‘Deschalers liked me,’ said Quenhyth, although Bartholomew recalled Julianna stating quite categorically that he had not; the grocer had just appreciated Quenhyth’s timeliness. ‘He promised to leave me a chest, but I did not think he would remember. I am flattered he did. It is not as fine as the furniture in my father’s home, but it will do until I can afford better. It has a strong lock.’ He glared at Redmeadow.
‘Redmeadow and I will not touch your possessions,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting it would be difficult to persuade Quenhyth to get rid of the thing. ‘And no one else comes in here.’
‘Brother Michael does,’ said Redmeadow meaningfully.
Bartholomew wondered what he imagined Quenhyth owned that would tempt a man of taste and culture, like Michael. Then it occurred to him that Quenhyth might want to protect his private food supplies when the monk came raiding – in which case, a lock would be very useful indeed.
Quenhyth smiled. ‘We all need additional victuals now Michaelhouse is failing to feed us properly. And I can secure other things in it, too – such as my pens and inks.’
‘We are not interested in those,’ said Redmeadow scornfully.
Quenhyth regarded him balefully. ‘You are! And it is very annoying to come home and find my writing supplies mysteriously depleted.’
‘You can sell the chest,’ suggested Redmeadow, ignoring the accusation with a blitheness that made Bartholomew wonder whether it was justified. ‘But I do not think you will get much for it.’
‘I cannot – not yet,’ said Quenhyth. ‘That was one of the conditions of my accepting it. Deschalers said I can only sell it when I have owned it for a year and a day.’
‘What a curious stipulation,’ said Bartholomew. He knew Quenhyth would follow the instruction to the letter, and suspected Deschalers knew it, too. Perhaps Deschalers was trying to inconvenience the lad by bequeathing him such an unwieldy object, and it was his idea of repaying him for being so annoyingly meticulous. It would be just like the laconic grocer to devise such a plan.
‘You did not tell me you were Deschalers’s scribe,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat accusingly. The student should have mentioned it sooner, since they had been investigating the grocer’s murder.
Quenhyth shrugged. ‘I was not. Not really. I saw him once a week – if that – for the occasional bit of writing. I offered to do more, but he preferred to keep most of his business in his head.’
‘Did you write his will?’ asked Bartholomew.
Quenhyth nodded, then gave a rueful grin. ‘It was one of the briefest I have ever seen: the chest for me and everything else to his niece.’
‘Did he make another at any point? Or talk about doing so?’
‘Not with me. There was an older will from years ago, in which he left a house on Bridge Street to his apprentices. But, he always said they were lazy, and I am not surprised he changed his mind.’
‘When did he make the new will?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How recently?’
‘A month or so ago,’ replied Quenhyth. ‘Julianna will show it to you, if you ask her. You will see it is beautifully crafted. I have the best handwriting in Michaelhouse – Wynewyk says so.’
‘What did you make of the death of that whore?’ asked Redmeadow conversationally, bored with Quenhyth’s boasting; his own writing was far from tidy. ‘She was hale and hearty one moment, and dead the next. Quenhyth and I could do nothing to rouse her once she had fallen down.’
‘And we tried,’ said Quenhyth, keen as always to secure Bartholomew’s favourable opinion. ‘I know you felt sorry for her, so we did our best to revive her.’
‘She was not a whore,’ said Bartholomew to Redmeadow sharply.
‘Frail Sister, then,’ said Redmeadow impatiently, obviously considering that there was not much in a name, and a whore was a whore at the end of the day. ‘But what did you think? She was fit in body, even if her wits were mashed, and it was odd to see her die so abruptly.’
‘You two can attend her requiem mass,’ said Bartholomew, knowing they would find it a chore, but thinking it was about time they both learned to be more tolerant. He did not like Redmeadow’s salacious interest in Bess’s death and was not sure that he wanted to answer the lad’s questions. ‘She was a patient, and we owe her that respect.’
‘But I do not want to go,’ objected Quenhyth. ‘I have my studies to think of.’
‘Too bad,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This is part of your training.’
