‘Nonsense,’ declared Dunning dismissively. ‘Aristotle was an Englishman.’
‘The opening ceremony is important to him,’ said Julitta, coming to talk to Bartholomew while Michael regaled her sceptical father with an account of the philosopher’s antecedents. ‘He is beginning to be nervous, lest all does not go according to plan.’
‘Why should it not?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Well, not every scholar likes the place,’ Julitta pointed out wryly. ‘Brother Michael told me only yesterday that he spends half his life quelling arguments about it.’
‘There was one between Essex Hostel and Bene’t College in our shop this morning,’ added Ruth, who was listening. Bartholomew was not surprised to see Bonabes close behind her. ‘I thought they were going to start hitting each other, but Bonabes managed to evict them first. They slunk away once they were outside, because several beadles were watching.’
‘Father is afraid there will be a spat during the ceremony,’ elaborated Julitta. ‘But I imagine that is less likely if Brother Michael arrests the villain responsible for whatever happened to poor Northwood and the others.’
‘Michael will find the culprit,’ Bartholomew heard himself promise. ‘And I shall help.’
‘Thank you.’ Julitta smiled as she laid a hand on his arm. It felt warm through the material of his shirt, and made his skin tingle. She lowered her voice. ‘I am looking forward to you teaching me how to read once our patients no longer need such time-consuming care. I cannot wait to see my husband’s face! As I said the other night, it will be the most wonderful gift for him.’
‘He will hate it,’ predicted Bonabes, when Julitta had gone to stand with Dunning. ‘Because it means she will be able to monitor his spending of her father’s money.’
Ruth winced, and turned the subject back to the University’s troubles. ‘Did you know that Browne is telling everybody that the London brothers died because God does not approve of libraries? I doubt trouble will be averted if Michael produces God as his villain!’
‘Browne is talking rubbish,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a human hand at work here.’
‘I agree,’ said Ruth. ‘And I have learned something that might help you find the culprit. It is about Northwood. Apparently, he used the money from selling the novices’ exemplars to buy materials for his experiments. The apothecary told me.’
‘What kind of materials?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Red lead and myrrh. Both in very large quantities. And I think I know why, too. Rougham and Holm refused to let him help you invent lamp fuel, and my husband declined his offer to be part of our paper-making trials. So he must have decided to branch out on his own. He was inspired by those scholars from Oxford and their clever inventions, and he wanted to do something similar.’
‘I wish we had included him,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘We might have solved the problem by now, because he had a sharp mind.’
‘Lots of scholars have sharp minds, yet their work proceeds at a snail’s pace,’ said Bonabes disapprovingly. ‘Surely, it cannot be that difficult to make lamp fuel and ink? Perhaps I shall turn my hand to these questions when we have mastered paper. There is a lot of money to be made from them, and I could do with some extra pennies.’
He glanced at Ruth, and Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that any additional income would be used to buy something for her. And her returning smile told him that whatever was purchased would be treasured far more than anything from her husband. When they saw him watching, they flew apart abruptly, Bonabes to inspect Aristotle with exaggerated interest and Ruth to look out of the window.
‘This garden is a sad, forlorn place,’ she said. ‘I have never liked it, and I hate to think of anyone breathing his last here. There is an odd smell, too. Do you think the tales are true, and the pond is home to demons?’
‘Of course not,’ called Bonabes, indicating his ears were still attuned to her voice, even across the room. ‘It is just marsh air, which has a reputation for foul stenches. Some are even poisonous.’
Bartholomew stared at him. Could Northwood and the others have inhaled toxic gases released by the peaty mud at the bottom of the pond? He recalled the beadles claiming they had felt sick when they had disturbed the water, so it was certainly possible. He bowed a brief farewell, and hurried into the garden, aware of Michael puffing behind him, demanding to know where he was going. He did not stop until he reached the pool.
Beadle Meadowman was there, coated with slime as he continued the messy business of dredging through the deeper layers of sediment. He looked hot, tired and cross.
‘I have not found anything, Brother,’ he said. ‘This is a waste of time.’
