Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. He felt he was prying into Rougham’s business, and had no wish to hear what had transpired between him and his patient, but Alfred was flattered to be asked for information and was already speaking.

  ‘First, Rougham asked Warde whether he had pains in the chest. Warde replied there were none. Then Rougham asked whether coughing brought juices, and Warde replied that his flame was dry.’

  ‘Phlegm,’ corrected Bartholomew absently.

  ‘Next, Rougham asked if Warde had a bleeding of the throat, and Warde said no. I was running between Valence Marie and Gonville for most of the afternoon.’

  ‘He was exhausted when he came home,’ confirmed Matilde. ‘So, you see, Rougham no more examined Warde than you did. Perhaps you can counter his accusations against you by saying he was negligent, and that he should have taken the time to visit Warde.’

  ‘But Warde’s cough was not serious. I do not think Rougham did anything terribly wrong.’

  ‘Would you question a patient about his symptoms by using a child to relay messages?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Would you visit that person, or ask him to call on you?’

  ‘Yes, and—’

  ‘Well, there you are, then. You are the town’s best physician, and if you would not act the way Rougham did, then your University logic leads me to conclude that he made a mistake.’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But this business will blow over soon, and I do not want to make a worse enemy of Rougham. We may have to work here together for a very long time, and we do not like each other as it is.’

  ‘If Rougham’s negligence killed Warde, then you should tell people,’ insisted Matilde. ‘It would be unethical not to. Folk will not want a physician who is careless, and they will use you instead.’

  ‘That is precisely why I cannot say anything. Rougham would claim I was making accusations to poach his patients.’

  ‘But he has been doing that to you,’ objected Matilde. ‘He regularly tells people that he considers your methods anathema. You must act to protect your reputation.’

  ‘People can decide for themselves who they employ. I do not want to engage in verbal battles with him to see who is the more popular. I have neither the time nor the energy for that sort of thing.’

  Her chin jutted out defiantly. ‘He had better not say anything horrible about you in my hearing, or I shall tell him a few truths.’

  Fortunately for Rougham, Bartholomew knew their paths were unlikely to cross, and so was not unduly worried about the possibility of an unseemly row between Gonville’s Master of Medicine and the head of the Guild of Frail Sisters. He sighed, and stretched his legs towards the fire, feeling more relaxed than he had been for some time. A child immediately scrambled into his lap and curled against him like a cat. He hugged it to him, touched by its easy trust.

  ‘So, how did Warde die?’ pressed Matilde. ‘The cough was minor – both you and Rougham agree on that. But he was a Commissioner. Do you think one of the interested parties killed him? By poison, perhaps?’

  ‘Michael wondered that, but I do not see how Warde could have been poisoned. He ate and drank the same things as everyone else last night.’

  ‘What about the Water of Snails?’

  Bartholomew regarded her askance. ‘Are you suggesting Rougham killed him? You sound like Quenhyth and Redmeadow, determined to have him indicted of some crime – any crime.’

  ‘It was Quenhyth who started me thinking. We met on the High Street this morning, and he was beside himself with fury that Rougham should have accused you of killing Warde when he is such a poor physician himself.’

  Bartholomew smiled indulgently. ‘Quenhyth is young and sees matters in black and white.’

  ‘But think about Rougham’s behaviour, Matthew. I heard what happened from Yolande, who had it from Master Thorpe himself. Rougham sent Warde this Water of Snails, but when Master Thorpe confronted him, Rougham denied it. Yet the phial was there with the message – in Rougham’s hand – for all to see.’

  ‘I suppose he sent it and forgot what he had done.’ He was about to add Rougham’s own solution – that one of his students was responsible – when Matilde gave a sharp, derisive laugh.

  ‘Do you really believe that? Is he a half-wit, then – dispensing cures, then forgetting about them? I do not think so! He either sent that note and the Water of Snails, and denies that he did so for sinister reasons. Or, he did not, and someone is trying to make him look guilty of murder.’

