Chapter 4
‘I hate this weather,’ grumbled Michael the next day, as he tried to make himself comfortable on the only bench that was out of the sun. He was in the conclave, a pleasant chamber that adjoined Michaelhouse’s hall and that was the accepted domain of the Fellows. ‘Agatha says the meat she bought this morning is already fly-blown. And you know what that means.’
‘More onion soup?’ Bartholomew was standing at a window, staring absently across the courtyard below. ‘Spices to disguise the taste?’
‘Worse,’ moaned Michael. ‘Reduced rations! She says some is so green she would not even give it to students. Still, the last of them left this morning, so there are fewer mouths to feed now.’
‘Who is left?’
‘The Fellows and Mildenale. Oh, and Deynman, who does not trust us to look after the library.’
‘It feels strange,’ said Bartholomew, unsettled by the silence and empty rooms. That morning, breakfast had brought back painful memories of the plague, when the scholars’ ranks had thinned because of sickness. ‘I do not like it.’
‘It is only for a week, and now we can concentrate on finding Carton’s killer – along with those responsible for digging up Margery, putting blood in our font and taking Danyell’s hand. And the thief who stole Bene’t’s goats, I suppose, as Heltisle was after me about it again today.’
‘I watched the Sorcerer’s disciples meet in All Saints last night,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Michael’s crime-solving itinerary would leave him time to complete his experiments on the powder Carton had found in Thomas’s room. It had not seemed important before, but now the physician felt he would be letting Carton down if he did not do as he had promised.
‘Then I sincerely hope no one saw you. Your reputation already leans towards the unorthodox, and being spotted in the vicinity of satanic covens will do it no good whatsoever.’
‘William and Mildenale caught me.’ Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug at Michael’s horrified expression. ‘They were doing the same thing – trying to see what might be learned in order to stop it. But I discovered nothing that might be of use to you, other than the fact that the Sorcerer has more followers than I realised.’
Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Please do not do it again, Matt. It might be dangerous. Besides, my beadles were there, mingling anonymously with the crowd. They know what they are doing, and they are paid for it.’
‘I was only trying to help.’
‘I would rather you helped in other ways, such as telling me what you think about the theft of Danyell’s hand. Did I tell you the poor man was only visiting Cambridge? He was passing through on his way from London to Norfolk, travelling with a friend called Richard Spynk.’
‘Spynk.’ Bartholomew had heard the name in a different context than pertaining to the hapless Danyell. ‘Carton spoke to him about buying the house Margery left us. He used Spynk to inflate the price for the canons of Barnwell.’
‘So, you do listen at Fellows’ meetings! Yes, Spynk is interested in the house. But recap what you told me about Danyell – your conclusions about his death.’
‘I am almost certain he died of natural causes. I found his corpse when I was returning home after tending Mother Valeria, and there was no sign of foul play. Except for the missing hand.’
‘You said he had probably had a seizure and the limb was removed after death, because there was no sign of a struggle or evidence that he was restrained. You then went on to explain that one cannot remove body parts from a live victim without the poor fellow doing all he can to stop you. It made me feel quite queasy.’
‘That was the heat. Did you know there is an ancient superstition that the hand of a dead man will help someone make really good butter?’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘Now you are teasing me.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is an old tale, but there are some who believe it. Severed hands are also said to cure warts. I think I mentioned that before.’
Michael nodded. ‘You did. Unfortunately, you said it in front of William, which led him to accuse you of stealing the thing. You told him people tend not to consult physicians for minor ailments like warts, at which point he decided you must have purloined it as a gift for Valeria.’
‘I am surprised Spynk wants a house in Cambridge, given what happened to his friend,’ said Bartholomew, declining to waste his time dwelling on William’s wild fancies. ‘If your hand were stolen in a distant town, I would be keen to leave the place as soon as possible.’
