Paxtone winced. ‘Yes, I am afraid he does have a tendency to fawn. I cured him of a strangury, you see, and since then he has attached himself to me like a devoted dog. It is irritating, but he has his uses. You seem distracted, Matthew. Is something wrong?’
‘You know how some folk have aversions to particular foods, which make them sick or give them rashes. Have you ever heard of a violent reaction to nuts?’
‘No. However, nuts are not poisonous, and if you have a patient who claims to have been rendered unwell because of them, then I suggest you look to some other form of toxin.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Then is it possible for a man to laugh himself to death?’
‘Of course, just as it is possible for a person to die of sadness.’ Paxtone walked to the table, and filled two cups with wine. ‘Unhappiness may cause a person to forget to eat, or render him susceptible to an imbalance of humours. It is very easy for emotions to bring about a death. But this seems a curious topic for a practical man like you. What has spurred this particular interest?’
‘Wynewyk is dead,’ replied Bartholomew. It was not easy to say the words, and they sounded unreal to his ears. ‘He died eating a cake with nuts in it. While laughing.’
Paxtone’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘Oh, the poor man! How dreadful!’
‘I do not suppose you would look at him, would you? To see if you can spot anything amiss?’
‘Absolutely not!’ exclaimed Paxtone with a shudder. ‘You know I dislike handling corpses.’
Bartholomew did know, but had forgotten. He turned to another question. ‘Wynewyk was with you earlier – you were debating how to sharpen knives. Did he complain of any illness or pain?’
‘He seemed well enough to me.’ Paxtone drained his wine, and when he set the goblet on the hearth, his hand was shaking. ‘This is a shock. Poor Wynewyk! He told me he was thinking of purchasing some new law books this coming week.’
Bartholomew thought uncomfortably of the Michaelhouse accounts. ‘Expensive ones?’
Paxtone shrugged with the carelessness of a man who never had to be concerned with such matters. ‘I imagine so. However, Risleye told me that Wynewyk summoned you on Wednesday night. What were his symptoms then? The ailment may have been a precursor to his death.’
‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, wondering why Risleye should have been reporting such matters to his old teacher; he had been under the impression that they could not stand the sight of each other. ‘He said he had sipped an almond posset, and mentioned a burning mouth. It led me to assume that even a small taste of nuts was capable of creating an imbalance of his humours.’
‘And this is how you devised your theory about nuts being poisonous?’ mused Paxtone. ‘You think he ate more of them, and they killed him?’
‘I have come across similar cases in the past. It is rare, but not unknown.’
‘I suppose your Arab master taught you this,’ said Paxtone, rather disparagingly. ‘However, the ancient Greeks do not mention it, and it sounds a bit far-fetched to me.’
Bartholomew realised he was foolish to have imagined that Paxtone might help him. He liked the man, but he should not have come expecting a proper medical debate. He stood, thinking they were wasting each other’s time, but Paxtone indicated that he should sit again.
‘You said Wynewyk was laughing when he died?’ Paxtone spread his hands. ‘Then there is your cause of death. I put it to you that it was a seizure, induced by an excess of choler.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The swelling in Wynewyk’s throat might have been caused by a number of factors. I suppose nuts are not necessarily responsible.’
‘It is always hard to lose a colleague,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘But I can think of far worse ways to go than laughing myself to death.’
‘Does laughter always equate with happiness?’
‘Well, no,’ said Paxtone. ‘Hysterical cackles can mean quite the reverse – implying a person is distressed. You must have seen how easily smiles turn to tears in some of our more impressionable students, especially around the time of their disputations. However, you should not–’
Their discussion was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, and Tobias entered.
‘Constable Muschett is ailing again,’ he said apologetically. ‘He needs to be bled.’
Paxtone’s face registered his distaste, and he turned to Bartholomew. ‘I do not suppose you…’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Phlebotomy is a procedure that carries more risk than advantage, as I have told you before.’
‘The ancient Greeks disagree,’ retorted Paxtone curtly. ‘It is very beneficial, and I advise all my patients to have it done three times a year. Unfortunately, now Robin the surgeon is unavailable, I am obliged to do it myself. But there is no need for you to leave, Matthew. Stay and read my Aristotle. I will not be long, and we shall resume our discussion when I come back.’
Bartholomew had no wish to return to Michaelhouse, and was more than happy to sit in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber. He did as his friend suggested, scanning Aristotle in search of any report of a man dying of laughter. He was on the verge of falling asleep when there was a knock on the door and Tobias entered again, this time with Cynric at his heels.
‘I thought you might be here,’ said the book-bearer. He sounded relieved. ‘Brother Michael needs you. There has been a fight, and one of the brawlers is dead. You are needed to tend the wounded.’
Chapter 4
Bartholomew knew from experience that people injured in fights often fared better if he reached them before anyone else attempted to ‘help’. It was frustrating to see a man die because he had been given all manner of potions to drink, but no one had bothered to stem the flow of blood. He ran down the stairs, and met Paxtone halfway up. The King’s Hall physician was wiping his hands on a rag.
‘Messy business, phlebotomy,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Thank God I wore an apron. What are you–’
‘Brawl,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Will you come?’
He did not wait for a reply, but was aware of Paxtone turning to follow and was grateful; another pair of hands was invariably useful on such occasions. However, the portly physician could not hope to keep up with the rapid pace set by Cynric, and soon fell behind.
The book-bearer led the way to the Market Square. Night had fallen, bringing with it a drenching drizzle that seeped through cloaks and trickled down the backs of necks. It was miserable weather, and Bartholomew wished he was home in front of the fire. Others did not feel the same way, though, and a sizeable circle of onlookers had gathered at the scene of the incident.
Near the front, with the best view of what was happening, were a man and a woman. There was a space between them and the rest of the crowd, as if no one wanted to get too close. Idly, the physician wondered why – both were well dressed, covered in jewellery and looked respectable – until he recognised Idoma.
‘Osa Gosse and his sister,’ muttered Cynric, nodding towards them. ‘I suspect most of their finery belongs to someone else – not that their victims would dare complain, of course.’
Bartholomew regarded Gosse without much interest as he passed, more concerned with reaching the injured. A brief glance told him that the man causing such consternation was short and compact, quite unlike his hefty sibling. However, he shared her dead, shark-fish eyes and malign demeanour, and there was something in his confident, arrogant stance that indicated he was a cut above the average villain. Bartholomew was not amused when the fellow grabbed his arm, jerking him to an abrupt standstill. Cynric tried to come to his rescue, but was blocked by Idoma’s substantial bulk.