Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Come and look at my leeches, Brother,’ invited Isobel, when she saw she might lose the monk’s attention to his grandmother. ‘They are best-quality creatures from France, and arrived this morning.’

  ‘Nothing that comes from France is of the best quality,’ Dame Pelagia muttered.

  Bartholomew supposed a lifetime of spying in an enemy state might well result in that sort of opinion. ‘They look like English ones to me,’ he said, inspecting them with the eye of a professional.

  ‘But more expensive,’ said Isobel. ‘Foreign goods are always more costly than common English wares. Is that not so, husband?’

  ‘It true,’ said Lavenham, not looking up from his labours. ‘But I always say English best. The King English, and choose me for Commissioner. He know fine Englishman when he see one.’

  Dame Pelagia turned a snort into a cough, and diverted her attention to a row of plants that were being dried against the wall.

  ‘We found a phial of Water of Snails in Warde’s possession when he died,’ said Michael. ‘How did he come by it?’

  ‘I not know,’ said Lavenham, sounding surprised that he should be asked such a question. ‘I not sell Aqua Limacum Magistralis to Warde. Doctor Bartholomew recommend angelica, and I sell he instead. I keep Aqua Limacum Magistralis for other occasion.’

  ‘Where is it, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Show it to me.’

  Lavenham sighed and abandoned his pestle. He went to a wall cupboard in the main part of the shop, which he unlocked with a key – or which he pretended to unlock with a key. Bartholomew saw it was actually open, and the fact that the apothecary was ready to pretend otherwise indicated it was not the first time he or his household had been careless with security. Lavenham pointed to a row of identical phials on the bottom shelf.

  ‘He one of these,’ he said vaguely. ‘But I not know which one. I sell several in month.’

  ‘We do sell Water of Snails occasionally,’ agreed Isobel, adjusting her clothes so that an even more enticing expanse of bosom was on display. Bartholomew saw the monk’s attention begin to waver again. Dame Pelagia gave another cough, and her grandson’s eyes snapped back to Isobel’s face.

  ‘What do you put in it?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘The usual ingredients,’ replied Isobel, moving around the counter so she could rub past the monk, who did nothing to make her passage any less cramped. ‘Ground ivy, coltsfoot, scabious, lungwort, plantain and betony, all mixed with a touch of hog blood and white wine.’

  ‘What about snails?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

  ‘Well, snails of course,’ she replied irritably, straightening up and depriving Michael of his entertainment. She was wary now, and less inclined for fun.

  ‘Henbane?’ asked Bartholomew. Dame Pelagia turned sharply. He had surprised her.

  ‘Of course not henbane,’ snapped Lavenham. ‘He poison.’

  ‘Liquorice root, then?’ asked Bartholomew. Dame Pelagia was now giving the exchange her full attention. ‘It is one of the most important ingredients in Aqua Limacum Magistralis.’

  ‘Not always,’ countered Isobel furtively.

  ‘Always,’ stated Bartholomew authoritatively.

  ‘Perhaps in country that fashioned-old,’ argued Lavenham. ‘But not in country that have modern approach to disease. England can learn much from other country. Like Norway.’

  ‘You just said English goods were best,’ said Dame Pelagia softly. ‘Now you say we should be following examples set in Norway.’

  Lavenham was confused. He glanced from Bartholomew to Pelagia, and his mouth worked soundlessly as he fought to come up with an answer.

  ‘Be honest, Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You did not add liquorice to the Water of Snails in the phial I saw, and, if I were to look at your remaining bottles, I would find them similarly lacking.’

  ‘No!’ cried Lavenham, backing up against his cupboard and protecting it with outstretched arms. ‘You leave alone! Liquorice expensive, because he not grow in England, and I have not much. It cannot be taste in Water of Snails anyway. It better to keep for other potions.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I suppose these “other potions” are ones you make for wealthy clients?’ Lavenham’s shifty eyes answered his question. ‘That is disgraceful!’

  ‘It is fraudulent, too,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘The King would not approve of such activities, especially in one of his Commissioners. I cannot imagine what he will say when he finds out.’

  ‘You tell him?’ whispered Lavenham, aghast.

  ‘I might,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘It depends on how helpful you are. The good doctor here wants to know what you put in your Water of Snails. I suggest you answer him truthfully.’

  ‘Just what we said,’ said Isobel, reaching under the counter to produce a book. She flicked through its thick pages, then pointed to an entry. Bartholomew read it quickly, and saw that Lavenham’s recipe for Aqua Limacum Magistralis was much the same as any other apothecary’s, or would have been, had he included a healthy dose of liquorice root to disguise what was probably a foul taste. Bartholomew was not surprised Warde had only swallowed half of it.