‘No,’ said Quenhyth firmly. ‘I do not like requiem masses. They upset me.’
‘Even more reason to go to this one, then,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You did not know Bess well, so her passing will not be overly distressing to you. It will inure you to the many such occasions you will attend in the future, if you become a physician.’
‘But I do not intend to lose as many patients as you do,’ said Quenhyth, somewhat rudely. ‘I intend to be good.’ He glowered as Redmeadow released a sharp giggle of embarrassment.
‘Then perhaps this will be your last,’ said Bartholomew, unmoved. ‘But you will both be there.’
‘Very well,’ conceded Quenhyth reluctantly. ‘I shall see what I can do.’
‘Me, too,’ added Redmeadow with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Especially if you can explain to us why she died so suddenly.’
‘Poison,’ said Bartholomew bluntly, deciding to give Redmeadow his answers, since he was so intent on having them. He saw the shocked expression on their faces. ‘I suspect someone added henbane to the Water of Snails she swallowed.’
‘Why would she take Water of Snails?’ asked Redmeadow. ‘Did someone give it to her? Or did she buy it herself? I suppose you can ask Lavenham, but what apothecary would admit to selling a potion that had killed a customer? It would be devastating for his business.’
‘Or he might just lie,’ said Quenhyth.
Bartholomew thought his students right to be suspicious of any answers given by Lavenham, and knew he would be wise to regard anything the apothecary or his wife said with a healthy scepticism.
Michael banged his hand on the windowsill in Bartholomew’s room to vent his frustration later that morning. ‘We can arrest no one for these murders, because we have no solid evidence, and I do not know what to do next. I went to visit Bernarde at the King’s Mill earlier, but it was closed.’
‘Closed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘During the day, when they have grain from King’s Hall to grind?’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘There is a connection for you, Brother. Just when business was looking bad for the Millers’ Society – with the Mortimers diverting water and bodies in the millstones – they secure a lucrative contract from no less a place than King’s Hall.’
‘And King’s Hall boasts the patronage of the King. And the King enjoys a share in the profits from the King’s Mill. It is all rather incestuous, is it not?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I cannot help but wonder how far your grandmother is involved. She has an eye for the King’s interests, and I would not put it past her to tell the Warden of King’s Hall to send grain to Bernarde in his time of need.’
‘My grandmother would not demean herself by meddling with matters so far beneath her,’ said Michael loftily. ‘But I have the feeling her investigation is proceeding a lot faster than ours, and I do not want her to think I am an incompetent in my own domain. However, I can tell you that Bernarde has closed his mill because he is at a meeting of the King’s Commissioners in Lavenham’s shop. We should pay them a visit, to see what transpired at this momentous event.’
He threw Bartholomew his cloak and set off. On their way they saw Stanmore, who was standing outside Trinity Hall with Cheney and Mayor Morice. Their voices were lowered and they were evidently talking about matters they considered of some importance, if the solemn, intense expressions on their faces were anything to go by. Morice was uneasy, and kept glancing this way and that, as though anticipating some kind of attack. Bartholomew wondered whether he had cheated anyone recently and was afraid of th
eir revenge.
He was about to walk past them when he glimpsed a black tabard out of the corner of his eye, and saw Wynewyk ducking down Water Lane. It looked as if he had been travelling along Milne Street to return to Michaelhouse, but had decided to take a diversion in order to avoid his colleagues. There was a flash of blue, too, and Bartholomew recognised the distinct colouring of a cloak from King’s Hall. He did not need to see its owner to know it belonged to Paxtone, and that the physician was as keen as Wynewyk not to be seen.
‘Matt,’ called Stanmore, when he spotted Bartholomew. The physician noticed that his brother-in-law was still taking no chances with his safety, and the tough-looking mercenaries loitered nearby, armed to the teeth. ‘We were talking about the Mortimers – trying to devise a plan to have Edward banished from Cambridge. It is all very well for the King to pardon him, but His Majesty does not have to live with his bad behaviour day in and day out.’
‘But that would still leave us with Thorpe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he was once your apprentice and a far greater danger to you than Edward.’
