Isnard sniffed revoltingly. ‘I will not – not after they tried to kill me last night. Once I was in the Mill Pond, screaming for help, they raced away sniggering. If Master Gayton had not happened past, I would have died.’
‘They left you?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked, although he supposed he should not be surprised that the malevolent pair should strike at him by targeting his patients.
‘The moment they were sure I was in trouble,’ replied Isnard. ‘But they will not hurt me a second time. If they come anywhere near me again, I shall punch them.’
‘Senior Proctor Brampton came last night,’ Meadowman told Bartholomew, ‘to assess if I was malingering. More beadles have the flux, you see, so he is desperately short of men. He said the University cannot pay us while we are laid up, so thank God for that saint – the man who gives money to the priests to help us.’
Bartholomew poured him a beaker of barley water. The beadle took it, and very cautiously used it to wet his lips.
‘You need more than that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Lots more.’
‘But I do not like it,’ objected Meadowman, trying to hand it back. ‘And I only sick it back up again, so what is the point? Besides, such insipid medicine cannot possibly cure this terrible sickness. How could it?’
Bartholomew had explained several times about the importance of replacing lost fluids, and knew that repeating it again would be futile. Instead, he rummaged in his medical bag for the pepper from Margery Starre. He did not usually deceive patients, but Meadowman’s plight had grown desperate, and the beadle could just as easily die from refusing to drink as from the flux.
‘This is a very potent powder,’ he said, and put a pinch on the back of Meadowman’s hand, hoping the beadle would be unfamiliar with expensive condiments, and so would not recognise the taste. ‘Touch your tongue to it and see.’
‘Goodness!’ gasped Meadowman. ‘That is strong. Is it dangerous?’
‘Very, in the wrong hands,’ replied Bartholomew gravely. ‘I will add a dose to the barley water, but you must drink the whole jug this morning, or the flux will …’ – he flailed around for a pretext that the beadle would take seriously – ‘… will burst out of your nose and kill you. I will send a student with more this afternoon.’
Wide-eyed, Meadowman took the beaker, and Bartholomew watched him drain it. If the ploy worked, he could conclude that the beadle’s reluctance to follow medical advice was responsible for his abnormally slow recovery.
When Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, he found his colleagues assembling in the yard. He was bemused, because dawn had broken while he had been with Meadowman, and they were usually in church by now. Then Michael appeared in his best habit, and the physician recalled that it was the Feast of St Benedict. Michael always marked the occasion with later morning prayers, to which he invited fellow Benedictines. There were not many Black Monks in Cambridge, as the University tended to be more popular with the mendicant Orders than the monastic ones, but there were enough to make the ceremony noisy and joyful even so.
At one point, Bartholomew spotted Stasy and Hawick at the back of the nave, although they had gone by the time the rite had finished. He and Cynric inspected the spot where they had been, and found a lot of grease on the floor.
‘They want one of us to slip and break his neck,’ surmised the Welshman. ‘I had better follow them today, to make sure they try nothing else to hurt us.’
‘Be careful,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘I do not want them targeting you in the hope of avenging themselves.’
Cynric sniffed his disdain. ‘They are no threat to me, boy. But I hope I do catch them doing something illicit: as they are no longer scholars, they cannot claim protection from the University, which means I can hand them to the Sheriff. Or better yet, to Dickon.’
On that note, he padded off to begin. Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, where an especially fine breakfast had been provided in honour of the Master’s favourite saint. When it was over, and Bartholomew was in his room preparing for the day ahead, Michael came in.
‘Summarise where we are with Aynton’s murder,’ he ordered. ‘Who is still on our list?’
‘Donwich is at the top,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He has no alibi, he was at loggerheads with Aynton over his affair with Lucy, and he was furious that Aynton refused to endorse his candidacy for Chancellor. Moreover, when Donwich returned from visiting Lucy on the night of the murder, he was “sweaty and agitated”.’
‘As anyone would be after dispatching a fellow scholar,’ mused Michael thoughtfully. ‘Who is second on the list?’
‘Narboro,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Who also has no alibi, and may have killed Aynton to make sure the election went ahead. He makes me uneasy, although I cannot say why. Perhaps it is his narcissism, which is so extreme that I find myself wondering if it is real.’
‘Third?’
‘Donwich’s henchmen, Gille and Elsham, who are eager for him to be Chancellor, because he will make them his proctors. They were absent from the feast during compline, when Aynton was killed …’
‘Have you asked them where they were? No? Then that must be done today. Fourth?’
‘Stasy and Hawick – they were among the onlookers when we found Aynton and refused to go home. Further, they harboured malicious intentions towards the University even before you expelled them – why else would they have cast spells in St Mary the Great? They were never my favourite pupils, but they revealed a new side to themselves yesterday.’
‘To me, too, and it makes me wish I had expelled them sooner. When you next speak to them, find out where they were when Aynton was killed. Fifth?’
‘Mayor Morys, who wants Donwich to be Chancellor, because he is bribable. He may not have pushed Aynton himself, but he has kinsmen who will do it for him. Dick has offered to interview him with me today.’
‘Good. Sixth?’
‘Brampton. You see nothing amiss with the fact that he spied on Aynton, is full of venom, did not tell you about the quarrel he witnessed between Aynton and Chaumbre, and is good friends with Donwich, but I do.’
‘Include him if you must,’ said Michael, rolling his eyes. ‘But if you do, I want Chaumbre, who also argued with Aynton and who left Clare Hall’s feast to look at dye, which no one can corroborate. He may be lying. Next?’
‘Those are all so far. I suppose you want me to question them on my own today, because you will be too busy fighting off Donwich’s challenge.’
‘Actually, I want you to teach. Your students are disturbed by the expulsion of two of their number, so it is important to make sure they follow their usual routines today. Thus you will lecture, and I shall investigate murder.’
Bartholomew blinked his surprise. ‘Truly? You do not need my help?’
‘I will take Brampton instead. It will be good for him. Besides, I cannot do anything about Donwich’s claim until the vicars-general arrive, but Aynton clamours at me for justice. Perhaps I shall have his killer by tonight. If not, though, I will need you tomorrow.’
Bartholomew did not hear the last part – he had hurried away before Michael could change his mind.
To make up for lost time, Bartholomew drove his students hard that morning, and was astonished when the bell rang for the midday meal, feeling as though he had barely started. As he ate, he noticed that some of the food was on the verge of spoiling, despite being bought fresh that day. Again, he wondered when the weather would break.
Before he could resume his gruelling schedule, a message came from the Spital, where several residents had the flux. He left Aungel to lead the discussion he had planned on Galen’s De ptisana and hurried out, feeling the sun burn through his hat as he walked. It was the hottest part of the day, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched earth. Trees wilted, their leaves curled, brown and crisp from the lack of rain.