‘You did not suggest bleeding. When there is an excess of evil fluids, then surely the best recourse is to drain them away?’
‘Bleeding will not reduce the amount of bile in the stomach,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And purges that cause vomiting will bring pain. A compound of chalk and charcoal would soothe the caustic humours and allow them to reduce naturally.’
‘Is this what Galen recommends?’ asked Quenhyth, scribbling furiously.
‘Galen suggests cutting around any intestine ulcerated by black bile,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I do not think such a drastic step is necessary in Una’s case.’ And he had no wish to be reprimanded by his colleagues again for employing surgical techniques.
‘What about a poultice of henbane?’ asked Quenhyth, shaking his pen in an attempt to relieve a blockage. Ink splattered across the sleeve of Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘You mentioned yesterday that Arab medicine makes good use of plants like henbane, which are poisonous but which can be used as cures by the cautious.’
‘By the very cautious,’ warned Bartholomew, scrubbing at the spots and making them worse. ‘Henbane slows the brain and reduces the sensation of pain. No physician prescribes it lightly, and most only do so as a last resort. Too much will kill, while too little will not achieve the desired effect. Lily of the valley can also be used to soothe pain, but again it is essential to determine the precise dosage, or it will not work. Personally, I would not use either. They are too dangerous.’
‘Henbane,’ said Quenhyth, underlining what he had written with several firm strokes. He glanced up and pointed at the black splatter on Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘Agatha will not be pleased when she sees that. Ink is not easy to remove.’
Before he arrived at St Mary the Great, Bartholomew emptied his scrip and found a few pennies – the last of his stipend for that month. Hoping there would not be some unforeseen emergency that would require him to pay for something else, he handed them to his students and instructed them to buy ground chalk and poppy juice from the apothecary. Quenhyth demurred, virtuously claiming that he did not want to be seduced by the salacious Isobel, so the others suggested he scavenge charcoal from the blacksmith instead. Bartholomew promised to show them how to mix the potion for Una later, when they were all back at Michaelhouse.
The Chancellor’s office in the University Church was spacious and functional, with a bench running along the length of one wall, and shelves overflowing with parchments and scrolls. A large table stood in the middle, also piled high with documents, and the whole room was sharp with the daylight that flooded in through one of the beautiful perpendicular glazed windows.
Bartholomew was surprised to discover Michael already there, comfortably settled with a goblet of warmed wine. The monk was telling Tynkell how to sell one of the University’s unoccupied houses, and the Chancellor was busily writing his instructions down. The rumours were true about how much power Michael had accrued in his capacity as Senior Proctor, Bartholomew thought. It was clear from the way they interacted that Michael was in charge.
‘Ah, Bartholomew,’ said Tynkell, waving a grime-impregnated hand to indicate that the physician should enter. Bartholomew obliged, and wondered how Michael could stand the stale odour that emanated from the Chancellor’s long-unwashed person. He supposed the monk considered it a small price to pay for the kind of influence he had inveigled for himself. ‘We wanted to see you.’
He offered the physician some of the wine that was mulling over the fire. Bartholomew accepted, but was not impressed by the fact that Tynkell’s aversion to water seemed to extend to his goblets, too. There was a ring of brown scum on the rim from the lips of previous drinkers, and its outside was sticky from greasy fingers. Tynkell sat again, and Bartholomew discovered he had been holding his breath while the Chancellor was close. Meanwhile, Michael kept his nose in his goblet, and the physician saw he was using it much as he might employ a pomander.
‘You are filthy,’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew in an aggrieved tone of voice. He pointed to the ink stains on the physician’s sleeve. ‘Look at that! It is no example to set to your students.’
Bartholomew heard Michael snigger into his wine. ‘Agatha will wash it tonight,’ he said, wishing he had the nerve to point out to the Chancellor that he had seldom encountered such brazen hypocrisy.
‘I am not telling you to resort to extremes,’ said Tynkell hastily. ‘You just need to buy a tabard with long sleeves. Then no one will notice your dirty tunics. I recommend Isobel de Lavenham, who has a nimble needle and offers good rates.’
‘I have done nothing about the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers since we were at the King’s Mill this morning,’ Michael said to Bartholomew, his voice taking on a curious, echoing quality as it came through the cup. ‘I was obliged to pay a visit to the King’s Head, because Thorpe – now flaunting himself as a scholar – made trouble there, and I do not want him to be the cause of a riot between students and apprentices.’
‘No,’ agreed Tynkell, rubbing his stomach and wincing. ‘That must be avoided at all costs. Do you think they murdered Deschalers and Bottisham, Brother?’
‘It is possible,’ said Michael.
‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bernarde would have seen them.’
‘Such details are not important,’ said Tynkell firmly. ‘I want the perpetrator of this monstrous crime in a prison cell as soon as possible. We can work out their motives and methods later, when the danger is no longer stalking our streets. We cannot afford to dally with this, Brother.’
Michael’s expression hardened. ‘I know that. However, I need clues in order to solve the mystery, and they have not been forthcoming. Unfortunately, at the moment, the most likely theory is that Bottisham killed Deschalers, then did away with himself in a fit of remorse, and–’
‘No!’ exclaimed Tynkell. ‘That cannot have happened! Not a scholar murdering a townsman! That would cause a riot for certain – especially since the victim was wealthy. The burgesses would appeal to the King for justice, and God knows where that might lead.’
‘We do not know what took place,’ said Bartholomew, also reluctant to believe that the gentle Bottisham would kill Deschalers. However, he was painfully aware that if Deschalers could not summon the energy to retrieve a dropped purse, then he certainly would think twice about attempting to stab a fit and healthy scholar and throw him in the workings of a mill. ‘But we will try to find out.’
‘You must do more than try,’ snapped Tynkell. He rubbed his stomach a second time, grimacing with the pain. ‘Since you are here, Bartholomew, I am suffering acutely from that complaint we discussed a month ago – an excess of bile in the spleen, you said.’
Bartholomew immediately thought of Deynman’s theory, and drank some wine in an attempt to compose himself. He looked the Chancellor up and down, aware that he was actually a very unusual shape. ‘Bile in the spleen can be uncomfortable,’ he managed eventually.
‘I hope I am not being poisoned,’ Tynkell went on nervously. ‘As Bishop Bateman was poisoned in the papal court at Avignon.’
‘So that is why you asked me about poisons at the Disputatio,’ said Bartholomew, greatly relieved. ‘You thought someone might be using a toxin that is giving you gripes in the stomach. I thought you wanted the information so you could use it on an enemy.’
Tynkell regarded him icily, while Michael’s green eyes grew as huge and round as those of an owl. ‘Have a care, Matt,’ he muttered. ‘Accusing the Chancellor of plotting to murder his adversaries is no way to further your University career.’