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, chi
ckens 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-apprentic
e 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.
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 36
