D’Audley did not like being admonished like a naughty child. He drew himself up to his full height, eyes flashing with indignation. ‘I am lord of a Suffolk manor, and I shall not be berated–’
‘Oh, be quiet, you silly little man,’ snapped Agnys, regarding him with utter disdain before turning her back on him. She addressed her grandson, taking his hand in hers. ‘Joan’s death was an accident, Henry, so let us leave it at that. There is no evidence of foul play, and you will only distress yourself further if you start making unfounded accusations.’
‘But she swallowed pennyroyal,’ said Elyan stubbornly, pulling away from her. ‘And I want to know why. How could she do such a thing? Could she not taste it?’
‘It must have been disguised,’ said Edith quietly. ‘Perhaps with honey or wine. I am sure she did not know what she was drinking.’
‘Quite. So it was an accident,’ said Agnys, in the tone of voice that suggested the discussion was over. ‘But the servants have finished now, and Joan is in the box. Go outside and help them put her on the cart, Henry, and then let us be away from this sad place. I want to be home by this evening.’
‘I will help you, Elyan,’ said d’Audley, with the air of a martyr. ‘And then we shall visit Constable Muschett together and order him to mount an enquiry into this grave matter.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ snapped Agnys, although her grandson looked as if he thought it a very good idea. ‘It is none of your damned business. Help Henry with the coffin, if you will, but we shall speak no more of murders and enquiries – unless you want to ride home alone. But I would not recommend it – the roads are hardly safe.’
D’Audley shot her a look of such loathing that Bartholomew was unnerved. Agnys glowered back, unabashed, and it was d’Audley who looked away first. He turned on his heel and stalked out. Elyan followed, and it was not long before the physician and his sister were alone with the old lady.
‘I am sorry if I upset them,’ began Edith apologetically. ‘But–’
‘They will survive,’ stated Agnys grimly. ‘Although in the case of d’Audley, I might wish otherwise. But I am sorry you have been subjected to all this sorrow. You have been more than kind.’
‘Is there anything more we can do?’ asked Bartholomew, before Edith saw in Agnys a sympathetic ear and tried to convince her that Joan’s death was suspicious. ‘Fresh horses, perhaps, or the loan of a sturdier cart?’
‘Thank you, but we will manage. Did Joan … say anything before she died?’
‘Anything about what?’ asked Edith, bemused.
‘About her child,’ replied Agnys vaguely. ‘About Haverhill.’
‘A great deal,’ replied Edith. An expression of unease immediately flitted across the old woman’s face, although Edith did not notice and chattered on blithely. ‘She said she had never been so happy, and was looking forward to being a mother with all her heart.’
Agnys’s relief was palpable, although she struggled to mask it. ‘I am glad she died contented.’
‘That was an odd remark,’ said Edith, when Agnys had followed her grandson and neighbour outside, and she and Bartholomew were alone again. ‘What did she mean?’
‘She is terrified that Joan might have swallowed pennyroyal deliberately, and loves her enough to want her buried in a churchyard, not a suicide’s grave. Why do you think she is so insistent that it was an accident and that there must be no investigation?’
‘But it was not an accident,’ protested Edith. ‘And she should know that Joan was murdered.’
‘She was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘There is no evidence–’
‘There is no evidence it was an accident, either,’ interrupted Edith, beginning to walk away from him, wearing the determined face that told him argument would be a waste of time. ‘I know what I believe, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.’
Bartholomew left Edith with the guilty sense that he was deceiving her: that he should confess that her friend had died from a dose of the same kind of herb that was missing from his storeroom. But he knew it would achieve nothing other than to fuel her suspicions, and he was almost certain now it was his pennyroyal Joan had swallowed anyway. As he had told Michael, it was not a rare or unusual plant, and women often kept some dissolved in vinegar, as a remedy against swooning. Perhaps she had swallowed some of that, either by accident or design.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts as he walked home that Paxtone of King’s Hall was obliged to prod him in order to gain his attention.
Paxtone was a portly physician, whose ample bulk was perched atop a pair of ludicrously slender ankles; Bartholomew was always expecting them to snap under the weight, and never knew what to say when his colleague complained of aching feet. Paxtone was not a talented practitioner, for he refused to act on any theory that had not been penned by ancient Greeks, but he was a decent teacher, and no one had a better grasp of Galen and Hippocrates.
That morning, he was with Warden Powys and another King’s Hall Fellow named Shropham. Shropham had been in Cambridge long before Bartholomew had joined the University, but was one of those mousy nonentities who was hard to remember. He was older than his two colleagues, but his demeanour towards them had always been deferential. He was slightly built, with large, sad eyes and hair of an indeterminate colour, somewhere between brown and grey.
Wynewyk was with them, which Bartholomew thought was odd – the Michaelhouse Fellow rarely befriended scholars outside his College. But then he recalled Wynewyk saying he enjoyed intellectual discussions with King’s Hall. It did not appear that their discussion was intellectual that day, however: he and Powys were laughing fit to burst, Paxtone looked aggrieved and Shropham dismayed.
‘Matthew can resolve this,’ said Paxtone stiffly. ‘Because the debate has turned absurd.’
‘It has,’ agreed the Warden, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘I have not laughed so much in years.’
Paxtone grimaced, then turned to his fellow physician. ‘We are debating whether knives keep their sharpness if you leave them pointing northwards at night.’
Bartholomew failed to see what could be amusing about such a topic, or why Paxtone should be so obviously irritated by it. ‘Yes?’ he prompted warily.
Paxtone pursed his lips as he glared at Powys and Wynewyk. ‘And this pair will insist on guffawing every time I posit a notion – they say I am employing a posteriori reasoning to argue a baseless superstition. It is Shropham’s fault: he does not believe my contention that blades self-sharpen under certain conditions.’
Shropham’s expression was one of abject mortification. ‘I am not saying you are wrong, Paxtone,’ he said, in something of a bleat. ‘I merely remarked that I tried leaving my dagger in the way you suggested, and it was still blunt the following morning.’
‘Then you did not aim it directly north,’ declared Paxtone. He took a small knife from the pouch he carried at his side. It was identical to the ones Bartholomew used for surgery. ‘Look at mine. You could shave a pig with this.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ asked Powys innocently. Wynewyk smothered a snigger.
‘It is sharp,’ acknowledged Shropham, ignoring them as he ran a tentative finger along the edge. ‘And I am not questioning whether the trick works for you. I am only saying that I tried it, and it failed to work for me. I do not suppose you chanted a spell at the same time, did you?’
‘A spell ?’ squawked Paxtone, so loud in his horror that Shropham cringed. Wynewyk and Powys dissolved into more paroxysms of mirth, although Bartholomew could not help but notice that the humour did not touch Wynewyk’s eyes; there was an odd expression in them, which could only be described as bleak. He wondered what was going on. ‘Spells are for witches and heathens, but I am a physician!’