‘Were you here when Langelee was attacked?’ asked Michael, watching in bafflement as Bartholomew knelt at the water’s edge and leaned down to sniff it.
Meadowman pursed his lips. ‘No – or I would have stopped it.’
‘Then did you see anyone loitering?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew abandoned the pond and turned his attention to the excavated silt, taking handfuls of the stuff and smelling it carefully.
Meadowman nodded bitterly. ‘Oh, yes. Half the town likes to gawp at the spot where four men died, and opinions are divided as to whether the Devil or God is responsible.’ At last, he could contain himself no longer. ‘What are you doing, Doctor Bartholomew?’
‘I thought the pond or its sediment might contain toxic fumes,’ explained Bartholomew. He saw Michael’s hopeful expression, and shrugged apologetically. ‘But they do not.’
‘Pity,’ muttered Michael, disappointed. ‘That would have been the best solution: death by misadventure and no murder at all.’
While Michael waited for Kente to return, Bartholomew went back to his teaching, hoping it would take his mind off the worries that clamoured at him. His students did not appreciate his zealous attentions, however, and when Cynric arrived with an invitation from Meryfeld, asking him to visit that evening for a resumption of their experiments, they used his momentary distraction to flee.
As there were no pupils to divert him, and the atmosphere in the conclave was icy – Langelee snapped at him when he tried to speak to Ayera – he went to check the wounded soldiers at the castle. Julitta was there, and he lingered far longer than necessary, just to be in her company. When he finally tore himself away, he found Cynric waiting to say that Isnard was unwell. He arrived at the bargeman’s house to find him hunched miserably over a bucket.
‘Have you been eating fish? Perhaps poached from Newe Inn and sold by the riverfolk?’
‘No,’ said Isnard weakly. ‘My malady is much more serious. Holm is trying to poison me.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘For your five marks,’ replied Isnard dolefully. ‘He knows I am innocent, but is unwilling to pay you, so he is trying to kill me instead. He bought me an ale at the King’s Head, and I should have known better than to accept it.’
‘How many other ales did you have?’ asked Bartholomew pointedly.
Isnard waved an airy hand. ‘Not many. Do you think he has done for me, Doctor?’
Bartholomew gave him the remedy he always dispensed for over-indulgence, and watched the colour seep back into the bargeman’s cheeks. When Isnard began to feel better, he started to chat.
‘That armed raid was nasty. It is said by some that the villains are local men, like Ayce of Girton, who bear a grudge against the town and will do anything to harm it. However, there is another rumour that the raiders are strangers – specifically a remnant of the French army, determined to avenge themselves for Poitiers. What do you think?’
‘I doubt the French would pick on Cambridge.’
Isnard sniffed. ‘If you say so. What do you make of the four bodies in Newe Inn? I suspect they are connected to the attack – the victims heard or saw something, and were murdered for their silence. Like Adam, the soldier and the riverman.’
‘I wondered the
same. But those three had their throats cut, and there was no obvious cause of death for Northwood and his companions.’
‘So what? There were lots of raiders, and each probably has his own preferred way of killing.’
It was a valid point. ‘Have you learned any more about them? Or have the riverfolk?’
‘Only that they have been slinking into our town regularly after dark – as you found out when we had to rescue you the other night. Obviously, they come to look around.’
‘To look around for what?’
Isnard shrugged. ‘Sheriff Tulyet believes they are smugglers, but I have been thinking about that, and I am sure he is wrong.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I would have seen their boats. No, the raiders are not smugglers, Doctor, and you can tell the Sheriff that I said so.’
By the time Bartholomew arrived at Meryfeld’s house, his medical colleagues had been at the wine. They were not as drunk as they had been when they had thrown together the lethal combination of ingredients to create wildfire, but they were certainly frivolous. Meryfeld laughed a lot anyway, but Gyseburne and Rougham were serious men, and it was disconcerting to see them in boisterously silly spirits. Bartholomew’s heart sank.
