‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to back out in embarrassment. ‘There has been a misunderstanding. Cynric said you needed me urgently.’
‘I do need you urgently,’ replied Arblaster. ‘Although it has nothing to do with my health. At least, not yet. If things do not work out, I may suffer an imbalance of humours from the annoyance of it all. But the medicine you gave me worked admirably, and I am much better.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew, nonplussed. ‘So what do you want with me?’
Arblaster gestured to the bench. ‘Sit down, and I shall explain. Would you like some ale? Jodoca brewed it herself, and it is excellent – cool, fresh and sweet.’
Bartholomew did want some ale, but sensed he was about to be told something he would not like, and was reluctant to accept overtures of friendship until he knew what. He waited where he was, ignoring both the seat Arblaster patted enticingly and the goblet Jodoca held out to him.
‘There are two matters I want to discuss,’ said Arblaster, coming to close the door. Bartholomew was not sure whether it was to keep out the heat, to stop the conversation from being overheard, or to prevent his reluctant visitor from escaping. ‘First, and most important, dung.’
‘Dung?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. The dash along the sweltering Causeway had left him slightly lightheaded, and he was not sure he was up for another of Arblaster’s expositions.
‘I hear Michaelhouse is digging new latrines. That means the contents of the old ones are available, and I would like to make you an offer for them. There is nothing like well-aged manure for spring beans, and I am very keen to get my hands on yours.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, gazing at him in disbelief.
‘Isnard the bargeman will be after you for the same reason,’ Arblaster went on. ‘But he will ship it outside the town on one of his boats, and will sell it to the abbey in Ely, whereas I will make sure it benefits the citizens of Cambridge. Ask your Master not to agree to Isnard’s terms until he has spoken to me.’
‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to be angry about the fact that he had exhausted himself for such a peculiar matter. ‘What is your second concern?’
‘Sewale Cottage. I would like to buy it, and I want you and your colleagues to look favourably on my application. Tell them I will pay eleven marks, which is one mark more than the price offered by the Prior of Barnwell, and two more than Spynk.’
Bartholomew was not inclined to look favourably on anything connected with Arblaster at that precise moment. ‘You made me run all the way here to discuss manure and houses?’
Arblaster nodded earnestly. ‘We are willing to pay handsomely for your help. Very handsomely.’
‘I do not want your money,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, turning towards the door. He could not see how it opened, so failed to make the dignified exit he had intended. He sighed his resignation when it became clear that he would not escape without help, and turned back to them. ‘Talk to Langelee. He will make the final choice.’
‘Not so. Michaelhouse is a democracy, where Master and Fellows make decisions together. However, I understand how these things work, and one eloquent man can sway his colleagues. I know you are eloquent because I heard your public lecture last term. Do as I say and–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to keep his irritation in check. ‘Speak to Langelee. And do not summon me again unless you need urgent medical attention. I have other patients, and coming all the way out here for no reason might have put them in danger. Please do not do it again.’
Jodoca came over to rest a hand on his arm. ‘Do not be angry, Doctor. We did not mean to upset you, but we were not sure how else to proceed. We spoke to Carton about Sewale Cottage, but he must have forgotten to do as we asked, because Langelee is not including us in his negotiations.’
Bartholomew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘When did you speak to Carton?’
‘Last week. We knew he was conferring with Barnwell, so we collared him one night. He stayed here for ages, talking and drinking my ale. He was a pleasant, friendly man and I am sorry he died.’
Bartholomew could not imagine Carton spending a sociable evening with anyone who did not share his dogmatic religious convictions. He was also surprised to hear Carton described as pleasant and friendly. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Dung,’ replied Arblaster. ‘Dominicans. Sorcery. Poison. You know the sort of thing.’
It seemed an odd collection of topics to Bartholomew. ‘What about them, exactly?’
Jodoca clearly wanted to be helpful, and to give an accurate account of the occasion. She screwed up her face, and thought hard. ‘First, he agreed that fresh manure produces poor parsnips. Second, he said the Dominicans are thinking of raising a new chapel, but thought the Sorcerer might object to more houses of God, who is his rival. And third, he asked if dung could be poisonous.’
Despite her efforts, Bartholomew was not much enlightened. As a Franciscan, Carton was unlikely to be privy to the Black Friars’ building plans, and nor should he have known what the Sorcerer might make of them. And why should he ask about poisons? Bartholomew thought about the packet Carton had found in Thomas’s room. Had Carton developed an interest in toxic substances because he believed he had lost a colleague to one?
‘There is a rumour that Carton was the Sorcerer,’ said Jodoca to her husband, when Bartholomew said nothing. ‘But I do not think it can be true.’
‘Of course it is not true,’ replied Arblaster. ‘The Sorcerer presided over his coven last night. But Carton is dead, so clearly he and the Sorcerer are two different people.’
‘Unless he rose from the grave,’ suggested Jodoca. ‘Warlocks are good at that sort of thing.’
Bartholomew retraced his steps along the Barnwell Causeway, deeply resenting the fact that the Arblasters had chosen the hottest time of day to summon him. Why could they not have waited until evening, when there might have been a breeze? He was staggered by their audacity, and tried to imagine Carton relaxing enough to be sociable with them. Had the Franciscan been fishing for information, perhaps pertaining to Thomas’s death, because he had been conducting his own investigation? Or had he merely taken the opportunity to enjoy the company of people who did not know him, and who did not expect him to hold forth about lofty academic matters? Bartholomew certainly appreciated the mundane conversation of men like Isnard on occasion, when his colleagues were in overly argumentative frames of mind.
His throat was dry and sore, and he wished he had not stalked out of the Arblasters’ house quite so frostily – that he tasted Jodoca’s ale first. After all, he deserved some recompense for his frantic dash along the baking Causeway. Then he saw the red roofs of Barnwell Priory, and smiled. The canons would give him something to drink.
He knocked on the gate, and was admitted by Fencotes, who laid a corpse-cold hand on the physician’s head in blessing. Norton was passing, and beckoned Bartholomew towards the infirmary, which he said was the second-coolest place in the convent; the first was the chapel, but he was wary of inviting scholars from Michaelhouse into that, given what had happened the last time he had done it. As they walked, Norton and Fencotes chatted knowledgeably about the buildings that were for sale in the town and the prices they were likely to fetch. They even knew about the Refham shops, and how Michaelhouse should have been allowed to purchase them for a pittance, but was likely to end up paying a lot more.