  Bartholomew gazed at her. ‘Now you are jumping to wild conclusions! There is no evidence to allow you to make those sorts of assumptions.’

  ‘You are overly innocent,’ declared Matilde. ‘You will find that Rougham killed Warde.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What reason could Rougham have for killing a wealthy patient? As far as he is concerned, Warde’s death represents a sizeable loss of income.’

  ‘Because he wanted to strike at the King’s Commission. He is afraid they will find in favour of the King’s Mill – against Mortimer. Since Gonville Hall has interests in Mortimer’s Mill, Rougham cannot allow that to happen.’

  Bartholomew was astounded. ‘But Pulham told Michael that Gonville does not have interests in Mortimer’s Mill.’ He reconsidered, even as he spoke. Master Thorpe had mentioned that Gonville had been promised a handsome donation for their chapel if they won the Mortimers’ case. Michael had intended to ask him about it, but most of the Gonville Fellows were in Ely, summoned there by the Bishop in relation to some tedious issue about property rights.

  ‘Pulham was lying,’ said Matilde. ‘Why do you think the Mortimers hired scholars from Gonville to represent them? It is not just because they are good with the law; it is because Gonville have a vested interest in seeing the Mortimers win, just as Lavenham and Bernarde have a vested interest in seeing the King’s Mill win. It means Gonville will fight all the harder for their client’s victory.’

  ‘How is Bess?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he had better change the subject if he did not want to quarrel with her. Even if she was right, and Gonville did have a promise of handsome rewards, there was still no good reason – or one he could see, at least – for Rougham to kill Warde. Physicians simply did not dispatch their patients, and that was that. ‘Have you discovered any more about her?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Matilde shortly, aware that she was being steered on to safer ground. ‘I have asked the Sisters to listen for rumours about her, but it appears she just arrived one morning and started to ask about her man. That is all anyone knows.’

  ‘And what about her gold?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you know how she came by that?’

  ‘I know how she did not come by it. Even the most generous of clients would not give Bess more than a penny for her services. She carried her small fortune in a purse, but I do not think it is wise for lone women to have purses. They represent too obvious a target for robbers, so I sewed her gold into her cloak. It did not keep it safe, though, because someone still stole it from her.’

  As she spoke, Alfred leapt to his feet and pulled something from a shelf over the hearth, which he handed to Bartholomew.

  ‘Her money came in this?’ asked Bartholomew, inspecting the small leather pouch. He recognised it at once, with its letter D inside a pot. ‘It belonged to Deschalers. He dropped it on the High Street a few days ago, and I retrieved for him. He must have given Bess her gold.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ said Matilde, bemused. ‘I told you he was fastidious about his women. He would never have taken Bess to his bed. And, furthermore, Yolande tells me his recent illness made him disinclined to see anyone, even his favourites.’

  Bartholomew scratched his head. ‘Deschalers was definitely leading Bess somewhere the day before he died. Perhaps he gave her the money then. The timing is about right. And this purse tells us for certain that he was her secret benefactor. Now we need to find out why.’

 
‘We can hardly ask him,’ said Matilde. ‘And Julianna will be hopeless. She is only interested in things that affect her. She would not know and would not care why her uncle pressed gold on a beggar-woman the day before he died.’

  Bartholomew sighed in frustration. ‘Who is Bess? I am sure that if we knew, then much of this business would become clear, and we would understand exactly who killed Deschalers and Bottisham – and why.’

  Bartholomew enjoyed teaching. He was good at it, and his students usually enjoyed the challenges he set them, with his streams of questions and unpredictable changes of subject. And he loved debating with them once they had mastered a text, cross-examining them and seeing whether they could use their knowledge to present alternative views set out in other commentaries. That Monday they were going to discuss the uses and virtues of grapes in the diet, as described by Galen. Although this was a basic subject, involving little controversy, Redmeadow had been arming himself for a good argument, while Quenhyth had been to the King’s Hall library to see what Bacon had to say on the subject.

