‘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 hur
ried 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 po
ttery 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.
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