‘It is all right,’ said Meryfeld, misinterpreting his concern. ‘We saved you some claret.’
‘Where have you been, Matthew?’ asked Gyseburne conversationally. ‘With a patient?’
‘Isnard,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He drank too much last night, and has been sick all day.’
Holm sniggered. ‘The man is a terrible sot.’
‘He told me you bought him the offending ale,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly.
‘I was in the King’s Head,’ acknowledged Holm. ‘A patient invited me there, and it would have been churlish to refuse, but I did not buy Isnard ale. As everyone in Cambridge knows – except you, it would seem – he is a criminal, and I do not associate with those.’
‘You do if you imbibe at the King’s Head,’ retorted Rougham, holding out his goblet for more wine. ‘No one who frequents that place is innocent in any sense of the word. Except Agatha the laundress. She drinks there, but I would not dare say anything rude about her – she would make garters of my innards.’
‘A lady drinks in a tavern?’ asked Gyseburne disapprovingly. ‘Surely, that is irregular? Or is she a whore?’
Rougham crossed himself. ‘Have a care, Gyseburne! That woman does as she pleases, and she is extremely dangerous.’ He tossed off the contents of his goblet, and indicated he wanted more.
‘She is not that bad,’ said Bartholomew, sipping the wine. It was very good, and when he had finished one cup and was on the second, he, too, felt his anxieties recede. ‘But she cannot cook.’
‘I am an extremely good cook,’ said Holm. ‘My father taught me, and he baked for the King.’
‘The King hires surgeons to prepare his food?’ asked Meryfeld, bemused.
Holm coloured. ‘My father had many talents,’ he hedged.
‘How fare your patients at the castle?’ asked Rougham of Bartholomew. ‘Will any more die?’
‘No, they will all live,’ replied Holm, before Bartholomew could speak. ‘I healed the lot.’
‘So you tell everyone, but it was Matthew who did all the work,’ said Gyseburne, rather acidly.
‘Yes, but he laboured under my direction,’ declared Holm. ‘I am a surgeon, and he is a physician, so how can he have performed these delicate techniques alone? He does not have the skill. Only I do.’
‘You might deceive your fiancée with your bragging lies, but we are not stupid,’ said Gyseburne, coolly. ‘We know the truth.’
‘We do, but it is better for Bartholomew if folk believe that it was Holm who undertook the surgery,’ said Rougham. ‘I say we let him have the credit.’
He had a point, and Bartholomew was certainly prepared to overlook Holm’s conceit in exchange for a quiet life. He nodded his appreciation of Rougham’s suggestion.
‘I can cure stones in the kidneys, too,’ announced Holm, aware that he had lost his colleagues’ approbation and aiming to remedy the matter. ‘I am sure the rest of you cannot.’
‘I have had some success with potions that break them up,’ said Gyseburne. ‘I have detected their remnants in urine after treatment, and patients have claimed a lessening of pain.’
‘I direct a hard punch to a specific area,’ Holm went on, ignoring him. ‘Which smashes the stones into pieces and allows them to pass harmlessly through the urethra.’
Bartholomew cringed. ‘I cannot imagine such a technique would work. It is—’
‘It does – every time. Indeed, I am thinking of going to London when I am married, to punch the stones of the wealthy. I shall make a fortune.’
‘You and Julitta will leave us?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to mask his dismay.
Holm regarded him oddly. ‘We might. I have not decided yet.’
‘Let us go to the garden and begin our experiments,’ said Meryfeld, tiring of the discussion. ‘Time is passing, and I would rather not work in the dark, if it can be avoided.’
His apprentices had already set out a table and various ingredients, along with the large cauldron they used to mix their potions. It bore ominous stains, while parts of the rim had been blown away when trials had not gone according to plan. As usual, Holm, Rougham and Meryfeld sighed impatiently when Bartholomew insisted on measuring each ingredient and recording it in the ledger they had kept since the winter.
‘This is why it is taking so long,’ grumbled Holm. ‘We should just toss in whatever we like.’
