‘I recall what Hemmysby ate,’ said Illesy acidly. ‘Three slices of cake, which was greedy. He said it was to make up for the fact that he refused the nuts and marchpane.’
‘Your sister made those pastries, Matthew,’ said Lawrence. ‘They were very nice, and we are grateful for her support. When we offered to provide refreshments, we assumed it would just be for those in the church, but every scholar who was hungry promptly announced an intention to descend on us.’
‘The debate ended very abruptly,’ mused Illesy. ‘We were taking it in turns to mind the food – we did not want to leave it unattended lest thieves struck. I had only been in the vestry for a few moments, but I poked my head out to see how the forum was going only to discover that Tynkell had declared it over – no summing up, no declaration of a winner, no vote of thanks to the participants. I was stunned.’
‘He was almost flattened in the ensuing race for victuals,’ added Bon. ‘With Michaelhouse being the quickest off the mark. Does your Master not feed you?’
‘Have you heard of a substance named dormirella?’ asked Michael, declining to dignify the question with a response.
‘Of course,’ replied Nerli. ‘Some of its active ingredients are used in tanning.’
‘Are you intimately acquainted with the process of leather-making, then?’ asked Michael.
‘It is general knowledge,’ replied the Florentine, although he blushed angrily, and his eyes became harder and blacker. ‘And I am widely read.’
‘Do your studies extend to the theory of swordplay?’ asked Bartholomew, aiming to make the surly Florentine admit to frolicking with Potmoor.
Temper flashed in Nerli’s eyes, but was quickly masked. ‘Are there books on the subject? I would not know. I have no interest in the matter.’
‘So you do not practise your martial skills with Potmoor?’
Nerli gazed at him. ‘I do not. What a ridiculous notion!’
Bartholomew was about to press the matter further when it occurred to him that Nerli might guess that it was Julitta who had mentioned it, and an interrogation might put her in danger. He desisted abruptly enough to make Nerli regard him with suspicion, but fortunately Michael was ready with another question.
‘Does anyone here own any dormirella?’
‘No,’ replied the Florentine, meeting his eyes steadily. ‘Why would we?’
‘I have never even heard of it,’ put in Lawrence.
‘Really?’ Bartholomew was surprised. ‘I thought you would have come across it at some point in your career.’
‘I do not have much use for poisons, Matthew.’ Lawrence smiled serenely.
‘If you have never heard of dormirella, how do you know it is a poison?’ pounced Michael.
‘Because Nerli said it is used in tanning,’ replied Lawrence genially. ‘And you do not employ mild substances in that grim and filthy business.’
‘I would not know,’ said Bon in distaste. ‘I remain aloof from such coarse matters.’
‘So do I,’ said Illesy. He stood. ‘And now if you will excuse us, there have been too many thumps and crashes from the dormitory upstairs. It is time we supervised our new charges.’
‘None of the Winwick men succeeded in removing themselves from my list of suspects,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘Indeed, Nerli’s answers won him a place at the top. Meanwhile, Bon and Ratclyf were offended by Hemmysby’s treatment of them at the debate, while Illesy is a close friend of Potmoor.’
‘Lawrence is a good man, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I could not have helped with your investigation if he had not taken on some of my paupers.’
‘I cannot agree, Matt. There is something about him that I do not like at all – a jarringly false note in that mask of amiability. And you know what is said about him and Queen Isabella. I imagine the tale is true, because what sort of man abandons a lucrative post at Court in order to teach law to a lot of ingrates?’
Bartholomew thought he was wrong, but did not want to argue. ‘Illesy said they all took turns to guard the food, which means they all had the opportunity to poison Hemmysby’s cake. But how could the culprit know that Hemmysby would be the one to eat it? Or do you think someone else was the intended victim?’
‘It was Winwick Hall’s food – its Fellows decided which plate went where. And let us not forget that none of them have an alibi for Elvesmere’s murder. They claim they were asleep, but no one can prove it. They all have a motive for wanting him dead, as he offended every one of them with his caustic tongue.’
