‘They produced two last week,’ interrupted Weasenham. ‘And I paid for both. However, when I mentioned the matter to Prior Etone, it became clear that Northwood had only handed him the cash for one of them. He had kept the rest for himself.’
‘No,’ said Jorz firmly. ‘You are mistaken. Northwood would not have done that.’
‘He told us that the work on one of the exemplars was substandard,’ said Riborowe, ‘and thus unfit to be sold. He only brought the better copy here …’
‘No, he brought two, and the work on both was excellent,’ gloated Weasenham. ‘I can show you if you like. Fetch them, Bonabes.’
‘No,’ said Jorz stiffly. ‘We do not want to see. Come, brothers. We are finished here.’
The door closed after them with a resounding crack.
‘There will be an explanation for what Northwood is accused of doing,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, refusing to believe ill of the man. ‘Weasenham has a nasty way of twisting even the most innocuous of incidents. He is a malign force, and I wish the University would oust him.’
‘Unfortunately, we need more than a penchant for intrigue to deprive him of his livelihood. Rumour-mongering is despicable, but not illegal, no matter what you think of it.’
Weasenham’s sly face became eager when he saw Michael and Bartholomew, anticipating that they would supply him with more information to fuel his scurrilous tongue. Next to him, Ruth hung her head, while Bonabes grimaced.
‘I suppose you are here to provide details about the London brothers,’ Weasenham said. ‘Good. I am distressed by their demise, and demand to know what happened to them.’
‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael flatly. ‘But I need information before I can furnish you with answers. What can you tell me about them?’
Weasenham looked disappointed, but began to oblige, always ready to talk about someone else. ‘They worked with me for years, and we rubbed along nicely together. I shall miss them, although not nearly as much as Adam. He was cheap, whereas I was obliged to pay them a decent wage.’
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Michael, unimpressed. ‘Or is that it?’
‘Well, they were sanctimonious,’ Weasenham went on. ‘They told me I was a gossip, which was unfair. All I do is share information with friends. Where lies the harm in that?’
‘They had no family, other than each other, and they lived in the house next door,’ supplied Bonabes, rather more practically. ‘They were polite and kind, but tended to keep to themselves.’
‘Did they know Northwood or Vale?’ asked Bartholomew.
It was Ruth who answered. ‘Yes, they often met Northwood when he came to purchase supplies for the Carmelite Priory, and they occasionally enjoyed a drink together in the Brazen George. Northwood liked to tell them his alchemical theories, and they liked to listen.’
‘Did they understand them?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Northwood devised some very lofty hypotheses, most of which left me bemused. And I am as razor-witted as any man.’
‘Because they were interested, he took the time to explain,’ replied Ruth. ‘Besides, they were scholars themselves – members of Batayl Hostel, albeit non-residential ones.’
‘Philosophers by training,’ elaborated Bonabes. ‘They stepped in to teach the trivium when Coslaye was injured. Master Browne said they were invaluable during that difficult time.’
‘And they died in the property that adjoins that particular foundation,’ mused Michael. ‘I must make time to visit Batayl and ask a few questions.’
‘The brothers and Northwood were often in each other’s company,’ added Weasenham eager not to be left out of the discussion. ‘In fact, I would say he was their only friend. As Bonabes said, they kept to themselves.’
‘What about Vale?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did they know him?’
Ruth looked away, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes. They were his patients, as were we.’
‘We asked him to be our medicus the moment he arrived,’ elaborated Weasenham. ‘We had been with Doctor Rougham, but he is expensive these days. Not to mention arrogant.’
‘Why Vale?’ asked Michael. ‘Why not Gyseburne or Meryfeld?’
‘Because Gyseburne’s interest in urine is unsavoury, and Meryfeld is never clean,’ replied Weasenham. He shot Bartholomew an arch glance. ‘And we would never agree to be treated by him, because he is a warlock. The whole town knows it, and while he might well save more lives than the other physicians, I do not like the notion of him summoning the Devil on my behalf.’
‘The story about Doctor Bartholomew’s pact with Satan is a stupid rumour concocted by the ignorant,’ said Ruth spiritedly. Bartholomew regarded her with surprise, unused to people coming to his defence. He wondered whether she had been conferring with her sister about him.
‘Were Philip and John London in low spirits?’ asked Michael, changing the subject before Weasenham could argue. ‘Or did they ever discuss taking their own lives?’
‘No,’ said Ruth, shocked. ‘They were perfectly content.’
‘And excited about making paper,’ added Weasenham. ‘You do not commit self-murder if you have an enthralling project to hand. You are wrong if you think they were suicidal, Brother.’
‘Everyone is experimenting these days,’ mused Ruth. ‘The Londons with paper, the White Friars with ink, Vale with his cure-all, the medical men with lamp fuel …’
Absently, Bartholomew imagined what her list might sound like to outside ears. People would assume that Cambridge was full of mad intellectuals, all busily hurling ingredients into cauldrons as they pursued their lunatic theories.
‘Yes – that deputation of scholars from Oxford back in January has a lot to answer for,’ muttered Weasenham unpleasantly. ‘We were more interested in reading books than in conducting experiments before they came along with the smug implication that they were better than us because of their scientific discoveries.’
Michael asked several more questions, but neither Bonabes nor Ruth could add anything more of interest, and Weasenham’s opinions were unreliable, so he and Bartholomew took their leave.
‘As we are here, we should look in the London brothers’ home,’ said Michael. ‘They have no next-of-kin to object to a search, and my beadle obtained the key last night.’
They walked to the cottage next door. It had been given an attractive wash of pale yellow, and was well maintained. Michael unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He gave a squawk of alarm when a shadow flitted across the room, and Bartholomew fumbled for his childbirth forceps. But then the figure stepped into the light, and both recognised it instantly. Bartholomew’s heart sank.
It was Michael’s formidable grandmother, Dame Pelagia. And if she was in Cambridge, then there was trouble afoot for certain.
Chapter 4
‘Grandmother!’ exclaimed Michael, shoving past Bartholomew and going to take the old lady’s hands in his own. There was genuine delight in his voice.
Dame Pelagia was tiny, with a wrinkled face and white hair that was tucked decorously under a matronly wimple. She had unfathomable eyes that twinkled like shiny buttons, and an enigmatic smile. At a glance, she was an elderly gentlewoman, but appearances could be deceptive, and Bartholomew knew for a fact that she had spent the greater part of her life spying for the various monarchs through whose reigns she had lived. She was also ruthlessly skilled with knives.
‘It was you who saved me last night,’ he said in sudden understanding. ‘When those men cornered me.’