‘But then if we do discover a good mixture we will not know what went in it,’ argued Bartholomew, just as he did every time they experimented together.
‘Honey,’ said Meryfeld, approaching with a jar and a wooden spoon. ‘Let us add honey. And if we do not produce decent fuel, I can decant the stuff and sell it as cough syrup.’
‘You cannot let anyone drink this!’ cried Bartholomew, shocked. ‘There is brimstone in it!’
‘Brimstone is not poisonous in small quantities,’ declared Meryfeld. He dipped his spoon in the mixture and took a sip before anyone could stop him. ‘See?’
The others watched him intently, but although he pulled a face to indicate the mixture did not taste pleasant, there was no other reaction.
‘Here is some lye,’ said Rougham, hurling a substantial dose into the basin. Bartholomew threw down the pen and folded his arms in disgust. Rougham had not allowed him to measure it, so the test was over as far as he was concerned. ‘Now you cannot give it to your patients, Meryfeld, because lye is definitely not good for people.’
The calculating expression on Meryfeld’s face suggested he might overlook that fact, and Bartholomew found himself wondering whether the man always declined to reveal what he included in his medicines because half of it was unsuitable for human consumption.
‘And here is some urine,’ said Gyseburne, producing a jar and adding a generous glug. Immediately, something began to fizz, and there was a terrible smell.
‘You have spoiled it!’ cried Meryfeld, hand over his nose. He scowled, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that Gyseburne had just spared Meryfeld’s clients from being sold a very dangerous “cure”.
There was no more to be done once the mixture was ruined, so the medici left to go home. It was dark, and the streets were unusually deserted; neither townsfolk nor scholars wanted to be out when armed invaders were at large. Gyseburne went north, and Bartholomew found himself walking down Bridge Street with Rougham and Holm. The surgeon was holding forth about his skill with broken limbs, and Rougham was talking about his designs for Gonville’s chapel windows, neither listening to the other, when Bartholomew heard a sound.
‘What was that?’ He cocked his head to listen.
‘The raiders?’ asked Rougham, fearfully. He increased his pace to what was almost a run. ‘We should not linger. It feels dangerous tonight, and w
e still have some way to go.’
He stopped abruptly when several figures materialised in the darkness ahead of them. He swallowed hard, and Holm whimpered.
‘You may have our purses,’ Rougham called unsteadily. ‘But you must leave us unharmed. We are physicians, on an errand of mercy.’
‘These two are physicians,’ bleated Holm. ‘But I am a surgeon. I heal people, whereas they only dispense expensive remedies and calculate horoscopes.’
‘God’s blood, Holm!’ breathed Rougham, shocked. ‘That was not comradely.’
‘You can go,’ said one of the figures to Holm. ‘We are not interested in you.’
Holm scuttled away without a backward glance, and Bartholomew hoped he would have the sense to summon help. The shadows approached, but he could not tell whether they were the same men who had waylaid him before. He slipped his hand inside his medical bag, fingers curling around the comforting bulk of the childbirth forceps.
‘Tell us the formula for wildfire,’ said one man softly, following a brief scuffle after which Bartholomew and Rougham were pinned against a wall with swords at their throats and the forceps lay on the ground. ‘Refuse, and you die. And do not expect rescue a second time, because it will not be coming.’
‘But we do not know it,’ squawked Rougham. ‘We hurled random ingredients into a—’
‘Then think. We know it involved brimstone, pitch and quicklime, along with a lot of other substances that are irrelevant. But there was one other vital element. What was it?’
‘Rock oil,’ blurted Rougham, desperation in his voice.
‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, horrified. ‘It was not—’
The spokesman hit him with the hilt of his sword, hard enough to knock him to his knees. The next few words were a meaningless buzz as his senses swam.
‘Rock oil was the secret ingredient,’ Rougham went on weakly. ‘It was a gift from a patient, but I could not find a medical application for it, so I tossed it in the pot. That is why we will never recreate wildfire in our quest for lamp fuel. We have no more rock oil.’
‘What is rock oil?’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 26