‘Lawrence said Elvesmere had a headache, which could have been from eating dormirella.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Much as it galls me to admit it, I am beginning to appreciate that anatomy has its uses. I shall arrange for you to spend a few moments alone with Elvesmere tonight, and you can find out whether he ate cake, too. Like Hemmysby.’
‘No, Brother,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Besides, I am not sure it will be possible after so many days. These things liquefy, you know.’
Michael shuddered. ‘Just do your best. However, if I ever have the misfortune to die, I do not want you in my innards. My stomach contents are my own affair, thank you.’
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, amused by the fact that the monk seemed to regard death as optional. ‘We should visit Eyer now. Perhaps he will tell us that one of our suspects bought dormirella recently, and thus solve the case without the need for another dissection.’
‘You are here at last,’ beamed Eyer, his pink face breaking into a beam of pleasure as Bartholomew and Michael entered his shop. ‘Good! I am ravenous.’
‘What are we having?’ asked Michael keenly.
‘Snake,’ replied the apothecary. ‘There are many who shun reptile, but I find it a most wholesome meat. We shall have it with grass soup, which will set us up splendidly.’
‘I have just remembered that we are expected at Michaelhouse,’ gulped the monk. ‘What a pity. Incidentally, it was good of you to contribute victuals to the debate yesterday. Most generous.’
Eyer gestured towards a large sack of cobnuts. ‘I told the Winwick men to help themselves, and they sent a student around with a bowl. It was all I had available at such short notice, although I appreciate that the shells are a nuisance in polite company.’
‘Hemmysby would not have eaten those, Brother,’ whispered Bartholomew, when the apothecary went to baste the snakes that were roasting over the fire. ‘Remember, he did not like nuts. Besides, they could not have been poisoned while they were in their shells. At least, not easily.’
‘Do you have any dormirella for sale, Eyer?’ called Michael, determined to learn at least something useful from the visit.
Eyer turned to purse his lips. ‘Dormirella contains a mixture of potent ingredients that includes realgar, dwale and hemlock. It is very dangerous, and not something I sell to non-medical professionals. Why do you want it, Brother? Perhaps I can suggest a less toxic alternative.’
‘But you sell realgar, dwale and hemlock on their own?’ pressed the monk.
Eyer regarded him warily before addressing Bartholomew. ‘You know I do – you buy hemlock and dwale from me regularly. What is this about?’
‘Has Holm bought dormirella at all?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Last week,’ replied Eyer, looking from one to the other anxiously. ‘For his experiments with whitening teeth. Why do you want to know?’
‘Have you sold any other poisons recently?’ asked Michael, ignoring the question.
Eyer spread his hands in a shrug. ‘What is a poison? Virtually anything can be harmful if used incorrectly. Or conversely, a potent herb can be rendered worthless by ignorance. Take Olivia Knyt, for example. She bought bryony root for her husband’s colic, but instead of boiling it in wine for him to drink, she made it into a poultice that she put on his feet. Useless!’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you saying? That she deliberately misused the seeds so that his ill
ness would kill him?’
‘No,’ said Eyer, but so quickly that Bartholomew saw he had his doubts. ‘I am just pointing out that laymen have an unfortunate habit of misapplying what they buy.’
‘What about dormirella?’ probed Michael. ‘Olivia did not buy any of that, did she? Or realgar, hemlock or dwale?’
‘Not from me, although they can be obtained quite easily in the alleys behind St Mary the Great. But let me check my records.’ Eyer produced a roll of parchment, and ran his finger down the entries. ‘Holm bought dormirella, but he is the only one since Easter. However, Edith Stanmore bought a lot of realgar last week. See her name here?’
‘My sister?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.
Eyer nodded. ‘Realgar is expensive, so there are not many requests for it. Other than that, no one except medici have bought the ingredients you mentioned.’ He handed Michael the scroll. ‘You can look for yourself if you do not believe me.’
