‘But I do not like it,’ objected Meadowman. ‘It is akin to drinking glue. Besides, why would such a mild remedy work on this powerful sickness? I need something stronger.’
‘Have you been throwing it away?’ demanded Bartholomew, suddenly hopeful that an explanation for the beadle’s continued sickness might be to hand.
‘I swallow as much as I can bear,’ replied Meadowman evasively, then added in plaintive tones, ‘Are you sure I will not die?’
‘Of course,’ replied Bartholomew briskly, and remembered what Margery Starre did to make barley water more palatable. ‘I will send a different kind when I get home. And you can try some broth. Do you have money for it? I know you have not worked for a week now.’
Meadowman nodded. ‘Someone sends me a farthing every other day. I have no idea who. Not Brother Michael – he brings me food, although I cannot face it, so Isnard takes it for the Marian Singers.’
‘This anonymous saint gives money to other flux-sufferers, too,’ put in Isnard. ‘Or rather, he sends it to their parish priests, who distribute it on his behalf. We tried to make them tell us his name, but he swears them to secrecy.’
Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, as most people who provided alms were keen for their largesse to be appreciated. He turned his mind back to the flux.
‘Where do you empty the waste bucket, Isnard?’ he asked, thinking that if it were the Mill Pond, he would know why the flux continued to claim victims in that area.
‘The public latrine by the Trumpington Gate,’ replied the bargeman. ‘I used to pour it in the river, which was a lot less trouble, but I stopped after you threatened to break my crutches if I did it again.’
Bartholomew blushed guiltily, but then told himself that anything was fair in the war against unhygienic practices. It was true that Isnard was only one man out of hundreds who did the same, but the fight had to start somewhere.
‘You caught that cold from the miasma that hangs around the hovels near All Saints-next-the-castle,’ said Meadowman, as Isnard sneezed violently. ‘I told you to stay away from that area. Nasty agues have been breaking out there for weeks – the Godenave family are always sniffing and snorting.’
‘I had no choice,’ rasped Isnard. ‘Ulf Godenave stole my purse, so I went to get it back. That boy will swing before he is much older. He cannot look at anything without filching it.’
‘Maybe it was him who burgled Burgess Chaumbre last night,’ said Meadowman, more talkative now the poppy syrup had eased his discomfort. ‘Did you hear about that? No one knows how much was taken, but the rumour is that it was a lot.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Someone broke into my sister’s house?’
‘Chaumbre’s house,’ said Meadowman. ‘The one in Girton village, where he lived before he moved in with her. As the place was empty, the thief took advantage of it.’
‘I wish Chaumbre would fill in those dye-pits on the High Street,’ said Isnard, wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘I stopped to relieve myself there last night, and it was only by the grace of God that I avoided toppling into one.’
Isnard liked to drink, which Bartholomew was sure had been a factor in the near-mishap. Still, the dye-pits were a hazard, and he wondered why Chaumbre was taking so long to remedy the matter.
‘Beadle Brown told me that Chaumbre had an awful row with Aynton about it yesterday,’ said Meadowman. ‘Aynton threatened to take up a spade himself, and Chaumbre told him to mind his own business. The discussion became quite heated, apparently.’
‘Did it?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if he should include his brother-in-law on the suspect list, too. Yet people quarrelled all the time without killing each other.
‘And before they parted,’ Meadowman went on, ‘the Chancellor asked Chaumbre if he needed to borrow some money to get it done. Chaumbre was so affronted that he called the Chancellor a meddlesome arse.’
‘Well, Chaumbre is not meddlesome enough,’ put in Isnard. ‘Father William and I asked him to help us persuade Morys to open the Mill Pond sluices, because the river stinks, but he said that challenging the Mayor was not his job.’
‘Oh, yes, it is,’ averred Meadowman. ‘He is a burgess. Who else’s is it?’
‘People are wary of using the bridge now it has claimed a second life,’ said Isnard, jumping to another subject. ‘So today, I shall set up a ferry service. It will make me a fortune, so some good has come out of those two deaths.’
Bartholomew was not sure Aynton and Baldok would have agreed.
By the time Bartholomew had finished with Meadowman, it was too late to attend the morning service, but too early for breakfast, so he went to spend a few moments with Matilde. He thought about the flux all the way along the High Street, and only when he reached her house did he turn his mind to happier matters. Or at least, to weddings.
Matilde’s home stood in the shadow of All Saints-in-the-Jewry, and was a pretty place with a creamy yellow wash and black timbers. He pushed open the door and stepped into an interior that was cool and smelled of lavender and roses. It was simultaneously practical and elegant, and he knew he would be a lot more comfortable living there than with students who tended to view tidiness and personal hygiene as something for other people.
Matilde stood helplessly in the middle of her parlour, surrounded by shoes, while her friend Lucy Brampton, the Junior Proctor’s sister, pondered which ones were suitable for a bride. They did not hear him enter, allowing him a moment to watch the woman who would become his wife in ten days.
To his mind, the passing years had only added to her beauty. There were one or two silver strands in her hair, and the laughter lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened, but she was still the loveliest woman he had ever seen, and his heart always quickened when he saw her. He remained amazed that, of all the men she had ever met, she had chosen to marry an impoverished physician-scholar, somewhat past his prime, with no prospect of wealth or influence. He sincerely hoped she knew what she was doing.
Lucy was older, but still pretty, and knew how to make the best of herself. Her clothes fitted snugly around her trim figure, and judicious use of face-paints hid most evidence of ageing. The only part she could not disguise was her teeth, which were sadly decayed. She had been beside herself with delight when her fiancé had arrived home after his ten-year absence, so Narboro’s rejection had been a very cruel blow. Like most of Matilde’s friends, she possessed an unusually sharp mind, but Bartholomew would have liked her more if she were less obsessed with his wedding.
‘Matt!’ cried Matilde. ‘What a lovely surprise! Have you–’
‘What do you think?’ interrupted Lucy, holding aloft two pairs of shoes; behind her back, Matilde rolled her eyes, albeit indulgently, and grinned at him. ‘The blue or the red?’
‘Blue,’ replied Bartholomew, knowing from experience that Lucy expected him to make a choice, regardless of whether or not he had a sensible opinion on the matter.
‘Really?’ she asked, frowning. ‘You do not think they are overly fancy?’
‘Red, then,’ capitulated Bartholomew.
Matilde laughed. ‘He would not notice if I walked up the aisle barefoot – unless it exposed some interesting medical problem with my toes.’
‘I was sorry to hear about your Chancellor,’ said Lucy, once the red shoes had been put to one side, although Bartholomew suspected the decision would be reviewed at least twice more before it was finally settled. ‘He was stuck in his ways, but he was not a bad man.’
‘You knew him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘How?’