Paxtone was reading Philaretus’s De pulsibus to his students, and was behind with his timetable; Bartholomew had finished Philaretus and his commentaries weeks before. Paxtone was a thorough teacher and his lectures were well organised, but he made dull work of explaining what was an exciting text. Most of his class was bored, and some were even asleep.
While he waited for Paxtone to finish, Bartholomew found a roaring fire and a pile of spiced oatcakes at the back of the hall. He ate four, then wished he had stopped at three, but the cakes contained cinnamon and sugar, both of which were a rare treat, and it was difficult to resist anything that smelled so delicious. He ate a fifth and began to feel queasy.
‘Rougham has finished Philaretus and is on Galen’s Aphorismi,’ said Paxtone gloomily, when his students had clattered out at the end of the lesson. ‘I do not know how he manages it.’
‘But how well do his students know the material?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that he had finished the Aphorismi, too. ‘Still, I suppose we shall find out at their disputations.’
‘If you fail anyone from Gonville, Rougham will claim it is revenge for this business with Warde,’ warned Paxtone. ‘I know you are not the kind of man to strike at Rougham through his students, but that will not stop him from making accusations. He is a fool. It will not be long before Michael unearths proof that his Water of Snails was responsible for Warde’s death – whether Rougham killed him deliberately or not.’
‘His Water of Snails contained henbane,’ said Bartholomew, watching Paxtone’s jaw drop in horror. He knew he should have said nothing, since the rumours about Warde’s death were escalating out of control, but decided to press on regardless, to see whether his revelations induced any meaningful reactions in a man whose own behaviour was also suspect. ‘We do not know whether Rougham added it himself, whether Lavenham made a mistake, or whether someone else decided to dispatch one of the King’s Commissioners.’
‘My God!’ breathed Paxtone. ‘Henbane? Are you sure? I understand it can be deadly when swallowed in large amounts.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘We found a similar phial in the King’s Mill, after Deschalers and Bottisham died. Do you know what Rougham prescribed for Deschalers’s sickness?’
‘Nothing in a phial. We argued about it, actually, because I said Deschalers needed something more than barley water.’
‘Rougham prescribed barley for a debilitating and painful disease?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘But that is tantamount to giving him nothing at all! Deschalers would have needed a powerful pain-reliever. In fact, he must have been getting one from somewhere, or he would not have been able to leave his house, let alone ride about the streets of Cambridge.’
‘I did not prescribe him one,’ said Paxtone. ‘But Lynton may have done. He was also appalled by Rougham’s refusal to give Deschalers what we felt he needed.’
‘But why did Rougham do such a thing? Was it revenge for the time when he withdrew the funds offered for Gonville’s chapel?’
‘He said Deschalers’s ailment was incurable,’ said Paxtone with some disgust. ‘And he believes there is no point in giving medicine to a man who cannot be made well again. He says such practices are a criminal waste of the patient’s money.’
‘He said that? Did he imagine Deschalers would want to save his treasure for the future, then?’
‘I would have recommended henbane seeped in hot mud, had Deschalers asked for my advice,’ said Paxtone. ‘Not taken internally, of course, because henbane causes warts, but applied as a plaister to the skin of the stomach.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Deschalers had had a narrow escape from Paxtone’s ministrations, too. He only hoped Lynton had had the sense to give the poor grocer a sense-dulling potion, since the other two physicians had failed him.
‘Was there henbane in the phial you found in the King’s Mill?’ asked Paxtone. ‘As well as the one that did away with Master Warde?’
‘It was empty, so I could not tell. But, if it did, then I do not think Deschalers could have killed Bottisham. The henbane would have made that impossible.’
‘Then perhaps it did not include any such thing,’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Perhaps it just contained some strong decoction of poppy, which is what Lynton – and you, no doubt – would have recommended for Deschalers. If that were the case, then Deschalers might have swallowed it to dull the ache in his innards before he killed Bottisham. I knew Bottisham was no killer.’ He gave a grim smile of satisfaction.
Bartholomew supposed it was possible – just. But, even without the agonising pain of his sickness to contend with, he was not sure whether Deschalers could have mustered the strength to overpower Bottisham with nails. Paxtone seemed eager for Deschalers to bear the blame. Was it because he, like Bartholomew himself, had been fond of the gentle Bottisham? Was it because the town would have no excuse to attack the University if it was found that a townsman had killed a scholar and not the other way around? Or did he have his own reasons for wanting such a solution accepted?
‘But do not look to me for answers about Deschalers, Matt,’ Paxtone went on, when the physician did not reply. ‘I do not interfere with Rougham’s patients, no matter how wrong I think his treatments are. Have you considered the possibility that Deschalers stole the phial from him, in desperation?’
‘Or perhaps Rougham misled you, and he did prescribe something strong.’ Bartholomew sighed; every fact he uncovered seemed to raise more questions than ever.
‘Bishop Bateman was poisoned, too,’ observed Paxtone philosophically. ‘At Avignon. That papal court sounds a dangerous and disagreeable place – full of Frenchmen. But speaking of disagreeable, I attended a stabbing today. A debate spiralled out of control at Gonville, and knives were drawn.’
‘Gonville? Then why was Rougham not called? It is his College.’
‘He could not be found, and they needed someone quickly. Ufford came looking for you or me. He found me first.’
‘I assume Thorpe was the culprit?’
Paxtone nodded. ‘He had inflicted a shallow wound that bled a lot and frightened everyone.’
‘Who did he stab?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not Rougham if he was away, more is the pity.’
‘The priest, Thompson. By all accounts, Thompson was trying to prevent the fight, and received a blade in the arm for his pains. Young Despenser was the real object of Thorpe’s ire. They were quarrelling over the Hand of Justice, apparently.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.
‘It is gaining in popularity. I know what you think about it, but you are in a dwindling minority. I petitioned it myself recently, and confess I felt better afterwards. God invests power in unusual things, so who is to say the hand of your pauper cannot inspire miracles?’
‘There have been no miracles. Isnard’s severed leg did not regrow. Una is still suffering from bile in the stomach. Old Master Lenne is still dead.’
‘But Thomas Mortimer claims the Hand has absolved him of responsibility in that death – and folk believe him. The furious whispers against him have abated.’
‘Lenne’s son’s have not, and neither did his wife’s.’
‘Two dissenting voices in a host of believers,’ said Paxtone. ‘I prayed that Michaelhouse’s cock would desist from waking me with its crowing in the middle of the night. That was answered.’
‘Quenhyth killed Bird,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it an unkind petition to have made. ‘Damn! If folk believe the Hand can achieve that sort of thing, there will be no end to the trouble it will cause. As you said, there are already quarrels in Gonville about it.’
‘Thorpe offered to ask the King if Gonville can have the Hand – to raise funds for their chapel,’ Paxtone went on. ‘But Despenser told him they have no right to it, and is afraid it will lead to Gonville being attacked by jealous townsfolk. That is why they fought. Acting Master Pulham told Thorpe that if he tries to win an argument with knives again he will be expelled – Hand or no. Of course, Pulham’s heart was not really in the reprimand.’