‘None that I could see,’ replied Michael, taking his usual place at Bartholomew’s side. Something felt strange about the procession – a change in something deeply familiar – and Bartholomew was momentarily confused when he glanced behind him to see Thelnetham next to Clippesby, where Wynewyk normally walked. ‘He is subdued, and refused the food my beadles took him, but that is understandable. Unfortunately, he still refuses to talk to us.’
‘I will examine him again today,’ said Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on what the monk was saying as grief for Wynewyk washed over him. ‘Perhaps he will tell me what happened.’
‘I doubt it, but you are welcome to try. So is Paxtone, Warden Powys and anyone else who will make him understand that declining to co-operate with the Senior Proctor is not a good idea. Even a half-baked explanation will only result in exile, given that he can claim “benefit of clergy”, but maintaining this ridiculous silence might well see him hanged.’
The Sunday mass was an unusually gloomy affair, and Bartholomew was not the only one who kept glancing at the spot where Wynewyk had always stood. Some of the younger students cried, and the physician was obliged to escort several home early. Risleye, Valence and Tesdale accompanied him, the latter two clearly struggling to control their own distress.
‘Still,’ said Valence, attempting a smile, ‘at least he died happy. I would not mind going like that when my time comes – surrounded by friends, and laughing fit to burst.’
‘Perhaps he did,’ said Risleye with wide eyes. ‘Burst, I mean. Perhaps his innards exploded, because of all the choleric humours that bubbled when he was so full of mirth. It is a pity we cannot anatomise him, because I would like to test such a hypothesis.’
For the first time ever, the physician found himself grateful that anatomy was illegal.
‘Hippocrates says laughing is good for you,’ said Tesdale. ‘He says nothing about it making you explode.’
‘I suppose you might be right,’ conceded Risleye, then added rather salaciously, ‘There was no blood. If Wynewyk had exploded, there would have been pots of blood.’
‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware that the graphic discussion was upsetting the younger students. ‘He died happy, so let us say no more about it.’
‘Did he die happy?’ asked Risleye. ‘Personally, I thought his guffaws had a strangely brittle quality to them – as if he did not really think the debate was funny, but could not help himself.’
‘I said, enough!’ snapped Bartholomew, although he found Risleye’s observation an uncomfortable one. If Wynewyk had been agitated, then perhaps he had eaten the nuts deliberately, fearing his days of manipulating the accounts were numbered. Or was Bartholomew wrong to doubt his integrity?
‘There is the breakfast bell,’ said Valence, brightening at the prospect of food. ‘It is Sunday, so perhaps there will be egg-mess, like there used to be before Wynewyk tightened the purse strings.’
‘You cannot blame him for that,’ objected Tesdale. ‘It is hardly his fault that food prices have risen and students are slow in paying their fees – or run off without paying at all, like Kelyng. He did his best with what he had. Still, some egg-mess would be nice…’
The other students followed him to the hall, but Bartholomew did not feel like eating whatever Agatha had concocted, certain that eggs would not feature in it. And Risleye’s remark about Wynewyk’s ‘brittle’ laughter had unsettled him. He went to Langelee’s room instead, and spent the time reassessing the College’s finances. Surely he could find something to prove Wynewyk innocent?
When the meal was over, Michael came to find him. He saw what Bartholomew was doing, and cleared a space on one of Langelee’s benches. Then he sat down and raised questioning eyebrows. Reluctantly, Bartholomew shook his head.
‘I have uncovered nothing new. Just confirmed what we already knew – that the questionable transactions are for three commodities bought from Suffolk: coal, wood and pigs. But I am sure Wynewyk was not cheating us, Brother. There must be an explanation that will exonerate him.’
‘So you keep saying. But I went through most of his personal papers this morning and found nothing to indicate what that explanation might be.’
‘Then we must look harder. My students need to hear Theophilus’s De urinis before I can give my next set of lectures, and Risleye has offered to read it aloud to the others. That means I am free to help you unravel this mess – and clear Wynewyk’s name.’
Michael was pleased. ‘And in return, I shall help you hunt down your lost pennyroyal. I know it pales into insignificance when compared to Wynewyk, but it is still a toxic substance, and I will feel happier when we have satisfied ourselves that it did not end up inside Joan.’
‘I do not believe it did. Indeed, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that there could not have been much left when I finished making the ulcer salve. Of course, it does not take much to kill a person…’
‘Well, the more I think about it, the more I am afraid that it might have been stolen at the same time that something else went astray,’ said Michael. ‘Namely the Stanton Cups.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Why would Gosse take pennyroyal? I own far more expensive substances than that – and far more dangerous ones, too. Foxglove, mandrake, poppy juice…’
‘Even if he can read, he was probably in a hurry, and grabbed whatever he could reach.’
‘Should I talk to him about it, warn him of its dangers?’
‘That would be tantamount to accusing him of theft, and he will go crying to his lawyer about slander. Besides, if he does have it, your warning may encourage him to feed it to someone he does not like. No, Matt. We must devise another way to ascertain whether he is the culprit.’
Bartholomew nodded acquiescence, although he was unsure whether or not to be concerned. Was his pennyroyal in Gosse’s hands? Or had someone from Michaelhouse taken it to help with some innocent task, and was now too frightened to own up? The physician rubbed a hand through his hair, and turned to yet another cause for concern.
‘Do the other Fellows know about the missing thirty marks yet?’
‘Langelee told them after breakfast. Predictably, they are all very upset.’
‘We could talk to Wynewyk’s friends,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘They may know what he–’
‘We were his friends. He had acquaintances from other foundations – such as Paxtone and Warden Powys from King’s Hall – but his friends were here, at Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew tapped the accounts book with his pen. ‘The inconsistencies only arise when he made purchases from Suffolk. As far as I can tell, he paid a total of eighteen marks for coal, seven for wood and five for pigs. But none of these supplies have been received.’
‘I reached the same conclusion, and so did Langelee. Then I went back through the receipts and found the names of the three Suffolk men with whom he did business. Did you do that?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I just studied the figures.’ ‘The largest amount was paid to a man called Henry Elyan of Haverhill, who–’
‘Elyan?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘But he is Joan’s husband.’
‘The woman who died of pennyroyal?’ asked Michael. ‘What a curious coincidence!’
Bartholomew’s thoughts were reeling. ‘Is it coincidence? Elyan came to collect his wife’s body on Saturday, which is the same day that Wynewyk died.’