‘So anyone who does not like you is mad?’
‘It demonstrates a warped mind, which means he should not hold a position of such power in the University. De Wetherset is right to clip Michael’s wings.’
Bartholomew regarded him in surprise, aware that Aynton’s eyes had lost their customary dreaminess, and were hard and cold. ‘I hardly think–’
‘Michael’s influence is waning, and unless he wants to be ousted completely, he must learn to accept it. Yes, he has made the University strong, but it is inappropriate for the Senior Proctor to wield more power than the Chancellor, and it is time to put an end to it.’
Bartholomew felt treacherous even listening to such sentiments, and turned his attention back to medicine, eager to end the discussion.
‘Does this hurt when I bend it?’
‘Ow! Be gentle, Matthew! I am not one of your dumb beggars, impervious to pain.’
Bartholomew opened his mouth to retort that his paupers most certainly did feel pain, but decided it was another topic on which he and Aynton were unlikely to agree. He remembered what Michael had asked him to do.
‘You say you were practising a lecture on the morning of the Spital fire,’ he began.
‘I was,’ replied Aynton curtly. ‘But I have said all I am going to on the subject, so do not press me again. If you do, I shall lodge a complaint for harassment.’
Bartholomew took his leave, disturbed to have witnessed a side of the amiable academic that he had not known existed. Perhaps Michael was right to be wary of him.
But once outside, breathing air that was full of the clean scents of spring – new grass, wild flowers and sun-warmed earth – he wondered if he had overreacted. After all, what Aynton said was true: Michael did wield a disproportionate amount of power. Moreover, lots of patients were snappish when they were in pain, so why should Aynton be any different? Bartholomew pushed the matter from his mind and went to his next customer.
He was just passing King’s Hall when he spotted two figures, one abnormally large, the other abnormally small. Eudo had tried to disguise himself by pulling a hood over his head, although his great size made him distinctive and several people hailed him by name. By contrast, his minuscule wife was clearly delighted with the way she looked and made no effort at all to conceal her identity. She wore a light summer cloak pinned with a jewelled brooch, and the gold hints in her hair were accentuated by a pretty fillet.
‘We wanted to stay at home and protect the … patients,’ blurted Eudo when Bartholomew stopped to exchange pleasantries. ‘But Hélène is having nightmares, so Amphelisa sent us to buy ingredients for a sleeping potion.’
He indicated the basket he carried. Bartholomew glanced in it once, then looked again.
‘Mandrake, poppy juice, henbane,’ he breathed, alarmed. ‘These are powerful herbs – too powerful for a child. It is not–’
‘Amphelisa knows what she is doing,’ interrupted Goda shortly. ‘And if we want your opinion, we will ask for it.’
‘Has she made sleeping potions for Hélène before?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘One strong enough to make her drowse through a fire, perhaps?’
Rage ignited in Eudo’s eyes. He moved fast, grabbing Bartholomew by the front of his tabard and shoving him against a wall. Bartholomew tried to struggle free, but it was hopeless – Eudo’s fingers were like bands of iron.
‘Eudo, stop!’ hissed Goda, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. ‘You will make him think Amphelisa did poison the children. But she did not, so she does not need you to defend her. Let him go.’
Bartholomew was surprised when Eudo did as he was told.
‘Is this what happened to Commissary Aynton?’ he asked curtly, brushing himself down. ‘He put questions that frightened you, so you pushed him? I know it was no accident.’
‘Oh, yes, it was,’ countered Goda fiercely. ‘Aynton claimed that some of our patients were playing with swords. We told him he was mistaken, so he began prancing around to demonstrate what he thought he had seen. He bounced into Eudo and lost his balance.’
‘Which would never have happened if he had not been jigging about like an ape,’ growled Eudo. ‘It was his own fault.’
Bartholomew suspected the truth lay somewhere in between – that Eudo had shoved Aynton in an effort to shut him up, but that Aynton had been off balance, so had taken an unintended tumble. Even so, it was unacceptable behaviour on Eudo’s part, and Bartholomew dreaded to imagine what he might do without Goda to keep him in line.
‘Does Amphelisa distil oils anywhere other than the chapel?’ he asked, switching to another line of enquiry.
‘That is none of your–’ began Eudo in a snarl, although he stopped when Goda raised a tiny hand. There were two silver rings on her fingers that Bartholomew was sure had not been there the last time he had seen her.
‘We could tell you,’ she said sweetly. ‘But our tongues will loosen far more readily if you have a coin to spare.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You want to be paid for helping me catch the person who murdered five people in your home?’
Goda shrugged. ‘Why not? You earn three pennies for every corpse you assess, so why should you be the only one to turn a profit from death?’
Bartholomew had never considered himself as one who ‘turned a profit from death’ before, and the notion made him feel faintly grubby. He floundered around for a response, but Eudo spoke first.
‘Your question is stupid! Of course Amphelisa does not work anywhere else. How can she, when all her distilling equipment is in the chapel? It cannot be toted back and forth on a whim, you know. Or do you imagine she produces oils out of thin air?’
Goda glared at him for providing information that could have been sold, but then her attention was caught by someone who was approaching from the left.
‘Smile, husband,’ she said between clenched teeth. ‘Here comes Isnard the bargeman, and if he thinks we are squabbling with his favourite medicus …’
Eudo’s smile was more of a grimace, but it satisfied Isnard, who proceeded to regale them with the latest gossip.
‘You need not worry about your Spital being haunted any longer,’ he began importantly. ‘Because Margery Starre just told me she was mistaken about it standing on the site of an ancient pagan temple.’
Eudo was alarmed. ‘But I have seen ghosts with my own–’
‘Tricks,’ interrupted Isnard with authority. ‘Margery went to visit Satan last night, as she and him are on friendly terms, but he was nowhere to be found. What she did find, however, was a piece of fine gauze on twine, which could be jerked to make an illusion.’
‘Oh,’ said Eudo uncomfortably. ‘But–’
‘Moreover, Margery was paid to tell us that the Devil was taking up residence there,’ Isnard went on, ‘which she did, because she thought it was Satan himself begging the favour.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Why would she think that?’
‘Because she was visited by someone huge in a black cloak with horns poking from under his hood. Naturally, she made assumptions. But when she went to see him at the Spital and found evidence of trickery … well, she realised the whole thing was a hoax.’
Bartholomew was secretly gratified to learn that the self-important witch had been so easily duped. Perhaps it would shake her followers’ faith in her, which would be no bad thing, especially where Cynric was concerned.
‘You say she was tricked by someone huge?’ he asked, looking hard at Eudo.
‘Yes – someone pretending to be Satan,’ said Isnard, lest his listeners had not deduced this for themselves. ‘Well, two someones actually, as the deceiver had a minion with him, who did all the talking.’