‘“Drink all herein of Aqua Limacum Magistr. for purge of phlegm and consumptions of the lungs”,’ read Thorpe. He looked at Bartholomew. ‘Aqua Limacum Magistr.?’
‘Limacum Magistralis is the Latin description for Water of Snails,’ explained Bartholomew absently, more concerned by the patient’s rapidly deteriorating condition. ‘We can discuss this later. I want you all to leave, so Warde can lie quietly, and–’
‘One of my students must have attached that message to the Water of Snails, and sent it to Warde by mistake,’ interrupted Rougham. ‘That is the only possible explanation. I prescribe Aqua Limacum Magistralis to lots of people. But enough of that. Warde must rouse himself and walk, so that exercise will clear his lungs of the phlegm that chokes them.’
‘Leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew quietly, as the Gonville physician stepped towards Warde. He hauled the cloth from the table and bundled it under Warde’s head, to make a pillow.
‘Water of Snails,’ whispered Warde weakly. ‘Killed me.’
‘You will not die,’ said Bartholomew, although he was now not so sure. He struggled to hide his concern as he spoke gently to his patient, again hoping that a calm voice might work its own magic. ‘Lie still, close your eyes and take a breath. And now release it slowly. And …’
He faltered, and the watching scholars strained forward to see why he had stopped speaking.
‘What is it, Matt?’ asked Michael quietly. ‘What is wrong?’
Bartholomew sat back on his heels and looked accusingly at Rougham. ‘He is dead.’
Rougham looked as shocked as Bartholomew felt. ‘It was you who tended him as he breathed his last, not me. You are the one who killed him. You probably did it for the fourpence you will earn as Corpse Examiner. I always said it was not a good idea to appoint a man who needs the money.’
Warde had been a popular man, not just in the University, but in the town, too, and people were dismayed by his death. In Michaelhouse the following day, Suttone, the gloomy Carmelite, began to speculate about whether Warde’s fatal cough meant that the plague had returned, pointing out that the pestilence had also carried folk away with horrifying speed. Bartholomew argued that it was not, but neither could convince the other, so they eventually fell silent by mutual consent, having thoroughly depressed anyone who had listened to them.
‘No one believes Rougham’s claim that you killed Warde, Matthew,’ said Father William kindly, as the Fellows took their places at the high table for breakfast. It was a Sunday, and the sun was shining through the hall windows.
‘He is saying that publicly?’ asked Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘Already? But Warde only died last night.’
‘Rougham is an evil man,’ declared Suttone. ‘When the Death returns, he will be first to go.’
‘You identify a good many people who will “go” the instant the pestilence appears,’ observed Langelee, reaching for the ale jug and pouring himself a generous measure. ‘Are we to assume that it will be of short duration, then? All the evildoers will be struck dead in the first few moments?’
‘And the rest of you shortly thereafter,’ replied Suttone, fixing him with a cool gaze. ‘The wicked first, normal sinners second.’
‘Who will be left?’ asked Michael, snatching the bowl of egg-mess flavoured with lumps of mutton fat, just as Clippesby was reaching for it. ‘You and which other saint?’
‘Not Peterkin Starre, whose Hand lies in St Mary the Great, because he is dead already,’ said Clippesby, who had brushed his hair with a teasel in honour of the Sabbath, and did not look quite as peculiar as usual. ‘Walter’s cockerel informs me that he was no saint anyway. Bird believes the whole business with the Hand of Justice is shameful, and says someone should put an end to such gross deception by telling the truth about it.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ asked William archly, not pleased that the enterprise he had created should be criticised from avian quarters. ‘And what would Bird know of holy matters? He does not even know the correct time to crow. He woke up the entire College last night by braying at three o’clock in the morning. The scholars of Ovyng Hostel and Paxtone of King’s Hall complained about him again today.’
‘That thing is asking for its neck to be wrung,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Unfortunately, it is not easy to catch. I have tried, believe me, and so has Agatha.’
‘Bird enjoys being chased,’ said Clippesby, taking the bowl that had contained the egg-mess from Michael. He looked from the monk’s heaped trencher to the empty vessel with narrowed eyes. ‘I think you have taken my share there, as well as your own, Brother.’
‘Have I?’ asked Michael breezily. He rammed his knife into the eggs, and transferred a minuscule amount to Clippesby. ‘There you are. The dish was half-empty this morning. I suppose it is just another example of Michaelhouse cutting costs.’ He glared at Wynewyk.
‘More,’ said Clippesby, surveying the two unequal portions with dissatisfaction.
Michael sighed in annoyance, but did as he was told. Displeased about losing half his breakfast, the monk went on the offensive, determined to vent his temper on someone. ‘When Matt and I were walking back from Valence Marie last night, after dealing with poor Warde, I saw someone lurking in the churchyard of St John Zachary. Now, what would an honest and law-abiding scholar be doing in such a place at such a time?’
Silence greeted his words, until it was broken by Langelee. ‘None of us understands what you are talking about, Brother. Who do you mean?’
‘Wynewyk,’ said Michael, turning to fix steady eyes on the hapless lawyer. ‘I saw him quite clearly, and he saw us – which was why he darted for cover, I imagine. He did not expect any of his colleagues to be abroad at such an hour.’
Bartholomew regarded Wynewyk in surprise. He had not seen anyone hiding behind bushes on his way home. However, he had not noticed very much, because his mind had been teeming with questions about Warde’s death, and he had been furious about Rougham’s accusations.
‘It is not easy to stretch Michaelhouse’s paltry income to cover all our needs,’ replied Wynewyk stiffly. ‘And, in order to make it go further, I am occasionally obliged to deal with men who make better offers than our regular suppliers. It sometimes requires the odd nocturnal assignation.’
‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Suttone sanctimoniously. ‘I do not want my College associated with shady deals that see me eating victuals that “fell off the back of a cart”.’
‘Nor do I,’ agreed William. ‘I have my reputation as Keeper of the University Chest to uphold. It would not look good for my College to be implicated in dishonest dealings.’
Bartholomew saw several students start to laugh, evidently thinking that the friar’s conduct regarding the Hand of Justice was as dishonest as anything else happening in the town.
‘It was nothing illegal,’ protested Wynewyk, offended. ‘I would never do anything to bring the College into disrepute. I am a respectable, God-fearing man. You will just have to trust me.’
‘I trust you,’ said Langelee. ‘That is why I appointed you to help me in the first place. But time is passing and I want to visit the Hand of Justice. So, benedictus benedicat, and good day to you all.’
Fellows and students hastened to stand for the final grace, but most were still sitting when Langelee wiped his lips on his sleeve and strode from the hall, Wynewyk scurrying at his heels. Michael shook his head as they went, muttering that the lawyer was clearly engaged in something odd, and that it was only a matter of time before he learned what. Bartholomew preferred not to think about it, mostly because he felt he had enough to worry about with the mill murders and Warde’s sudden death. He abandoned the high table and made for the stairs.