‘But Edward is damaging the town’s commercial activities,’ growled Cheney. ‘He has already destroyed Deschalers’s business, and he has only been in charge a few days! The fall of that empire affects us all – the sale of spices, flour and cloth, not to mention our investments and speculations. The whole affair is vexing, and I have been obliged to take two doses of strong medicine to calm my aching head.’
‘And me,’ said Morice, keen for everyone to know that the Mayor was also distressed about the town’s disintegrating financial situation. ‘My back always smarts when I am upset.’ He put both hands to his waist and flexed himself, wincing dramatically to illustrate the pain.
‘Most of us are more concerned that he might kill someone,’ said Bartholomew dryly.
‘He took so much water for fulling yesterday that Bernarde was forced to operate at half speed all day, and Ovyng Hostel took their grain elsewhere,’ said Morice, ignoring him. ‘This cannot continue.’
‘We must ensure he does not intimidate the Commissioners,’ added Cheney. ‘He has already hired Rougham to murder Warde, and we do not want Lavenham and Bernarde to feel vulnerable.’
‘Or Master Thorpe,’ said Michael, noting they were only concerned with the safety of the men who would further their own interests, not with the one who was neutral. ‘But this is a serious allegation – that Edward hired Rougham to kill Warde. Do you have evidence?’ He did not sound hopeful.
Cheney made an impatient gesture. ‘Why do you need evidence when you have common sense? You scholars are all the same, unwilling to recognise the guilty without a mountain of proof. That is why none of you will ever succeed in the world of commerce.’
‘They are meeting now,’ said Morice, jerking his head towards Lavenham’s shop. ‘The three surviving Commissioners. They are going to discuss what can be done to confound Mortimer and his evil ways. We are waiting to see what they have decided.’
‘Lavenham closed his shop for the occasion,’ added Cheney. ‘And Bernarde shut down his mill. So you can see how seriously they are taking this matter. No trader wants to inconvenience his customers, which is exactly what happens when you cease trading for an hour without prior warning.’
‘I want words with Bernarde,’ said Michael. ‘I intend to find out why Bess died after he availed himself of her services. Also, she had a phial in her possession similar to the one we found in his mill after the deaths of Deschalers and Bottisham.’
The merchants gazed at him in surprise. ‘I do not think Bernarde is your killer, Brother,’ said Stanmore eventually. ‘He is a miller.’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘He had good reason for wanting Bottisham dead: Bottisham was about to represent his rival in a court of law.’
‘Very well; we accept that,’ said Cheney, after a moment of thought. ‘But he had no reason to harm Deschalers. And I imagine not Bess, either. He was not alone in taking her for a tumble. Even Deschalers escorted her to his home once, and he was ill. And there were others.’
‘Who?’ demanded Michael.
‘She offered herself to me,’ said Morice, indicating to Bartholomew that the poor woman must have been desperate. ‘But I declined, because my wife does not approve of whores in the house.
‘She came to me, too,’ said Cheney. ‘She offered to do whatever I liked in return for information about her man. But I had nothing to tell her, so I decided against taking her up on her suggestion.’
‘Very noble,’ muttered Michael. ‘But what about Deschalers? Did he have information for her?’
‘None he shared with us,’ said Stanmore. ‘But you cannot seriously think Mad Bess is involved in this, Brother? Perhaps she just found this phial and drank its contents because she was too addled to know that consuming things you find in the street is unwise.’
Bartholomew was about to point out that henbane was expensive and Bess was unlikely to have discovered some by chance, when Paxtone hurried up to them. His face was bright with excitement as he took Bartholomew and Michael by the arms and dragged them away from the merchants. Bartholomew smiled warily, uncertain how to react to a man who had so recently darted down an alley to avoid meeting him. Paxtone did not seem to notice his distrust.
‘I analysed that phial you found, Matt. You are right: it did contain poison! As far as I can tell the compound is indeed Water of Snails – it contains blood and shell, not to mention part of a leaf that is definitely scabious. But I found something else too: henbane, just as you predicted. I believe it was boiled down to form a very concentrated poison, which explains why Bess sweated, was dizzy and complained of not being able to breathe – all symptoms of swallowing henbane, as you said. I sent one of my students to look it up in Gonville’s library. They have volumes on that sort of thing.’
