‘Talk to the Master,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘I do not know about the other offers.’
Spynk glared at him, then sighed irritably. ‘Very well, but you have just lost yourself a decent nag. I am sorry about Carton, by the way. He tried to cheat me by starting a bidding war with Barnwell, but I do not bear him a grudge. He was only doing his duty. I understand Michaelhouse is poor, and needs all the money it can lay its grubby hands on.’
‘We are not one of the wealthier foundations,’ admitted Bartholomew cautiously.
‘I sent Cecily to Barnwell on Saturday,’ Spynk rambled on. ‘I wanted her to get a feel for the place, work out how wealthy they are. It is always good to know your enemies. Do you not agree?’
‘I do not have many–’
Spynk released a braying laugh. ‘That is not what I hear! I am a stranger here, but even I know half the town thinks you are a warlock. The other half believes you are a saint, but they are mostly poor, and no one listens to them. You have enemies aplenty.’
He was going to add something else, but another bout of sickness prevented him. Afterwards, he flopped on the bed and closed his eyes, exhausted by the ordeal. Bartholomew was grateful for the silence. Eventually, Cecily arrived with another brimming pan, then stood nearer to him than was proper while he made a second batch of the mixture.
‘I need more hot water,’ he said, searching for an excuse to send her away until he had finished. She was so close that her breath was hot on the back of his neck, and he kept thinking that Spynk might wake up and wonder what they were up to.
‘What for?’ she asked. ‘You have already prepared enough of this medicine to satisfy an ox. If he drinks it all, he will burst.’
‘I need to wash my hands.’
‘Your hands?’ asked Spynk, showing he had not been asleep after all. ‘God’s blood, but this is a strange town! Why should you wash your hands? They look clean enough to me. Cecily and I only wash ours on Sundays, before we go to church.’
‘Actually, I scrub mine on Wednesdays, too,’ said Cecily with a coquettish smile. ‘I like to feel fresh. Do you want a different pot, or would you mind giving them a rinse in that potion we have just brewed? We have not added the honey yet, so it will not be sticky, and Richard will not mind.’
Bartholomew regarded her askance, lost for words.
‘Danyell was obsessed with cleanliness, too,’ said Spynk with a grimace of disapproval. ‘He took a bath every year, but look how he ended up – someone stealing his fingers for God knows what purpose. He was an odd man: careful with hygiene on one hand, but in the habit of wandering about at night on the other.’
Bartholomew’s ears pricked up. ‘What?’
Cecily’s expression was dreamy. ‘He often met me for a nocturnal stroll when everyone else was in bed. Of course, it is safe to do it in Norfolk, where we live, but Cambridge is a rough place, seething with villains. It is not wise to roam about in the dark here.’
‘For him, it was probably not wise to do it anywhere,’ said Spynk. ‘He had a morbidly pounding heart, and should have stayed in. In fact, it was not very sensible to travel to London, either. I wish I had not asked him to come, because now his sons are going to say his death is my fault.’
‘It was no one’s fault,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had a seizure, which could have happened any–’
‘I want that in writing,’ said Spynk. ‘Will you oblige? I will give you the parchment.’
‘What time did Danyell go out on the night he died?’ asked Bartholomew. Michael had already interviewed the Spynks at length, but there was no harm in repeating the process. They might tell him something they had forgotten to mention earlier, or he might see something the monk had missed. After all, someone must know why Danyell had been relieved of his hand.
‘Just after dusk,’ replied Cecily. ‘I was keen to go with him, but he said he wanted to be alone. He had pains in his chest and arm, and thought a walk might ease them.’
‘Why did you offer him your company?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was a peculiar thing for the wife of a wealthy merchant to do. She was right in that Cambridge could be dangerous after dark, and it was no place for a woman with only an ailing man for protection.
Cecily shot him an odd glance. ‘I thought he might like it.’
Rather belatedly, it occurred to Bartholomew that Cecily and Danyell might have enjoyed more than pleasant conversation when they took their late-night strolls. When he took in her deliberately provocative clothes and the salacious way she eyed him, he was sure of it. He was not an observant man when it came to that sort of thing, and the fact that he had noticed at all meant she must be very brazen. He shot a covert glance at Spynk, and realised the merchant was even less aware of such matters than he was, for he seemed oblivious to his wife’s antics.
‘He said he had business to conduct,’ said Spynk. ‘And he was carrying something under his arm that looked like a stone sample. You know he was a mason?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘When he failed to return, were you not worried?’
He had found Danyell’s body shortly after dawn, and it had been stiff around the jaws. Danyell had probably been dead most of the night, and it had struck him as odd at the time that his friends had not gone to look for him.
‘I was,’ said Cecily. ‘But I could hardly go to look for him myself, and Richard was asleep.’
‘I hate being woken up,’ explained Spynk. ‘And Cecily knows better than to disturb me at night.’
‘I prefer him asleep anyway,’ said Cecily meaningfully.
‘It is de Lisle’s fault,’ said Spynk, bitterly and somewhat out of the blue. ‘If he had not forced us to go to London, we would not have stopped here to rest on our way home. And Danyell might still be alive, despite what you say about seizures,’
Bartholomew did not understand. ‘The Bishop of Ely made you travel? How? I thought he was in Avignon. And besides, you just said it was your idea to visit London, and–’
‘We had to make a complaint about him, in front of the King,’ explained Spynk. ‘Me and Danyell, and a score of others. The Bishop is a bully, you see. He and his men stole all my cows a few years ago, and the King wanted our accusations on record.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘De Lisle is a cattle rustler? That does not sound very likely.’
‘Then you do not know him very well,’ said Cecily. ‘I offered him a night of my company in exchange for leaving my husband alone but he said he would rather have the livestock. He is an uncouth man, and I was delighted to detail his shortcomings to the King.’
‘He laid violent siege to Danyell’s manor, too,’ added Spynk. ‘It must have been terrifying. De Lisle may be one of the most powerful prelates in the country but that has not stopped him from indulging in theft, arson, extortion, assault and even murder. He is a wicked villain.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. Cambridge was in de Lisle’s See, and such men had an uncanny habit of learning who had been talking about them; the physician did not want to include a prelate on his list of enemies. And while the Bishop did indeed have a reputation for being ruthless, Bartholomew was sure he was not a criminal, and thought Spynk and Cecily were exaggerating the charges that had been laid against him.
‘How do you feel now, Master Spynk?’ he asked, to change the subject.
‘A little better,’ admitted Spynk begrudgingly. ‘It must have been the honey.’
At breakfast that morning, Langelee had announced that there would be a Statutory Fellows’ Meeting at noon, because there was urgent business to discuss. There was not only the sad matter of Carton to debate, but the purchase and sale of various properties, too. After he had finished with Spynk, there was an hour to go before the gathering, so Bartholomew lay on his bed and fell into a restless doze. He woke when a clatter of hoofs announced Michael’s return from Barnwell.