Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Well, your class was not exactly enthralled by whatever ghoulish subject you had chosen, either: Tesdale could not stop yawning, Valence was staring out of the window, and even Risleye’s attention strayed. I hope Wynewyk is better by this afternoon, because I am not in the mood for another bawling session.’
‘Ask Langelee to lower his voice, then.’
Michael grimaced. ‘I did – he told me he was practically whispering as it was. But the real problem is not him, it is the number of students we are trying to teach. We were stupid to let him enrol all those new pupils last Easter, because none of us can cope. Even with Thelnetham and Hemmysby newly installed as Fellows, we struggle. And all the money is gone, anyway.’
‘What money?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘The money we raised by accepting these additional fee-paying scholars. It has all been spent, and our coffers are emptier now than ever. We discussed it at the last Fellows’ meeting.’
‘Did we?’ Bartholomew did not remember.
‘You spent the whole time writing. Foolishly, we thought you were taking notes, and only learned later that you were penning a remedy for gout. You are lucky the rest of us care enough about your College to pay attention.’
Bartholomew watched the servants begin to arrange the hall for the noonday meal. Trestle tables were assembled, and benches set next to them. Cynric stoked up the fire, while scullions carried dishes from the kitchens to the shelves behind the serving screen. They did not smell very appetising – poor food was just one economy forced on them by Michaelhouse’s ailing finances.
‘I met Edith when I went out for a little proctorial business earlier,’ said Michael, seeing the physician had no answer to his charge. ‘She is pale, but seems to be coping with her friend’s death.’
‘You did not mention my missing pennyroyal, did you?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘She is sure to put the two “facts” together, and it took me a long time to convince her that Joan was not murdered. I do not want to give her a reason to rethink.’
‘Of course not,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘However, it does seem odd that Joan spent the day buying baby ribbons, then swallowed a substance to rid herself of her child the same night.’
‘Perhaps the ribbons were a ruse, to conceal her true intentions. A cover, in other words.’
‘And then she killed herself, too?’
‘And then died because she was unsure of the dosage,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘But regardless of what happened, it is not our concern. She is not a scholar, and Edith’s house is not University property. Ergo, it is outside the Senior Proctor’s jurisdiction, and we are busy enough, without making more work for ourselves.’
‘It would be my jurisdiction if it was your pennyroyal that ended up inside her,’ retorted Michael.
‘That is unlikely,’ said Bartholomew, although not without a degree of unease. ‘Pennyroyal is not rare or unusual – it grows everywhere. And the oil can be distilled by anyone with a pot and a fire.’
Michael was unconvinced. ‘I dislike coincidences, and here we have a dangerous substance going missing from your storeroom – a place that is basically inaccessible to anyone but Michaelhouse men – and a woman dying of ingesting some of the stuff the very same night.’
‘But I do not know when it disappeared,’ objected Bartholomew. He really did not believe that the two events could be connected – how could a stranger like Joan know anyone in a closed, monastic-style foundation like Michaelhouse? – but there was a cold, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, even so. ‘There is nothing to say it was the same day she died.’
Michael scowled at him. ‘You are splitting hairs and missing my point – which is that it has gone, and you have no idea where. And you are sure your students did not take it?’
‘They say not, and there is no reason to doubt them.’
‘Then it was stolen by someone else,’ concluded Michael.
‘But, as you have just pointed out, no one outside Michaelhouse has access to my storeroom.’
‘Then I recant that statement. We often have visitors, and there are always tradesmen arriving with deliveries. Meanwhile, we pay our servants a pittance, which means they do not stay long and owe us no loyalty. I barely know some of the staff these days. Perhaps one of them took it.’
‘I keep the door locked at all times.’
‘Rubbish! You often leave it open while you run to the library to check a reference or fetch water from the kitchen. Besides, locks can be picked. And if this pennyroyal oil is as dangerous as you claim, then I am perturbed by the notion that it is unaccounted for. I want answers, Matt – not only as your friend, but as Senior Proctor, too.’
‘But who would want to harm Joan?’ asked Bartholomew, unhappy with the way the conversation was going. ‘She has not lived in Cambridge for years, and no one here knows her.’
‘Then you had better question your students again.’ Michael’s expression turned from severe to worried. ‘But do it discreetly. That business earlier in the year has not been forgotten yet, and your reputation is…’ He waved a plump hand, unable to find the right words.
But Bartholomew knew what he meant. A magician-healer called Arderne had raised doubts about his abilities in the spring, and this had been followed by a frenzy of superstition in the summer, during which many of his patients had been quite open about the fact that they believed he was good at his job because he dabbled in sorcery. They did not care, as long as he made them well, but that was beside the point: it was unsafe for a member of the University to be seen as a practising warlock. Bartholomew had kept a low profile since then, shying away from controversy, but people seemed unwilling to let the matter rest, regardless. He hoped it would not dog him for the rest of his life.
‘You will have to find it,’ Michael went on. ‘The pennyroyal, I mean. It cannot stay missing, not if it has the power to kill.’
‘And how am I to do that?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Besides, as I told you, it is not rare or unusual – lots of homes keep a supply of it.’
Michael regarded him worriedly. ‘If you say so, but I have a very bad feeling about this.’
So did Bartholomew, although he was reluctant to admit it, even to Michael.
That afternoon, Bartholomew conducted a thorough search of his storeroom. The missing pennyroyal was not there, although the hunt did warn him that he was running alarmingly low on a number of essential ingredients. He sent Tesdale, Valence and Risleye to the apothecary to replenish them, using most of his October wages to do so. When they returned, he summoned all his students to the hall.
‘I did not take the pennyroyal,’ declared Risleye angrily, before the physician could tell them what he wanted to discuss. ‘I never touch anything on that top shelf, although I think such a precaution is unnecessary at this stage of my training. I do not see why I should be penalised, just because everyone else took part in that silly joke with the igniting book.’
‘I did not take it, either,’ said Tesdale, alarmed when he saw he was the only other suspect. ‘And nor do I leave the room unattended.’
‘Yes, you do,’ countered Risleye spitefully. ‘You never remember all the ingredients you might need for a remedy, and often have to go out to fetch something.’
‘Well, you are guilty of that, too, Risleye,’ said Valence, who had been the ringleader of the exploding-book incident. ‘You left the door wide open the other day, when Walter tripped over his peacock and you went to help him up. And you were gone for ages.’