‘Why would Edith want realgar?’ asked Bartholomew. His mouth was dry and he felt sick.
‘I am not sure, although she has been complaining about the number of rats in her warehouse recently. It is not a solution I would employ, of course, but one can never predict the foibles of laymen. But why all these questions? Is there a problem?’
Unhappily, Bartholomew trailed after the monk to Milne Street. A servant conducted them to Edith’s solar, where she was working on a heap of documents. There was a plate of freshly baked Lombard slices at her elbow, and Michael reached for one automatically. Then he recalled what had happened to Hemmysby, and jerked his hand back as though it had been burned.
‘Michael has agreed to help me look into what happened to Oswald,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing her puzzled frown and not wanting to tell her why they were there. He ignored the monk’s astonishment at the claim – the boot had been on the other foot often enough.
Edith smiled wanly. ‘Thank you, Brother. I shall always be grateful.’
Michael nodded to the untidy pile of deeds in front of her. ‘Does Richard not help with that sort of thing?’
‘These are the ones he wants to destroy,’ she replied. ‘Most are simple receipts of sale, but some require action by Oswald’s heirs – me, mostly.’
She looked down at the table, and Bartholomew knew she was lying: she had uncovered yet more evidence of Stanmore’s deviation from the straight and narrow.
‘Richard tells me that he means to apply for a place at Winwick Hall,’ said Michael. ‘I confess I am surprised. He has never expressed an interest in scholarship before, and now he has inherited most of Oswald’s money, he has no need to do anything so taxing.’
‘He had a sharp mind when he was a lad,’ said Edith softly. ‘Perhaps immersing himself in books again will remind him that he does not need to be drunk or surrounded by dissipated cronies to enjoy himself.’
Bartholomew hated to see the pain in her eyes, and felt a surge of anger against his nephew. How could Richard put her through such torment when she was still steeped in grief?
‘Eyer mentioned that you have a problem with rats,’ said Michael, changing the subject to one that was obviously a relief for Edith but that made Bartholomew’s stomach churn – especially when he recalled the apothecary’s remark about laymen misusing what they bought. He did not want to hear that she added a pinch to dough in the hope of making it rise, or some such nonsense.
Edith nodded. ‘Yes, the wretched things are everywhere this year.’
‘He sold you realgar?’
‘He did, but not for rats. Why would I use an expensive and not terribly reliable poison on them? There are far better remedies available. I bought it for dyeing cloth.’
‘Of course!’ blurted Bartholomew, closing his eyes in relief. ‘I should have remembered! It yields an orange-red pigment.’
‘Do you have any to hand?’ pressed Michael. ‘In the kitchen, perhaps?’
‘In the kitchen?’ echoed Edith in disbelief. ‘It is a poison, Brother! I do not allow those in a place where food is prepared. It is locked in one of the outside storerooms. However, if you want some, you will have to give me a very good reason, because it can be dangerous if used incorrectly.’
‘We appreciated the cake you made for the post-debate refreshments yesterday,’ said Michael, and his sombre expression made Bartholomew’s stomach lurch again: the monk was not yet convinced that she was innocent. ‘It was kind of you.’
She smiled. ‘It was a delight to see them so heartily devoured. I made four of them, and all that was left at the end were crumbs.’
‘Were all four the same? Or did you use different recipes?’
Edith was obviously mystified by the interrogation, but answered anyway. ‘I made them all with butter, because I thought you might be there, and I know you prefer it to lard.’
‘And how did they get to the church? Did you take them there yourself?’
‘Yes, with Zachary. We delivered them to the vestry while the debate was still raging in the church, and then we came home. But why—’
‘Was anyone in the vestry to receive them?’
Edith regarded him askance. ‘Signor Nerli helped us unpack, but then Bon was called on to speak, so he hurried off to the nave to listen to him. Why are you asking all this?’
‘The security of cakes is an important matter,’ replied Michael gravely. ‘They might have been stolen when they were unguarded. Then where would we have been?’
