‘And I am to leave all this outside their house without them seeing? Why?’
‘Pride,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘No one likes accepting charity.’
‘I do not mind,’ said Tesdale ruefully. ‘I am grateful for anything I can get.’
‘Please be discreet,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Tesdale’s innate laziness would not encourage him to be careless. He half wished he had recruited Valence instead.
‘You can trust me,’ said Tesdale solemnly. ‘I used to do similar things for Master Wynewyk – mostly making anonymous donations of food and ale for the Michaelhouse Choir.’
‘That was Wynewyk?’ Bartholomew recalled Michael often remarking on the miraculous appearance of victuals when his own funds were low. ‘I never knew.’
Tears welled in Tesdale’s eyes. ‘I probably should not have mentioned it, but I thought you should know I have experience with this kind of thing, so you can depend on me to–’ He stopped speaking abruptly when Risleye and Valence entered the sickroom with the soup.
‘Depend on you to what?’ asked Risleye.
‘To … to return my library books before we leave on our journey tomorrow,’ replied Tesdale in a guilty stammer. Risleye narrowed his eyes.
‘I do not believe you,’ he said accusingly. ‘You were probably ingratiating yourself so Doctor Bartholomew will save you first if we are attacked. We all know it is perilous and stupid to travel in winter.’
‘It is not perilous,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately turning his mind from the very real dangers of robbers, floods, getting lost and being thrown from panicky horses.
‘Master Wynewyk did not agree,’ said Risleye resentfully. ‘He hated leaving Cambridge at any time of the year.’
‘He left it to visit his father last term,’ Tesdale pointed out. ‘In Winwick, which is a long way west of Huntingdon. Personally, I cannot imagine why anyone would want to leave home. It is hard work, and I would much rather stay in by the fire.’
‘Actually, he did not go to Winwick,’ said Risleye. His expression was smug. ‘He made me swear not to tell anyone, but I am released from that promise now he is dead. Am I not?’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He did go. He brought back a lot of earthenware jugs – enough to replace all the ones that were cracked. Their design is alien to Cambridge, and–’
‘I did not say he did not leave Cambridge, I said he did not go to Winwick,’ corrected Risleye pedantically. ‘I was visiting friends in Babraham, you see, and there was a hailstorm. I ducked inside a tavern, and there was Wynewyk, also sheltering from the weather. Babraham is south-east of Cambridge, but Winwick is a long way west, as Tesdale pointed out.’
‘So?’ demanded Tesdale. ‘Perhaps he decided to take the scenic route.’
‘In completely the opposite direction?’ demanded Risleye archly. ‘He winked at me, and said his father had been dead for years – it was actually an old flame who needed the visit. He gave me a shilling, and we agreed not to mention the matter again. A pact between gentlemen.’
‘But only until death,’ said Valence, eyeing him in disgust. ‘At which point, you reveal his private business to the first people who ask. There is nothing of the gentleman about you, Risleye.’
‘Give your patient the soup,’ ordered Bartholomew, seeing Risleye gird himself up for a spat. ‘Slowly – a little at a time. And check the size of his pupils again.’
While the students did as he ordered, Bartholomew recalled that Michael had given Wynewyk money for his journey, sorry for a colleague rushing to a father’s sickbed. Was Risleye telling the truth about what had transpired in Babraham? Bartholomew thought he was – the lad had no reason to lie – and wondered what his colleague could have been doing. He did not believe Wynewyk would have accepted Michael’s charity to frolic with a lover; Wynewyk, he decided, had spun Risleye a yarn he thought the lad would believe in order to secure his silence. So what was the truth? He had no idea, and could only hope that all would become clear when they made their enquiries in Suffolk.
It was early evening by the time Bartholomew and his students left the Dominican Friary, and lamps were lit in the wealthiest homes. In most, though, doors and windows were open to catch the last of the daylight. It let in the cold, but candles were expensive, and most folk could not afford to use them as long as it was light outside. Rich smells wafted out as meals were prepared over hearths, mostly root vegetables that had been stewing over the embers all day, perhaps with a few bones for flavour. In the Market Square, many of the bakers’ ovens were cold, suggesting grain was already scarce and only the affluent were going to have bread to dip in their pottage that night.
Supper had finished when they reached Michaelhouse, and the Fellows were gathering in the conclave. Bartholomew was loath to join them, knowing the topic of conversation would be Wynewyk and the wrongs he had perpetrated on his trusting colleagues. He decided to visit his sister instead, to tell her he was going to Suffolk and would ask questions about Joan on her behalf.
Edith nodded her satisfaction that he was finally taking her concerns seriously. She mulled some wine, and they sat next to the roaring fire, listening to the wind rattle the window shutters. The wood released the scent of pine as it burned, combining pleasantly with the aroma of the cloves and ginger that were tied in small bags around the house – a common precaution against winter fevers. He was warm and content, and might have been happy, were it not for Wynewyk and the nagging fear that Edith might do something reckless in her quest to understand why her friend had died. And he missed Matilde, of course, but he had come to accept that as a hurt that would never go away.
‘There is a condition,’ he said, sipping the wine and thinking Matilde would have liked it, because it was heavily laced with cinnamon: ‘That Cynric stays with you.’
‘There is no need – Oswald’s apprentices are here, not to mention the burgesses he charged to watch me. Indeed, I think he ordered half the town to keep me from danger.’
‘It is the other half I am worried about,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Then perhaps I shall come with you to Haverhill,’ said Edith slyly. ‘You can look after me, and I can ask my own questions about Joan.’
‘Absolutely not! Oswald would never forgive me if he came home to find you gone.’
‘But I must do something! The more I think about it, the more I am certain Joan was murdered.’
‘There is no evidence to suggest–’
‘There is evidence – my testimony. Joan was delighted about the child, and would not have tried to rid herself of it. And nor would she have merrily downed a tonic without first assessing what was in it, so her death was not an accident, either. Therefore, the only option left is murder: someone gave her the pennyroyal, intending to cause her harm.’
‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, more to calm her than because he believed it. ‘Of course, if she was selective about what she drank, we must assume she accepted the potion from someone she knew and trusted. Yet she was a virtual stranger here.’
‘And that is why I must visit Suffolk. The killer followed her here, gave her the potion and left when it killed her. He is at home now, smug in the belief that no one will ever catch him.’
‘How odd it is that everything seems to lead to Suffolk,’ said Bartholomew, more to himself than Edith. ‘Wynewyk did business there, it was Joan’s home, and Shropham killed one of its priests – who also happens to be the lawyer for another Suffolk man, namely Osa Gosse.’