‘He claims to have discovered a liking for Cambridge – says he wants to do business here in the future. His trade is importing luxury goods from the Low Countries, and he thinks we are a good commercial opportunity – linked to the sea via the river, and with a population able to afford such commodities. Ergo, he wants a house for his visits, and says Sewale Cottage fits the bill perfectly.’
‘It is funny you should be talking about Spynk,’ came a soft voice from the door that made both scholars jump in alarm. ‘Because he has the flux, and wants you to visit.’
‘How many times have I asked you not to slink up on me, Cynric?’ demanded Michael, hand to his chest. ‘If you do it again, my Junior Proctor may have to charge you with murder. Mine.’
When Bartholomew went to see Spynk, Michael left for Barnwell Priory. The monk wanted to ask Prior Norton why he had failed to mention Carton’s attempt to manipulate a higher price for Sewale Cottage. It was an excellent motive for murder, and meant the canons should be questioned more closely. He hired a horse to take him, not just because it had been a long and unpleasant walk the day before, but because he wanted the brethren to know his visit was an official one. He was furious they had withheld information from him, and intended to intimidate them to the point where they would not dare do it again.
Bartholomew went to the High Street, where Spynk was staying in a pleasantly airy suite of rooms overlooking the road. His windows afforded magnificent views of St Mary the Great one way, and King’s Hall’s gatehouse the other. As these were two of the finest buildings in Cambridge, the physician wondered whether they had given Spynk a false impression of its prosperity.
‘Thank God you are here,’ Spynk said when he arrived. ‘I have the flux. Make me well – immediately, if you would be so kind.’
He was a large man with wiry hair and thick, callused hands that suggested he was not averse to manual labour. When Bartholomew had gone with Michael to break the news of Danyell’s death on Ascension Day, Spynk had spent an inordinate amount of time bragging about the fact that he had personally supervised the repair of Norwich’s defensive walls. He also claimed he had paid for most of the work, and said the city had granted him lifelong exemption from certain taxes in appreciation. He gave the impression that he was a man of power and influence, although the physician had thought him vulgar, and was not sure whether to believe most of his self-aggrandising declarations.
‘There is no such thing as an instant cure for the flux,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It takes time to—’
‘I hear you have a better success rate than the other fellow – Paxtone. Meanwhile, Rougham has fled because his ineptitude was killing people. Well, that is one rumour. The other is that he stole poor Danyell’s hand for anatomy and has gone into the Fens to complete his dark business.’
‘Rougham would never entertain anatomy,’ said Bartholomew truthfully. ‘And he has gone to visit his family. It is half-term, so he is within his rights to go.’
Spynk seemed ready to argue, but was interrupted by the sudden need to dash for a bucket. While he was busy, Bartholomew inspected the sample of urine that had been provided, then asked for a pot of boiled water. It was brought by Spynk’s wife, a pretty woman with dark hair and a kirtle that revealed an impressive amount of frontage.
‘You might have decanted it into a better jug, Cecily,’ snapped Spynk, peering out through the curtain that gave him his privacy. ‘That one is chipped.’
‘The
y are all chipped,’ she replied sullenly. ‘Look for yourself, if you do not believe me.’
‘It is fine,’ said Bartholomew hastily, reluctant for them to embark on a domestic squabble in front of him. He added his powdered barley and angelica. ‘It is the water that matters, not the pot.’
Cecily watched him stir the mixture. ‘I hope those are powerful substances, Doctor. My husband is a strong man, and dislikes weak remedies.’
‘They are what will make him well again,’ replied Bartholomew, declining to admit that his cure contained two very innocuous ingredients. If Spynk believed the medicine was ineffectual he might decline to swallow it, and the flux was too serious an ailment for games.
‘It tastes like starch,’ objected Spynk, after a tentative sip. He thrust it back at the physician. ‘I am not drinking that. Tip it out of the window, Cecily.’
‘Tip it yourself,’ retorted Cecily churlishly. ‘I am not your servant.’
