‘I did … do. Well, perhaps.’ Bartholomew rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I do not know.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘You have not mentioned your suspicions about Rougham before. Perhaps I should ignore his refusal to acknowledge the authority of the Senior Proctor and arrest him anyway. Who knows? He may confess to killing Bottisham and Deschalers, too. After all, they were both his patients.’
‘I doubt he killed them deliberately,’ said Bartholomew wearily.
‘A nail through the roof of the mouth is not deliberate?’ asked Michael. ‘What was he doing, then? Practising some obscure method of cautery, to effect a cure for Deschalers’s canker?’
‘I mean I do not think Rougham is their murderer. I would like him to be – to be rid of him and to solve the mystery at the same time – but he is so averse to surgery that taking a nail to someone would be anathema to him.’ He smiled. ‘Matilde is certain he killed Warde.’
‘And his motive?’ Michael answered his own question. ‘To attack the King’s Commission – partly because Gonville men are the Mortimers’ lawyers, and partly because Gonville has been promised Mortimer money for their chapel if they win against the Millers’ Society.’
‘That is what she thinks. But there is no evidence that Warde was murdered. He just choked.’
‘But you just said Rougham’s actions brought about Warde’s death. Make up your mind, Matt. Which is it: did Rougham kill Warde with his ministrations, or did he not?’
‘Not on purpose. I think he genuinely believed he was helping, although even Deynman would have known not to make a gagging man speak – and not to mention deathbeds and graves.’
‘Then what about the Water of Snails?’ asked Michael. ‘Could that have killed him?’
‘You mean did it poison him? Aqua Limacum Magistralis is not a pleasant concoction, but it is basically harmless. However, Matilde said we only have Rougham’s word that it contained Water of Snails and not something else.’
‘She has a point,’ said Michael. He shuddered. ‘I would never drink anything with a name like “Water of Snails”. I would sooner eat cabbage – and that should tell you something!’ He rummaged in his scrip. ‘But I have the phial here, as it happens. I took the precaution of securing it when you examined Warde, for no reason other than that it was to hand. Will you test it now?’
Bartholomew took the tiny pottery container, and removed the stopper to inspect its contents. Warde had not obeyed Rougham’s instructions to swallow it alclass="underline" about half was still left. It was a milky reddish colour, and Bartholomew recalled thinking in Lavenham’s shop that the apothecary had not taken as much care with its preparation as he should have done, because the potion had not been filtered through sand, to clear it.
‘I want to know exactly what is in that,’ Michael went on. ‘The note Rougham sent Warde urged him to drink its contents in their entirety. Now, I am no physician, but I have never heard you encouraging a patient to swallow an entire phial’s worth of a remedy.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You are right. Small pots, like this one, usually hold powerful medicines that are given only in minute quantities. I would never tell a patient to down the whole thing.’ He sniffed carefully at the contents. ‘That is odd.’
‘What?’ demanded Michael. ‘Do not tell me you really have discovered poison? I thought we were just devising ways to expose Rougham as dangerously incompetent.’
‘I can detect ingredients here that I would expect – such as coltsfoot for loosening phlegm – but it should also contain powered liquorice root. Liquorice root has a strong scent, and tends to mask other aromas. But it seems to have been left out.’
‘Perhaps Lavenham forgot it,’ suggested Michael. He regarded his friend intently. ‘What is the matter? You have noticed something suspicious – I can tell from your face. What is it?’
Bartholomew looked at the phial. ‘There is something nasty in this – a strongly scented herb that I cannot identify.’
‘Oh,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘I suppose we shall have to look elsewhere for ways to discredit Rougham, then, if you cannot be more specific.’
‘I have not started yet,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. His scientific method for analysing complex compounds comprised more than a few arbitrary sniffs and the conclusion that one ingredient smelled vile. And he had not been entirely honest when he said he was not able to identify the strong herb in the concoction, either. He had a notion that it might be henbane – a powerful poison that might well have caused the sweating and breathlessness Warde had experienced before his death – but he wanted to conduct proper experiments before he shared his concerns.
He left the conclave and went to the storeroom where he kept his medicines. Michael followed, intrigued to know what he planned to do. In the bedchamber next door, Quenhyth and Redmeadow were studying. Redmeadow was none the worse for his skirmish the previous evening, although he had expressed a reluctance to leave the College that day.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, when both students came to see why their teacher and Michael were crammed into the small room.
‘I am going to test this phial, to see whether it contains poison,’ explained Bartholomew.
‘Why?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘The label says it is Water of Snails. Used sometimes for coughs,’ he added triumphantly, pleased to show he had remembered his lessons.
‘It was the only thing Warde drank that his colleagues did not on the night of his death,’ said Michael. ‘So, we need to determine what is in it.’
‘It is a good idea to test it,’ said Quenhyth approvingly. ‘It came from Rougham, and we all know what kind of man he is. He may well have murdered Warde with “medicine” that he claimed would make him better.’ His eyes gleamed, and Bartholomew saw he was delighted with the notion that the hated Rougham might be unveiled as a villain. ‘I will assess it for you. It will not take a moment.’
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, wanting to know why he seemed so confident of success in so short a time.
‘I will feed it to the College cat. If the cat dies, then we shall know Rougham fed Warde poison. If the cat lives, then Rougham is innocent.’
‘And what about the cat?’ asked Bartholomew, who was fond of the burly tabby that prowled the kitchens in search of rats. ‘What has it done to deserve being used in such a manner?’
‘Its life is unimportant in the advancement of science,’ declared Quenhyth grandly. ‘But you seem to believe that Rougham is guilty, or you would not be worried about it.’
‘I do not think any such thing,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Quenhyth might start another dangerous rumour. ‘But leave the cat alone. If I find out you have harmed it, I shall see you are expelled.’
‘And I will run you through with Deynman’s sword,’ added Redmeadow. His voice was hard and cold, and Bartholomew was certain he meant what he said.
Quenhyth ignored him. ‘I am only offering to do what you have taught me: experiment and explore the evidence with an open mind. And besides, it is only a cat.’
‘I like cats,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Especially that one. So keep your hands off it.’
‘Very well,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘But how else will you prove Rougham is a killer?’
‘I am not trying to prove Rougham is a killer,’ said Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘I am trying to determine whether this Water of Snails contains an ingredient that might have hastened Warde’s demise. That is a different thing altogether.’ He did not explain that finding poison in the Water of Snails would not leave Rougham as the sole suspect for murder: there was Paxtone, too.
‘Rougham is a killer, though,’ said Quenhyth matter-of-factly. ‘And he is stupid. He told Redmeadow he believes in the existence of the secretum secretorum. Can you credit such nonsense?’
‘A secretum secretorum would come in very useful,’ said Redmeadow, who clearly did not share his room-mate’s scepticism about the fabled cure-all. ‘I would like to own one myself, but not nearly as much as Rougham would. He is desperate for one.’