‘I do not blame them – and I do not want you tackling him over what I have just told you, either. I mean it, Matthew. And if I hear you have disobeyed me, I shall be very angry.’
Bartholomew smiled, recalling similar words issued when he had been a child. He was no longer six years old, but he still did not want Edith angry with him.
She smiled back, then patted his hand. ‘But to return to Joan, I doubt Gosse is the one who harmed her, because I cannot imagine he knows what pennyroyal can do.’
‘What about Idoma?’ asked Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, and wished he had not asked. He wanted Edith to think she was wrong about Joan, and the way to do it was not by posing questions that would make her reassess what she knew of the Gosse family.
‘She is too stupid to know about poisons,’ replied Edith with a dismissive sniff. ‘But someone harmed Joan – I am sure of it. And I am tempted to ride to Haverhill and tell Elyan so.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘If you are right, then Joan’s killer will not be very happy to see you, and you will put yourself in danger.’
‘But I cannot sit here knowing that my oldest friend is dead by foul means, and do nothing about it,’ cried Edith, eyes filling with tears. ‘It is not right!’
‘I will ask Michael to investigate,’ promised Bartholomew. The monk would not appreciate being volunteered for such a task, but the physician did not know how else to stop her. ‘He needs to speak to Elyan anyway, because Wynewyk bought coal from him.’
He did not tell her that most of the transactions appeared to be illegal on Wynewyk’s part, and that the money passed to Elyan – if it was ever received – was for goods that had never been delivered.
Edith was silent for a while. ‘Very well,’ she said eventually. ‘If Elyan does have enemies who might strike at him through his pregnant wife, then Michael is the man to see justice done.’
Chapter 5
The following day was wintry, with low clouds in the sky and a biting cut to the wind. Bartholomew was summoned in the small hours by a patient who had poisoned himself by drinking a lot of bad ale. When Isnard the bargeman had recovered enough to be left, the physician returned to the College, hoping to snatch a little sleep before the day began, but Cynric was waiting with a message from Chancellor Tynkell, who had one of his stomach upsets – something the physician felt would not happen if the man washed himself occasionally.
Afterwards, as he was near, he decided to visit Shropham in the proctors’ gaol, and found himself glancing around uneasily as he walked. Then he recalled how Gosse had thrown stones at Edith, and half wished the felon would appear, so he could mete out a little justice with his fists. He was not normally prone to violent urges, but he hated the thought of anyone harming his sister.
‘Living in the elegant comfort of King’s Hall has made me soft,’ said Shropham, looking up when Bartholomew was shown into his cell. ‘I do not think I have ever been so cold. Will you give me something to make me sleep? Poppy juice, perhaps? I will need a lot of it, because–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He knelt next to Shropham and examined his arm. It was healing fast and cleanly, although Shropham did not greet the news with much pleasure. ‘You have spent two nights in captivity now. Surely, it is time to tell Michael what happened?’
‘I have told him. I do not remember – it was dark and difficult to see.’
‘Well, which was it?’ demanded Bartholomew archly. ‘If you cannot remember, how do you know it was dark and difficult to see?’
‘It was night,’ replied Shropham flatly. ‘It is always difficult to see at night.’
‘Did you know Carbo?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that Shropham was a lawyer, so trying to catch him out was likely to be a waste of time – he would know how to weasel his way out of any careless slips of the tongue.
‘No, but I saw him gazing at King’s Hall on several occasions.’
‘Gazing?’ echoed Bartholomew curiously. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘I have no idea, and neither will my colleagues. They do not fraternise with hedge-priests, as I am sure they have said. But please do not ask me anything else, because I do not want to talk about it.’
‘Let Michael help you,’ urged Bartholomew, seeing the man’s inner agony. ‘It is obvious something is badly amiss, so tell him what he needs to know and let him investigate the matter.’
Shropham opened his mouth, and for a moment Bartholomew thought he was going to capitulate. But then his lips set in a grim line, and he shook his head. ‘There is nothing to say. But I am very cold, and my arm aches. Give me something to ease the pain. Something strong.’
Bartholomew made an innocuous tonic of feverfew and mint, and asked the beadles to give the prisoner more blankets. He also warned them to watch him, although he doubted Shropham would kill himself with any of the means currently at his disposal. Did that mean he would not stab a priest, either? Bartholomew was not sure what to believe, and walked slowly back to Michaelhouse, wondering what dire secret Shropham carried – and whether King’s Hall shared it, and was willing to let him hang rather than have it made public. College loyalty ran deep, and it would not be the first time a Fellow had sacrificed himself to protect the foundation he loved. He found himself thinking about Wynewyk, who had been devoted to Michaelhouse, and became even more convinced that his colleague would never have done anything to damage it.
When he arrived home, he was startled out of his morose reverie by Risleye and Tesdale, who were arguing over who was to read De urinis to their classmates that morning. It entailed work, so Tesdale thought Risleye should do it, while Risleye was protesting that he had done the honours the last time.
‘While you two have been squabbling, Deynman has preempted you.’ Bartholomew indicated the hall with a nod of his head. Through the window, the Librarian could be seen, pacing back and forth with a book in his hand. Deynman was not a gifted academic, and the physician dreaded to think of how he was mangling the text, no doubt rendering it all but incomprehensible.
Tesdale beamed. ‘Good! Reading is such a chore, and–’
‘It is not good at all,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘I asked one of you two to do it.’
Risleye grimaced. ‘It is not our fault he sneaked in. He gave up medicine when he became Librarian, so he is not supposed to teach. He knows reading to the juniors is our responsibility.’
‘He does,’ agreed Tesdale. ‘But he cannot accept that he is no longer your student. He often asks for access to your storeroom. We refuse, but he sometimes slinks in when we are not looking.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Why would he do that? And why have you not mentioned it before?’
Tesdale shrugged. ‘He declines to say – he merely informs us that he is Librarian, and thus immune to interrogation by students. And I did not mention it before because I forgot until now.’
Bartholomew supposed he would have to speak to Deynman and demand to know what he thought he was doing. He could not imagine why the Librarian should want to take pennyroyal, but with Deynman, anything was possible.
‘Go to the hall and make sure he reads the correct passages,’ he said tiredly. ‘And if he fails, I am holding you two responsible; if you had not been bickering, he would not have stepped into your shoes.’
‘That is unfair!’ cried Risleye angrily. ‘It is not our fault that–’
‘We will do our best,’ said Tesdale, jabbing his less-prudent classmate with his elbow. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘It will not be easy to wrest the tome from him, though – he likes books.’