‘We can add honey,’ suggested Bartholomew, thinking of the priest Eyton and his penchant for the stuff. ‘That might make it more palatable.’
Cecily brightened. ‘That is a good idea. I bought some from Barnwell Priory on Saturday afternoon – it was an excuse for me to get inside and have a look around – and I do not want to carry it home to Norwich. The pot might break and spoil all my new dresses.’
‘Spoon some in, then,’ ordered Spynk. ‘As much as you like. I can afford it.’
Bartholomew stopped her from adding the whole jug to the concoction, suspecting the resulting sickliness would make the merchant feel worse then ever. Then he encouraged Spynk to swallow what he had prepared, and sent Cecily to the kitchens for more boiled water. She sighed resentfully, but did as she was asked.
‘I understand you are a member of Michaelhouse,’ said Spynk when she had gone. ‘Is it true?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Have you visited our College?’ he asked politely.
‘Yes – last week. I went to talk to Carton about the house you are selling on Bridge Street. How much do you think you will get for it?’
Bartholomew knew he would be swimming in dangerous waters if he attempted to meddle in College finances. ‘I have no idea. You will have to talk to the Master or Wynewyk. They are—’
‘I will give you a horse if you tell me about any other offers you have had,’ interrupted Spynk. ‘I am very interested in making this particular purchase.’
‘Talk to the Master,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘I do not know about the other offers.’
Spynk glared at him, then sighed irritably. ‘Very well, but you have just lost yourself a decent nag. I am sorry about Carton, by the way. He tried to cheat me by starting a bidding war with Barnwell, but I do not bear him a grudge. He was only doing his duty. I understand Michaelhouse is poor, and needs all the money it can lay its grubby hands on.’
‘We are not one of the wealthier foundations,’ admitted Bartholomew cautiously.
‘I sent Cecily to Barnwell on Saturday,’ Spynk rambled on. ‘I wanted her to get a feel for the place, work out how wealthy they are. It is always good to know your enemies. Do you not agree?’
‘I do not have many—’
Spynk released a braying laugh. ‘That is not what I hear! I am a stranger here, but even I know half the town thinks you are a warlock. The other half believes you are a saint, but they are mostly poor, and no one listens to them. You have enemies aplenty.’
He was going to add something else, but another bout of sickness prevented him. Afterwards, he flopped on the bed and closed his eyes, exhausted by the ordeal. Bartholomew was grateful for the silence. Eventually, Cecily arrived with another brimming pan, then stood nearer to him than was proper while he made a second batch of the mixture.
‘I need more hot water,’ he said, searching for an excuse to send her away until he had finished. She was so close that her breath was hot on the back of his neck, and he kept thinking that Spynk might wake up and wonder what they were up to.
‘What for?’ she asked. ‘You have already prepared enough of this medicine to satisfy an ox. If he drinks it all, he will burst.’
‘I need to wash my hands.’
‘Your hands?’ asked Spynk, showing he had not been asleep after all. ‘God’s blood, but this is a strange town! Why should you wash your hands? They look clean enough to me. Cecily and I only wash ours on Sundays, before we go to church.’
‘Actually, I scrub mine on Wednesdays, too,’ said Cecily with a coquettish smile. ‘I like to feel fresh. Do you want a different pot, or would you mind giving them a rinse in that potion we have just brewed? We have not added the honey yet, so it will not be sticky, and Richard will not mind.’
Bartholomew regarded her askance, lost for words.
‘Danyell was obsessed with cleanliness, too,’ said Spynk with a grimace of disapproval. ‘He took a bath every year, but look how he ended up – someone stealing his fingers for God knows what purpose. He was an odd man: careful with hygiene on one hand, but in the habit of wandering about at night on the other.’
Bartholomew’s ears pricked up. ‘What?’
Cecily’s expression was dreamy. ‘He often met me for a nocturnal stroll when everyone else was in bed. Of course, it is safe to do it in Norfolk, where we live, but Cambridge is a rough place, seething with villains. It is not wise to roam about in the dark here.’