‘You did not go yourself?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he would admit to being seen with Wynewyk just a few moments before.
Paxtone looked puzzled. ‘No, why?’
‘You have been in King’s Hall since we last met?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘The whole time?’
This time Paxtone’s expression was more difficult to read. ‘I was afraid one of my students would tamper if I left the experiment unsupervised. You know what these young men are like. God knows, Deynman, Redmeadow and Quenhyth are meddlesome enough.’
Bartholomew agreed, trying not to show that he found Paxtone’s prevarication deeply disturbing. Could he trust Paxtone’s analysis of the poison, when it was possible he had administered or created it himself. But, if that were the case, then why was he so willing to share his ‘findings’? Surely, the safest thing would be to deny it contained poison at all? Bartholomew exchanged a glance with Michael, and saw the monk was as confounded as he was.
‘Thank you,’ said Michael, aware that the King’s Hall physician was waiting for his discoveries to be acknowledged. ‘This will help us greatly. However, we still do not know the answer to one basic question: did Bess knowingly obtain and swallow this potion; was she given it, because she had uncovered something she should not have done in her quest to locate her man; or did she simply find it, then take it because she was addled?’
‘We will have to question Lavenham again,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced at the apothecary’s shop and saw Isobel loitering outside, passing the time by waggling her hips at anyone who looked in her direction. ‘Bess’s phial probably came from his shop, and the one that killed Warde certainly did. We should ask him how many more of the things are loose in the town.’
‘You have already interrogated Lavenham,’ said Cheney. Bartholomew jumped in alarm; he had not noticed the silent approach of the merchants behind him, keen to hear what was being said.
‘And he did not like it, either,’ added Morice, his blue eyes darting here and there so that Bartholomew began to ask himself if there was anyone in the town who could hold a conversation without behaving as t
hough he had just committed the most heinous of crimes. ‘He was upset, and claimed you hinted that he had poisoned Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham. It is all nonsense, of course. Deschalers is no good to any of us dead. We needed him alive.’
‘You cannot interrupt the Commissioners’ meeting,’ said Cheney, catching Michael’s arm as the monk started determinedly towards Lavenham’s shop. ‘We want them to decide whether there is enough evidence to warrant a formal hearing – and if you disturb them now, they may never make up their minds. Lavenham and Bernarde are fighting for us, but Master Thorpe is annoyingly neutral.’
‘Look at the Mortimers,’ said Paxtone, pointing to where Thomas, Constantine and various nephews milled about. Thorpe was with them. ‘They are as keen to know the verdict as you are.’
‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, watching as Thomas reeled against one of his clan, who struggled to hold him upright. The miller tugged a wineskin from his belt, and Bartholomew saw he was fortifying himself in anticipation of grim news to come. ‘There is a lot of money at stake.’
‘Look!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, gazing at the shop. ‘Is that smoke?’
‘It is smoke,’ said Stanmore, hurrying towards it. ‘And there are flames. Lavenham’s shop is afire! Fetch water! Sound the alarm!’
In a town where many buildings were made of wood and had thatched roofs, and lots of houses were crammed into a relatively small area, fire was something all citizens feared. To some, it was even more frightening than the plague, and there was nothing like the stench of burning to throw the Fen-edge community into a panic. Humans were not the only ones terrified. Bartholomew could hear horses whinnying in alarm, kicking their iron-shod hoofs against stable doors with a rhythmic drumming sound. He hoped someone would let them out in time.
Stanmore’s frantic cries had not brought people running with buckets of water to douse the flames. Instead they had caused havoc, with folk running here and there, desperate to return to their own properties and protect them before the fire could spread. Stanmore himself was among them. His house was not far from Lavenham’s shop and, although he was wealthy enough to have purchased a building without immediate neighbours, there was always the danger that his wooden storage sheds would be ignited by the orange sparks that were dancing ever higher in the sky.
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 41