  Deynman, meanwhile, who still had not mastered the knack of independent research, had visited several vineyards and amassed an array of different wines. Bartholomew helped him carry his wares to the hall, supposing he could use them to demonstrate Galen’s contention that new, sweeter wines were processed into urine more quickly than sour or sharp ones. They had just reached the stairs when Deynman happened to glance across the courtyard.

  ‘Oh, no!’ the student cried in dismay. ‘What is he doing here?’

  Bartholomew was horrified to see Thorpe strolling towards them, looking quite at home and totally oblivious to the scowls and unwelcoming comments of Michaelhouse’s scholars. Michael joined Bartholomew, and together they waited for Thorpe to reach them.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael coldly.

  ‘I have come to hear Doctor Bartholomew lecture on Galen,’ said Thorpe, an innocent expression on his face. ‘I am recommended by Paxtone of King’s Hall. I have his letter here.’

  He produced a parchment from his scrip with a flourish. Michael snatched it away and scanned its contents, scratching his chin so that his fingernails rasped in the bristles.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, handing it back. ‘But behave yourself. One hint of trouble and you are out.’

  ‘Do not fear,’ said Thorpe insolently. ‘I have no intention of causing trouble here.’

  Bartholomew glanced at him sharply, catching the implication that he intended to cause trouble elsewhere, but Thorpe merely smiled and pushed past them to the hall. Deynman promptly abandoned his wines and followed, muttering to Bartholomew that he would watch him like a hawk with a rabbit.

  ‘Yes, but which is which?’ said Michael, amused that a simple lad like Deynman should think he was a match for Thorpe.

  ‘Why did you let him in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not want him in my lecture. I have students who are keen to learn, and I cannot have them distracted because they think he is going to set fire to the College or draw a crossbow from under his cloak.’

  ‘The letter from Paxtone was genuine. He said Thorpe has expressed an interest in Galen’s dietary regimes, and he knows you teach the subject on Mondays. He asked us to give him a chance, and allow him to sit quietly at the back of your class.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But Thorpe will be disappointed if he thinks I am going to talk about how to kill people with grapes. My lecture is about how they can be used to improve health, not destroy it.’

  ‘I will be watching him, too. Still, I doubt he will want to attend more than one of your diatribes on diet.’ He rubbed his stomach ruefully, to indicate he was still hungry after being encouraged not to eat his fourth piece of bread at breakfast that morning.

  Bartholomew entered the hall, where benches were arranged ready for teaching. He had about thirty students. Some were his own, but there were also those who had been sent by Paxtone and other masters. He too farmed out his students on occasion – there was no one as good as Paxtone for teaching basic Aristotelian physiology, while Lynton of Peterhouse gave solid instruction on the calculation of horoscopes.

  It was not long before he forgot the smouldering presence at the rear of his class, enjoying the liveliness of his own students and their willingness to learn. Quenhyth grew frantic as he struggled to write down every word his teacher spoke, while Redmeadow showed he had learned his texts well, asking questions and making astute observations.

  Deynman’s wine caused some amusement but, despite the levity, Bartholomew knew the scholars would remember the points he made about the different brews and their benefits or otherwise to the kidneys and bladder. It did not seem long before the bell rang to announce the end of lessons, and the students trooped out of the hall, clattering down the steps and talking in loud voices. When Bartholomew recalled that a killer had been in his class, he was obliged to run back up the stairs to ensure Thorpe had left, but the hall was empty and so was the conclave. Since there was nowhere else for Thorpe to be, the physician assumed he had slunk quietly away.

  He felt the need for a few moments of peace before he returned to his room, so he headed for the orchard, pulling the scroll by Trotula from his bag as he went. He had been busy since Matilde had given it to him, and had not had the opportunity to inspect it properly. However, he had done no more than open the garden gate when he heard voices.

  ‘ … with Water of Snails,’ one was saying. ‘Or so he says.’