‘For him, it was probably not wise to do it anywhere,’ said Spynk. ‘He had a morbidly pounding heart, and should have stayed in. In fact, it was not very sensible to travel to London, either. I wish I had not asked him to come, because now his sons are going to say his death is my fault.’
‘It was no one’s fault,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had a seizure, which could have happened any—’
‘I want that in writing,’ said Spynk. ‘Will you oblige? I will give you the parchment.’
‘What time did Danyell go out on the night he died?’ asked Bartholomew. Michael had already interviewed the Spynks at length, but there was no harm in repeating the process. They might tell him something they had forgotten to mention earlier, or he might see something the monk had missed. After all, someone must know why Danyell had been relieved of his hand.
‘Just after dusk,’ replied Cecily. ‘I was keen to go with him, but he said he wanted to be alone. He had pains in his chest and arm, and thought a walk might ease them.’
‘Why did you offer him your company?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was a peculiar thing for the wife of a wealthy merchant to do. She was right in that Cambridge could be dangerous after dark, and it was no place for a woman with only an ailing man for protection.
Cecily shot him an odd glance. ‘I thought he might like it.’
Rather belatedly, it occurred to Bartholomew that Cecily and Danyell might have enjoyed more than pleasant conversation when they took their late-night strolls. When he took in her deliberately provocative clothes and the salacious way she eyed him, he was sure of it. He was not an observant man when it came to that sort of thing, and the fact that he had noticed at all meant she must be very brazen. He shot a covert glance at Spynk, and realised the merchant was even less aware of such matters than he was, for he seemed oblivious to his wife’s antics.
‘He said he had business to conduct,’ said Spynk. ‘And he was carrying something under his arm that looked like a stone sample. You know he was a mason?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘When he failed to return, were you not worried?’
He had found Danyell’s body shortly after dawn, and it had been stiff around the jaws. Danyell had probably been dead most of the night, and it had struck him as odd at the time that his friends had not gone to look for him.
‘I was,’ said Cecily. ‘But I could hardly go to look for him myself, and Richard was asleep.’
‘I hate being woken up,’ explained Spynk. ‘And Cecily knows better than to disturb me at night.’
‘I prefer him asleep anyway,’ said Cecily meaningfully.
�
��It is de Lisle’s fault,’ said Spynk, bitterly and somewhat out of the blue. ‘If he had not forced us to go to London, we would not have stopped here to rest on our way home. And Danyell might still be alive, despite what you say about seizures,’
Bartholomew did not understand. ‘The Bishop of Ely made you travel? How? I thought he was in Avignon. And besides, you just said it was your idea to visit London, and—’
‘We had to make a complaint about him, in front of the King,’ explained Spynk. ‘Me and Danyell, and a score of others. The Bishop is a bully, you see. He and his men stole all my cows a few years ago, and the King wanted our accusations on record.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘De Lisle is a cattle rustler? That does not sound very likely.’
‘Then you do not know him very well,’ said Cecily. ‘I offered him a night of my company in exchange for leaving my husband alone but he said he would rather have the livestock. He is an uncouth man, and I was delighted to detail his shortcomings to the King.’
‘He laid violent siege to Danyell’s manor, too,’ added Spynk. ‘It must have been terrifying. De Lisle may be one of the most powerful prelates in the country but that has not stopped him from indulging in theft, arson, extortion, assault and even murder. He is a wicked villain.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. Cambridge was in de Lisle’s See, and such men had an uncanny habit of learning who had been talking about them; the physician did not want to include a prelate on his list of enemies. And while the Bishop did indeed have a reputation for being ruthless, Bartholomew was sure he was not a criminal, and thought Spynk and Cecily were exaggerating the charges that had been laid against him.
‘How do you feel now, Master Spynk?’ he asked, to change the subject.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 12