‘So, how did Warde die?’ pressed Matilde. ‘The cough was minor – both you and Rougham agree on that. But he was a Commissioner. Do you think one of the interested parties killed him? By poison, perhaps?’
‘Michael wondered that, but I do not see how Warde could have been poisoned. He ate and drank the same things as everyone else last night.’
‘What about the Water of Snails?’
Bartholomew regarded her askance. ‘Are you suggesting Rougham killed him? You sound like Quenhyth and Redmeadow, determined to have him indicted of some crime – any crime.’
‘It was Quenhyth who started me thinking. We met on the High Street this morning, and he was beside himself with fury that Rougham should have accused you of killing Warde when he is such a poor physician himself.’
Bartholomew smiled indulgently. ‘Quenhyth is young and sees matters in black and white.’
‘But think about Rougham’s behaviour, Matthew. I heard what happened from Yolande, who had it from Master Thorpe himself. Rougham sent Warde this Water of Snails, but when Master Thorpe confronted him, Rougham denied it. Yet the phial was there with the message – in Rougham’s hand – for all to see.’
‘I suppose he sent it and forgot what he had done.’ He was about to add Rougham’s own solution – that one of his students was responsible – when Matilde gave a sharp, derisive laugh.
‘Do you really believe that? Is he a half-wit, then – dispensing cures, then forgetting about them? I do not think so! He either sent that note and the Water of Snails, and denies that he did so for sinister reasons. Or, he did not, and someone is trying to make him look guilty of murder.’
Bartholomew gazed at her. ‘Now you are jumping to wild conclusions! There is no evidence to allow you to make those sorts of assumptions.’
‘You are overly innocent,’ declared Matilde. ‘You will find that Rougham killed Warde.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What reason could Rougham have for killing a wealthy patient? As far as he is concerned, Warde’s death represents a sizeable loss of income.’
‘Because he wanted to strike at the King’s Commission. He is afraid they will find in favour of the King’s Mill – against Mortimer. Since Gonville Hall has interests in Mortimer’s Mill, Rougham cannot allow that to happen.’
Bartholomew was astounded. ‘But Pulham told Michael that Gonville does not have interests in Mortimer’s Mill.’ He reconsidered, even as he spoke. Master Thorpe had mentioned that Gonville had been promised a handsome donation for their chapel if they won the Mortimers’ case. Michael had intended to ask him about it, but most of the Gonville Fellows were in Ely, summoned there by the Bishop in relation to some tedious issue about property rights.
‘Pulham was lying,’ said Matilde. ‘Why do you think the Mortimers hired scholars from Gonville to represent them? It is not just because they are good with the law; it is because Gonville have a vested interest in seeing the Mortimers win, just as Lavenham and Bernarde have a vested interest in seeing the King’s Mill win. It means Gonville will fight all the harder for their client’s victory.’
‘How is Bess?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he had better change the subject if he did not want to quarrel with her. Even if she was right, and Gonville did have a promise of handsome rewards, there was still no good reason – or one he could see, at least – for Rougham to kill Warde. Physicians simply did not dispatch their patients, and that was that. ‘Have you discovered any more about her?’
‘Not yet,’ said Matilde shortly, aware that she was being steered on to safer ground. ‘I have asked the Sisters to listen for rumours about her, but it appears she just arrived one morning and started to ask about her man. That is all anyone knows.’
‘And what about her gold?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you know how she came by that?’
‘I know how she did not come by it. Even the most generous of clients would not give Bess more than a penny for her services. She carried her small fortune in a purse, but I do not think it is wise for lone women to have purses. They represent too obvious a target for robbers, so I sewed her gold into her cloak. It did not keep it safe, though, because someone still stole it from her.’
As she spoke, Alfred leapt to his feet and pulled something from a shelf over the hearth, which he handed to Bartholomew.
‘Her money came in this?’ asked Bartholomew, inspecting the small leather pouch. He recognised it at once, with its letter D inside a pot. ‘It belonged to Deschalers. He dropped it on the High Street a few days ago, and I retrieved for him. He must have given Bess her gold.’
‘I wonder why?’ said Matilde, bemused. ‘I told you he was fastidious about his women. He would never have taken Bess to his bed. And, furthermore, Yolande tells me his recent illness made him disinclined to see anyone, even his favourites.’
Bartholomew scratched his head. ‘Deschalers was definitely leading Bess somewhere the day before he died. Perhaps he gave her the money then. The timing is about right. And this purse tells us for certain that he was her secret benefactor. Now we need to find out why.’
‘We can hardly ask him,’ said Matilde. ‘And Julianna will be hopeless. She is only interested in things that affect her. She would not know and would not care why her uncle pressed gold on a beggar-woman the day before he died.’
Bartholomew sighed in frustration. ‘Who is Bess? I am sure that if we knew, then much of this business would become clear, and we would understand exactly who killed Deschalers and Bottisham – and why.’
Bartholomew enjoyed teaching. He was good at it, and his students usually enjoyed the challenges he set them, with his streams of questions and unpredictable changes of subject. And he loved debating with them once they had mastered a text, cross-examining them and seeing whether they could use their knowledge to present alternative views set out in other commentaries. That Monday they were going to discuss the uses and virtues of grapes in the diet, as described by Galen. Although this was a basic subject, involving little controversy, Redmeadow had been arming himself for a good argument, while Quenhyth had been to the King’s Hall library to see what Bacon had to say on the subject.
Deynman, meanwhile, who still had not mastered the knack of independent research, had visited several vineyards and amassed an array of different wines. Bartholomew helped him carry his wares to the hall, supposing he could use them to demonstrate Galen’s contention that new, sweeter wines were processed into urine more quickly than sour or sharp ones. They had just reached the stairs when Deynman happened to glance across the courtyard.
‘Oh, no!’ the student cried in dismay. ‘What is he doing here?’
Bartholomew was horrified to see Thorpe strolling towards them, looking quite at home and totally oblivious to the scowls and unwelcoming comments of Michaelhouse’s scholars. Michael joined Bartholomew, and together they waited for Thorpe to reach them.
‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael coldly.
‘I have come to hear Doctor Bartholomew lecture on Galen,’ said Thorpe, an innocent expression on his face. ‘I am recommended by Paxtone of King’s Hall. I have his letter here.’
He produced a parchment from his scrip with a flourish. Michael snatched it away and scanned its contents, scratching his chin so that his fingernails rasped in the bristles.
‘Very well,’ he said, handing it back. ‘But behave yourself. One hint of trouble and you are out.’
‘Do not fear,’ said Thorpe insolently. ‘I have no intention of causing trouble here.’
Bartholomew glanced at him sharply, catching the implication that he intended to cause trouble elsewhere, but Thorpe merely smiled and pushed past them to the hall. Deynman promptly abandoned his wines and followed, muttering to Bartholomew that he would watch him like a hawk with a rabbit.