of pigs headed for Butchery Row, and the furious barking of a dog. The acid stench of old urine from the tanneries and the rank, sickening aroma of decaying offal from the slaughterhouses was especially pungent that morning, making Bartholomew’s eyes water so that he could barely see where he was walking.
Shoemaker Row was a narrow, congested lane that was inhabited mostly, but not exclusively, by cobblers. Its largest building was Ely Hall, rented by a contingent of Benedictine monks from nearby Ely Abbey, while the Lenne home was one of the smallest, comprising a single ground-floor room with a lean-to kitchen at the back.
The red ribbon that had fluttered outside the house, to tell passers-by the nature of Lenne’s profession, had been taken down, probably by other barbers keen to secure his customers for themselves. When a feeble voice answered Bartholomew’s tap, he pushed open the door and entered, squinting against the sudden sting of smoke and waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Mistress Lenne lay on a pallet, dangerously close to the fire.
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