  ‘Who has bought Water of Snails in the last month?’ he asked, although since Lavenham was careless with his cupboard it really did not matter: anyone could have stolen a pot.

  ‘Rougham buy some,’ replied Lavenham.

  ‘Paxtone?’ asked Bartholomew casually. His heart beat slightly faster as he waited for the reply.

  ‘Paxtone will not use Aqua Limacum Magistralis,’ said Isobel. ‘He claims it causes wind,’

  ‘Lynton buy none, neither, because he say potion smell bad without liquorice.’ Lavenham shot Bartholomew a stricken look when he realised he had just admitted that other physicians had complained about the missing ingredient, too. He hurried on, as if he hoped his slip would not be noticed. ‘And Cheney and Bernarde, for pains in head. And Morice to soothe sore tail.’

  ‘For an aching lower back,’ translated Isobel quickly, before they could assume the Mayor had demonic physical attributes.

  ‘Cheney, Morice and Bernarde,’ mused Michael. ‘All members of the Millers’ Society. That is interesting.’

  Bartholomew thought it would be more so, if Lavenham could guarantee that no other pots had been stolen. He knew the apothecary kept a record of who bought what – in order to help him predict what remedies might be needed at specific times of the year – and asked to see it. The entry under Water of Snails showed that ten phials had been sold: Rougham had purchased four at the end of February, while Morice, Cheney and Bernarde had each bought two the previous Tuesday. There were no other entries.

  ‘And you are sure you added no henbane?’ he pressed. ‘By accident?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Isobel. ‘Henbane is poisonous – especially ours, which is concentrated. We would never use it in a potion that was to be swallowed. We always mix swallowing remedies on a different bench to the ones for external use, so mistakes such as the one you suggest cannot be made.’

  ‘Why do you ask about henbane?’ asked Dame Pelagia, taking Bartholomew’s arm and leading him outside. They left behind an apothecary who was more than a little alarmed by the encounter. Michael followed, first making an elegant bow to Isobel, although she was far too disconcerted to flirt with him. ‘Was it in the potion Warde drank before he died?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I cannot be sure, and now Quenhyth has destroyed what remained of it, I never will be.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Pelagia. ‘I, too, have reached the conclusion that Warde was murdered, and have been assessing the possibility that someone poisoned him. He was a King’s Commissioner and, in my experience, when such men meet untimely ends it is always wise to investigate them with care. You would be surprised how often they transpire to be sinister.’

  ‘I assure you I would not,’ said Bartholomew, who had plenty of experience with such matters himself although, he suspected, nowhere near as much a
s Dame Pelagia.

  She smiled. ‘What have you learned so far?’

  ‘That Lavenham will lie to protect himself, and that it would be very easy to steal medicines from the cupboards in his shop. However, what I do not know is whether he put the henbane in Warde’s Water of Snails himself, or whether someone else added it after it had been sold.’

  Dame Pelagia nodded. ‘I am in complete agreement with your conclusions. We shall both have to probe a little deeper into these unsavoury affairs.’

  Dame Pelagia disappeared on business of her own after their meeting outside Lavenham’s shop, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that the old lady was already several steps ahead of them. He went to St Botolph’s Church, where he inspected Warde’s body again, but there was little to see. The signs of henbane poisoning were impossible to spot after death and, apart from a faint rash on Warde’s face, the examination told him nothing. Then he attended Warde’s requiem, and returned to Michaelhouse. He felt dispirited and guilty, as though he had let the Valence Marie scholar down. When he met Michael in the conclave, the monk looked equally disheartened.

  ‘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 Barthol
omew 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.’

  ‘Which part of the case shall we discuss first?’ Bartholomew asked, suspecting that the old lady’s ploy had not made the situation any better. All she had done was add fuel to an already raging fire. He eyed with some trepidation the food that was beginning to pile up on the table. ‘God’s teeth, Brother! How much meat do you think we can eat? We are not wolves, you know.’

  ‘Meat is better for you than vegetables,’ declared Michael authoritatively. ‘I owe my sleek and healthy appearance to the amount of meat in my diet. If I confined myself to women’s foods, like cabbages, I would not be the same person at all.’

  ‘Women’s foods?’ asked Bartholomew, who had never heard vegetables so described before.

  ‘They are green, and so increase the phlegm in the spleen. They are something all women should eat because they make them more phlegmatic – less excitable. Men, on the other hand, should eat red foods – meat – which increase the blood and make them choleric. It is obvious.’

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Bartholomew, startled that the normally sharp-witted monk should invent such outlandish notions. But then, Michael was not a rational man where food was concerned.