‘The Gonville scholars are back from Ely, and I asked them about this claim that they stand to gain the Mortimers as benefactors if they win the mill dispute. They denied the charge – and Rougham threatened to make an official complaint to the Bishop if I mentioned it again.’
‘Do you believe them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘About the Mortimers’ alleged promise?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Then I questioned Rougham about what happened on Saturday with Warde. Pulham forced him to co-operate, but he was not happy about being interrogated by the “Murderer’s Familiar”, as he called me. He denies sending the potion to Warde, and claims the writing on the accompanying note is nothing like his own. I compared it with something else he had scribed, and, while the two were very similar, there were enough inconsistencies to make me hesitate. The upshot is that I do not know whether Rougham sent Warde the potion and the letter telling him to drink it.’
‘Who else might have done it?’
‘Not Paxtone,’ said Michael, reading his friend’s thoughts. ‘But perhaps someone from the Millers’ Society. Or someone from Valence Marie for reasons we do not yet understand. We admired Warde, but that does not mean his colleagues felt the same way.’
‘They did, Brother. He was honest and kind, and even townsfolk liked him. But at least we are clear on one thing: Warde was definitely murdered. I was inclined to believe so when Quenhyth fed the contents of the phial to Bird, but your grandmother has dispelled any lingering doubts.’
‘You say – and Rougham certainly agrees – that we do not have sufficient evidence to prove he did it, though,’ said Michael.
‘No, we do not. However, we have plenty of clues that may help us identify the culprit. It is just a matter of understanding what they mean and how they fit together. I think your original suggestion was right: we will find our solution to these deaths – Bottisham’s, Deschalers’s and now Warde’s – in the mill dispute.’
‘I am not so sure about that any more.’ Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘I am beginning to think we shall never have our answers.’
‘Your grandmother will,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer had better hope we catch him first, because then he will just be exiled and can apply for a pardon. If Dame Pelagia wins the race, she may use some of the poison she stole from Lavenham’s shop today – and that will be the end of him.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘You saw her steal poison?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘She made sure of it. I think she was trying to demonstrate how easily it can be done.’
‘We had better put our wits to work, then,’ said Michael, taking a deep breath to fortify himself and steering Bartholomew out of the conclave – William had arrived and looked ready for one of his dogmatic diatribes – and towards the orchard. Bartholomew was amused to note that Michael’s apathy had vanished like mist under the summer sun, and the notion that his grandmother might solve the case first was enough to spur him into action. The monk was so determined to prove his worth to his formidable forebear that he did not even bother to stop en route to see what edible treats might be worth pilfering. Or perhaps he had already conducted one kitchen raid that day, and already knew there was nothing worth having.
When they arrived at the apple tree they found Wynewyk there, legs stretched in front of him and a book open on his knees. He was fast asleep. Bartholomew wondered whether he was expecting another visit from Paxtone, and looked around to see if his fellow physician might be lurking among the trees.
‘Gratian’s Decretia,’ said Michael, lunging forward to catch the tome before it dropped from Wynewyk’s lap – the lawyer had awoken with a violent start. There was another book beneath it, but when he tried to read the title of that one, too, Wynewyk gathered it up hastily, so he could not see.
‘I am teaching Gratian next week,’ gabbled Wynewyk, fussing with his tomes in a way that made Bartholomew certain he wanted to hide something. ‘My students are studying that and De simonia this year. I must have fallen asleep; it is warm when the sun is out. Well, back to work.’
He began to read, and it was obvious he was not going to explain his peculiar behaviour, nor was it possible for Bartholomew and Michael to talk there as long as he remained. It occurred to Bartholomew that Wynewyk now behaved oddly – suspiciously, even – virtually every time they met. From the troubled expression on the monk’s face, Bartholomew saw he was also worried, and that he had finally accepted that the Michaelhouse lawyer might be embroiled in something untoward.
‘I have so many questions that my head is spinning,’ Michael said, as they left the orchard. ‘We should discuss what we know in the comfort of an inn, with a few edibles to fuel our questing minds.’
They had scarcely stepped across the threshold of the Brazen George when the landlord was scurrying forward to greet them, asking after the good brother’s health and ousting a pair of disgruntled merchants from a secluded back parlour so that the Senior Proctor could conduct his business in private. The chamber was a pleasant one, with a blazing fire and a stone floor covered in thick woollen rugs. Michael gazed expectantly at the landlord, who began to list the various dishes on offer that day.
‘I do not think I shall have the pike in gelatine,’ said Michael with great solemnity. The ordering of food was a serious business and required his complete and undivided attention. ‘Pike are dirty creatures, and I do not like the look of their teeth. I shall have the chicken roasted with grapes and garlic, some salted pork and a bit of fat beef. And bread, of course. No meal would be complete without bread. And perhaps a pear pastry. And–’
‘Enough, Brother!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, laughing. ‘No more “ands”! There are only two of us here, not you and the King’s army.’
‘You want some of it, too?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘I was ordering for myself, and thought to let you choose what you wanted separately.’
‘You can always ask for more later, if you find you are still hungry,’ said the landlord, although Bartholomew doubted that would be the case. The Brazen George was noted for its ample portions, which was one of the reasons Michael liked it. ‘You need to keep your strength up if you want to solve these nasty murders – Bottisham, Deschalers, Bosel and now poor Master Warde – to say nothing of making sure Thomas Mortimer has his comeuppance for Lenne and Isnard.’
‘It is a daunting task,’ agreed Michael, fixing Bartholomew with a glare to indicate that the victuals ordered were wholly inadequate to fuel such monumental labours.
‘And you have to combat Rougham,’ added the landlord. ‘He was vocal in his denunciation of Doctor Bartholomew again this morning, and accused him of killing Warde with angelica. My wife uses angelica for cooking, and she has never poisoned anyone. I told Rougham to take his wicked tongue elsewhere. But I have just been told that he was the one who poisoned Warde all along!’
‘Told by whom?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
The landlord scratched his head. ‘I cannot recall where I first heard it, but the news is circulating the town like a fire in a hayloft.’
He went to fetch Michael’s monstrous meal, leaving Bartholomew uneasy that lies and rumours seemed to spread with such ease. Although he was not particularly worried about what folk thought of Rougham, he was concerned about what they might think of him. He had very few wealthy patients left, and could not afford to lose the last of them because of Rougham’s slanderous lies. And what of his less wealthy patients, who might be so alarmed by Rougham’s claims that they did not summon him when they should? How many people would die before the spat ran its course?
‘I did not think my grandmother would listen to Rougham’s yarns without striking back,’ said Michael comfortably, guessing the source of the tales about the Gonville physician. ‘She likes you.’