They were conducted across a yard to the hall, where the Fellows were teaching. Bartholomew listened for a moment, unimpressed by the standard of the arguments in the mock-disputation that was under way. He sincerely hoped Rougham’s students would put on a better show when they took their final examinations, because otherwise they would fail.
After a while, Rougham became aware of the visitors, and came to greet them. The other Fellows started to follow, but Rougham, as Acting Master, waved them away.
‘I shall deal with this,’ he announced. ‘The rest of you can continue teaching. My students have just set the standard for which you must aim, and if yours are not as good as mine in a week, there will be trouble.’
Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, but snapped it closed when Michael elbowed him. The monk was right: Rougham was easily offended, and would not cooperate with their investigation if they fell out with him.
‘You look terrible, Bartholomew,’ Rougham said, peering at his colleague in concern. ‘Have you come to me for a remedy? Shall I whip you up a syrup of snail juice and frogs’ blood?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily.
‘He toppled into Newe Inn’s pond yesterday, trying to retrieve Vale and the others,’ explained Michael. ‘And inhaling corpse water is evidently not recommended for good health.’
‘Try drinking a quart of strong claret mixed with half a pound of salt, six raw eggs and a couple of bulbs of garlic,’ advised Rougham. ‘That should purge any cadaver-poisons from your system.’
Bartholomew felt sick just thinking about it.
‘I am deeply sorry about Vale,’ began Michael, after Rougham had escorted them out of the hall and into a comfortable solar, where they could speak without being disturbed.
‘So am I,’ said Rougham. ‘It was pleasant, having a fellow medicus with whom to converse. We did not always see eye to eye, but he was a stimulating companion, and I shall miss him.’
‘Do you know why he was in Newe Inn with the Londons and Northwood?’ Michael asked.
‘I do not,’ replied Rougham. ‘However, he was too superior a man to have dabbled in low company freely, so I can only assume that they seduced him there under false pretences.’
‘Northwood was not low company,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He was an excellent scholar.’
‘Perhaps so, but he bullied the novice scribes in his scriptorium, and he was unpleasantly fanatical about his alchemy,’ replied Rougham. ‘He was not the genial philosopher-friar he liked everyone to see. He was ambitious and ruthless, and I think he led Vale astray.’
‘How?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew could take issue with the remark.
Rougham scowled. ‘I strongly suspect he was working on lamp fuel.’
‘Lamp fuel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You mean he was in competition with us?’
‘Yes!’ growled Rougham. ‘And whoever discovers a compound that emits clear, bright, steady light will be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. When Northwood had wind of our experiments, he asked to join us, but Holm and I refused. He was livid, so I suspect he decided to conduct tests of his own, enlisting the London brothers to help.’
‘And Vale?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he enlist Vale, too?’
Rougham pursed his lips. ‘Vale would not have joined forces with him willingly.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael. ‘That the other three coerced him?’
For a moment, it seemed Rougham would not reply, but then he said, ‘Vale had a lady friend, and liked to frolic with her on occasion. Northwood saw him once, and threatened to tell.’
‘Northwood was blackmailing him?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I do not believe it!’
‘That is your prerogative,’ said Rougham pompously. ‘However, Vale told me himself.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically, thinking that Vale had not been a man to confess to shortcomings, especially to someone like Rougham, who would be judgemental.
‘It happened after the Convocation of Regents where we voted on the Common Library. You see, I specifically told all my Fellows to oppose the grace, and was outraged when Vale disobeyed. I demanded an explanation, and that was the one he gave – that Northwood had forced him to support it. It is not such great leap of logic to assume that Northwood bullied him into other things, too.’
‘Blackmail is a serious allegation to make against a senior member of the Carmelite Order,’ said Michael warningly.
Rougham nodded. ‘Yes, but it is true, nonetheless.’
‘Was Vale sufficiently distressed about the situation to harm himself?’ asked Michael.
Rougham released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Vale? Do not be ridiculous! He considered himself far too indispensable to consider anything of that nature.’
It was not a pleasant remark to make about a colleague, but Bartholomew was inclined to concur. Vale had held a highly inflated opinion of himself.
‘What is the name of Vale’s lady?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you not advise him to give her up if the relationship was going to lead to him being forced into acting against his will?’
‘I did suggest he transfer his affections elsewhere,’ replied Rougham. ‘But he declared himself to be in love. And the lady’s name is Ruth Weasenham.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, astonished. ‘I would have thought her too respectable for extra-marital dalliances.’
‘So would I, but can you blame her? Weasenham is hardly a man to satisfy a woman’s dreams, and his last spouse wandered from the wedding bed, too, as I recall. I imagine the poor lasses do it to retain their sanity, because he cannot make for pleasing company.’
‘Ruth was distressed by the news of Vale’s death,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘I saw her eyes fill with tears when we mentioned him.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But she was upset by Adam’s death, too, and the London brothers’. She is just a gentle lady with a kind heart, and I am not sure I believe this tale.’
‘Perhaps we should start a rumour about it,’ said Rougham speculatively. ‘Weasenham is a gossip, and it would be poetic justice for him to be the subject of an embarrassing story.’
‘But that would hurt Ruth,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how she had rallied to his defence when Weasenham had accused him of being a warlock. ‘Please do not.’
Rougham sniffed. ‘Very well, although only as a personal favour to you – Weasenham does deserve to be taught a lesson. Of course, you are wasting your time investigating these deaths.’
‘We are?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because it is clear what happened: God did not like what Northwood and his helpmeets were doing, so He took measures to stop them. It was divine punishment on four men who were aiming to steal the secret of lamp fuel from its rightful discoverers – us.’
It was warm when Bartholomew and Michael left Gonville Hall and began to walk to the Carmelite Priory. Many people had snatched a few hours from work, and were using the time to smarten their houses for the Corpus Christi festivities the following week. The wealthier residents were having their homes painted, while the poorer ones contented themselves with a scrubbing brush and a bucket of water. Bartholomew had rarely seen the town looking so spruce. The work did not, however, extend to removing the piles of rubbish that festered on every street corner.
Edith was supervising the beautification of her husband’s business premises, which involved a wash of pale gold, and hanging baskets of flowering plants from the eaves. Stanmore’s apprentices were thoroughly enjoying themselves, horsing around on ladders and making a good deal of high-spirited noise. Edith fussed about beneath them like a mother hen, exhorting them to take care and not to lean out so far with their brushes.