Edith laughed, a genuine, bubbling guffaw that Bartholomew had not heard since he had returned from Peterborough to find her a widow. ‘You are incorrigible, Brother! I thought for a moment that there was something terribly wrong.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Not here, at least.’
When Michael professed a keen interest in keeping things safe, Edith showed him the shed where she stored the more deadly substances that were used in the preparation of cloth. The only key was on a chain around her neck, and the lock was substantial. Records were kept of what was used when, and it quickly became apparent that her supply of realgar had not been tapped to kill anyone. When he and Michael were outside in the street, Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said sincerely.
‘I was skilful,’ said the monk immodestly. ‘She never once guessed that I was assessing whether she was a killer.’
‘Actually, for making her laugh.’
Michael frowned. ‘Yes, but I hope the willingness with which she did so does not mean she considers me a glutton. I eat very little – just a crust here, and a scrap there. I just have heavy bones, which give the appearance of corpulence, although I would be as light as a feather without them.’
Bartholomew grinned at him, but then became serious. ‘Unfortunately, her testimony does not help us with Hemmysby’s poisoner. The vestry is open to the street as well as the church – anyone could have slipped in and tampered with the food after she and Zachary left, and Nerli abandoned his post to listen to Bon pontificate. And that leads again to the question of whether Hemmysby was the intended victim.’
‘True. Is that Uyten racing towards us? He should slow down – if he falls on his face, he will lose what few teeth he has left.’
‘There you are, Doctor Bartholomew,’ the student gasped. ‘Master Lawrence sent me to find you. You must come to Winwick immediately.’
‘Must he indeed?’ said Michael coolly. ‘And why is that, pray?’
‘Because shortly after you left, Master Lawrence went to visit Ratclyf and found him very ill. He does not know what to do, and begs urgent assistance.’
Bartholomew set off at a run. He was waved through Winwick’s still-unattached gates by the porter, although Michael was challenged when he tried to follow. Bartholomew did not stop to intervene; the Senior Proctor needed no help from him in entering a College. Despite the exigency of the situation, Uyten was unable to resist a brag as they hurried towards the Fellows’ rooms, which were located in a house opposite the hall.
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br /> ‘We will hire ten more teachers soon. Your nephew has applied to be one of them, which is good. He is exactly the kind of man we should appoint.’
If the remark was intended to impress, it did not succeed – Bartholomew would not want Richard in his College, setting a bad example with his indolence. He said nothing though, and entered Ratclyf’s surprisingly sparse quarters. There was a single rug on the floor, the walls were bare, and the only personal items were a bronze statue that looked Italian and a pretty ceramic bowl.
The lawyer was pale and his breathing shallow. Bartholomew knelt by the bed, and felt a thready pulse and skin that was cold to the touch. Lawrence stood next to him, his amiable face a mask of distress, while Illesy, Nerli and Bon were by the door, keeping well back, as if they feared they might catch something.
‘How long has he been like this?’ Bartholomew asked.
‘I am not sure.’ Lawrence was almost as pale as his patient. ‘He complained of a headache when he woke, and I assumed it was from the amount of wine he downed last night – so much that Nerli was obliged to put him to bed. I suggested healing sleep, and did not trouble him again until shortly after you left…’
‘What about the rest of you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘When did you last see him?’
Nerli had chosen to stand in a shadowy place, so his face was difficult to read. ‘At dawn, when he was surly, but ambulatory. We heard no more from him until Lawrence raised the alarm.’
‘You visited him, Provost,’ said Bon, turning his milky eyes in Illesy’s direction. ‘You came mid-morning, to discuss taking on more Fellows.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Illesy, albeit reluctantly. ‘But he was asleep, so I left again. How do you know? You obviously did not see me.’
Bon smiled without humour. ‘I have learned to identify different treads, so I “see” more than you think. A blind man is not always—’
‘Later, Bon,’ interrupted Lawrence. His voice was anxious. ‘Can you help Ratclyf, Matthew?’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 19