  ‘Rougham often prescribes it, actually,’ replied the second. ‘Especially when there are extenuating circumstances. In this case, there definitely were, and …’

  Bartholomew did not want to hear any more, and turned to leave. But as he did so, the latch clanked and the voices were immediately stilled. Then came the sound of running feet.

  Thinking there was no need for flight if the meeting was innocent, Bartholomew set off in pursuit. He saw someone struggling with the gate that led to St Michael’s Lane. It was hauled open, and there was another clatter of footsteps. Then silence. By the time he reached the door and shot into the lane, the pair were just turning into the High Street. He walked back to the garden, and replaced the bar. He had recognised Paxtone’s lumbering gait immediately, and could only assume his fleeter-footed companion was Wynewyk. Troubled that they should feel the need to run from him, he tucked the Trotula under his arm and returned to his room, no longer in the mood for solitary reading.

  ‘I assume Thorpe’s presence was uneventful?’ asked Michael, joining him there. ‘I heard no quarrels or violent disputes – at least, none out of the ordinary. Your Monday lectures are always a little lively. I wish my theologians were as animated over their learning.’

  ‘Theology is not a very interesting subject, Brother,’ said Bartholomew carelessly, his mind still on Paxtone and Wynewyk. ‘So you cannot expect tense excitement. But medicine—’

  ‘A curious thing happened this morning,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I had a letter from Dick Tulyet, telling me he could not accept my invitation to the midday meal at Michaelhouse today.’

  ‘Wise man. I saw Agatha picking nettles again this morning.’

  ‘But I did not invite him,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘I would not – not the way our kitchens are at the moment. It is rather embarrassing. I suppose he must have received an invitation from someone else, and assumed it was me. Damn! Here come your wretched students. Do I have time to hide?’

  ‘The rumours persist that Rougham accused you of killing Warde,’ said Quenhyth without preamble, as he sat down next to Bartholomew. The physician noticed that the lad’s nails had been bitten to the quick, and some had bled. ‘But I have been telling anyone I meet that you are an honourable man, and would probably never murder anyone.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

  ‘You are welcome. However, I have also been pointing out that the same cannot be said for Rougham, and that I would sooner take physic from the Devil than from
him.’

  ‘I thought they were one and the same,’ said Michael with a chuckle.

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘I know Rougham offended you the other day, Quenhyth, but abusing him will help no one. He will embarrass you publicly again, if you are not careful.’

  ‘You stood up for me,’ said Quenhyth warmly. ‘You told that vile slug that he was wrong and that I was right. That is probably why he has been spreading nasty tales about you. But he is the one who kills for worldly goods, not you.’

  ‘Kills for worldly goods?’ echoed Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I do not recall either of us levelling that particular accusation at each other.’

  ‘Have you not heard?’ asked Redmeadow, his eyes round. ‘Master Thorpe read Warde’s will this morning, and Warde left his copy of Euclid’s Elementa – books seven to ten – to you. It is a standard arithmetic text, dealing with the properties of numbers.’

  ‘He knows what it is,’ said Michael. ‘He used it to teach you the Quadrivium, remember?’

  Redmeadow grinned sheepishly. ‘Of course. But now you have a copy of your own, and will not have to borrow Peterhouse’s. You are doing well at the moment. First, Brother Michael gave you the Bacon, then Matilde bought you the scroll of Trotula’s writings, and now you have Euclid.’

  Although there was no harm in the lad’s observations, they left Bartholomew with a sense of unease, as if Redmeadow perhaps entertained the notion that his teacher had killed Warde in order to secure the Euclid. He decided to decline Warde’s bequest, or perhaps donate it to the University, so others would not think the same thing, particularly with Rougham spreading his poisonous lies.

  Michael touched his arm. ‘That is good news, Matt, although I had no idea that you and Warde were such friends. Why did he go to Rougham for his physic, if he liked you so well?’

  ‘He preferred Rougham’s horoscopes to my suggestions for his diet,’ said Bartholomew.