‘Tynkell would not do that!’ cried Redmeadow. He appealed to Michael. ‘Would he?’
Michael nodded. ‘Faced with a choice between keeping Rougham or you? Of course Tynkell will choose Rougham. We do not have so many masters of medicine that we can afford them to leave in sulky tantrums over students who are easily replaceable.’ He patted Redmeadow’s arm. ‘But do not fret over Rougham. He is not worth the aggravation. Ignore him, and forget his insults. There will be ways to repay him in the future. I may even help you myself.’
‘You will?’ asked Quenhyth eagerly.
‘Oh, yes. I shall not stand by and allow that arrogant villain to insult my closest friend. It will irk Rougham deeply to learn that Warde left the Euclid to Matt, and not to his own physician – and we shall certainly make something of that small fact.’
‘I have no idea why Warde did that,’ said Bartholomew, disliking Michael teaching his students how to be subversive. It might prove a dangerous weapon in their inexperienced hands.
‘I do,’ said Redmeadow brightly. ‘Warde explained it in his will, and I heard Master Thorpe telling his son about it in the High Street later.’
‘You seem to be party to a large number of private conversations,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how he had eavesdropped on the Mortimers, too. ‘You are worse than Agatha for gossip.’
‘She says I am her equal,’ said Redmeadow with pride, although Bartholomew had not meant it to be a compliment.
‘You heard Master Thorpe and his son talking?’ asked Michael, not caring how Redmeadow had garnered his information, only that he shared it. ‘I was under the impression that they barely acknowledge each other.’
‘They were quarrelling,’ said Redmeadow. ‘Master Thorpe was telling Rob what was in Warde’s will because he said he had done something similar.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Michael.
‘Warde said in his will that Doctor Bartholomew is the only physician who will make proper use of the Euclid,’ explained Redmeadow. ‘He said Rougham, Lynton and Paxtone do not take arithmetic seriously, and he wanted his books to go where they would do some good.’
‘He is right,’ said Michael, recalling several lengthy discussions between Bartholomew and Warde on just this subject. ‘Matt alone of the Cambridge physicians is interested in mathematics. But why did Master Thorpe tell his son this, when they can barely afford to be civil to each other?’
‘It was part of the fight,’ said Redmeadow, a little condescendingly. ‘Rob asked Master Thorpe what he might expect to inherit when Master Thorpe himself died – he was being nasty, talking enthusiastically about his father’s death.’
‘Really,’ said Michael drolly. ‘He was being unkind? You do surprise me.’
Redmeadow flushed. ‘I am sorry. I am so used to pointing out the obvious to Deynman that now I tend to do it for everyone. But, to continue with what I heard, Master Thorpe told Rob that all his property was willed to worthy causes – just as Warde’s had been. The stuff about Warde’s bequest to Doctor Bartholomew – about their mutual love of arithmetic – came out when Master Thorpe informed Rob that he was disinherited.’
Michael sighed. ‘That was rash. Rob is a lad who might kill over that sort of thing.’
‘But he is also the kind to kill for an inheritance,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now he knows he does not have one, there is no point in making an end of his father. Master Thorpe probably knew exactly what he was doing.’
CHAPTER 9
Michael was intrigued by the fact that Paxtone and Wynewyk had fled the orchard when they thought they were about to be caught there together, but still declined to tackle either scholar until he had something more specific to ask them. But the more Bartholomew thought about their furtive, secret discussion concerning the Water of Snails and Rougham, the more worried he became. What if Rougham was innocent of giving the medicine to Warde, as he claimed, and Paxtone had been the one to send it, knowing it might aggravate Warde’s cough to danger point? Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. But Rougham’s writing had been on the accompanying note. And why would Paxtone do such a thing to Warde, anyway?
Then he recalled another conversation he had overheard in the orchard – some five or six days ago now. Paxtone had been talking to Wynewyk about Rougham, and his words were still etched clearly in Bartholomew’s mind: ‘Rougham foils me at every turn, and is making a damned nuisance of himself. I may be forced to take some radical steps.’ Had Paxtone taken ‘radical steps’ against Rougham, by dispensing remedies to unsuspecting patients in his name? And what business of Paxtone’s had Rougham been foiling ‘at every turn’?
From the outset, Bartholomew had remained firm in his belief that Warde’s death had been due to natural causes – regardless of what his students and Matilde, and even Rougham, had claimed – but now doubts began to clamour at him. It was odd for an otherwise healthy man to die of a cough, and it was also odd that Warde’s sudden and dramatic decline had occurred after swallowing Water of Snails. But Bartholomew’s years as a physician had taught him that odd and inexplicable things happened to the human body all the time, so was he reading too much into the matter? However, Paxtone’s words to Wynewyk in the orchard continued to nag at him.
‘Paxtone knows about poisons, because he is a physician,’ he said aloud. ‘He could easily have slipped something toxic to Bosel and Warde – and even to Deschalers – by telling them it would improve their health. And while Rougham and I destroy each other with accusations, he will encourage all our bewildered and wary patients to employ him instead.’
‘You think Paxtone is killing people in order to expand his practice?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘He does not seem the kind of man to stoop to those depths, Matt. I thought you liked him.’
‘I do!’ Bartholomew accepted that acquiring more patients was an unusual motive for murder – and that Paxtone was hardly likely to use someone like Wynewyk to help him to do it – but there was no other solution that he could see. ‘How else can we explain his behaviour?’
Michael made no bones about the fact that he thought his friend was over-reacting. ‘There is no point in confronting him – or Wynewyk,’ he said practically. ‘You heard them discussing Rougham and the Water of Snails together, but so what? Half the town is speculating about that this morning.’
‘So we do nothing?’
‘We watch and wait. They will reveal themselves eventually, and then we will have our answers. They do not know you are suspicious of them, so we have some advantage.’
‘They do know, Brother – or Paxtone does. He said as much when I overheard them last week.’
But Michael still refused to act, and even claimed that a member of his own College and a respected medicus would never engage in anything overtly untoward, and that although their behaviour was suspicious and odd, there was probably nothing illegal going on. Bartholomew gaped at him, knowing from experience that decent-seeming men often indulged themselves in all manner of heinous deeds, but he saw the monk would not be convinced otherwise, and there was no point in pressing the matter further. Unhappily, he tried to put it from his mind.
A while later, when the light of late afternoon began to fade into the gentler hues of early evening, he heard raised voices coming from the College’s main gate. He abandoned his reading and went to look through the window to see what was happening. His students were in the room with him, but Redmeadow and Quenhyth were studying, and neither so much as glanced up at the commotion. Deynman, however, readily abandoned his Dioscorides and came to stand next to him.
Walter was hurrying across the yard towards them, his cockerel tucked under his arm. It did not look pleased when the porter broke into a trot and it found itself vigorously jarred, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more outraged expression on the face of a bird. Walter burst into the hallway and hammered on Bartholomew’s door.