The Hand of Justice (46 page)

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, knowing it would be churlish to point out that the quarrel was none of his making.

‘Good,’ said Tynkell with a faint smile. ‘That is what dark alleys are for.’

‘It is not what
I
use them for,’ said Wynewyk, leaving the other scholars very curious as to what the lawyer did do in the shady lanes to which
the Chancellor referred. Bartholomew longed to ask, especially since Paxtone was there, but it did not seem appropriate after
what they had just done for him.

‘I owe you an apology, Matt,’ said Paxtone, raising both hands in the air, as if in surrender. Bartholomew felt an immediate
uneasiness. ‘I should have asked you first, but he seemed so keen to learn about Galen that I felt it unprofessional not to
help. On reflection, I think I was unwise.’

‘Rob Thorpe?’ asked Bartholomew, a little disappointed that that was all. ‘And your letter recommending him? It did not matter.
He sat at the back and I forgot he was there.’

‘Perhaps my first impressions were right, then,’ said Paxtone, relieved. ‘He really did want to learn about Galen. After I
had written it, I began to wonder whether I had done the right thing. Still, I shall not do it again. I do not think it is
a good idea for us to let killers visit any College they fancy.’

Bartholomew wholly agreed with him. ‘Do
you
often come to Michaelhouse?’

Paxtone seemed surprised by the question, then laughed, although Bartholomew was sure he caught a glitter of alarm in the
man’s eyes. ‘That is a nice association of sentiments, Matt! I talk of killers in our Colleges and you ask me whether I frequent
your own! But you know I do not. You are the only one I know from Michaelhouse, and you say you will not invite me to dine
until the food improves.’

Bartholomew did not know what to make of his answer, but did not like the fact that Paxtone was lying to him. He grabbed Redmeadow
by the scruff of his neck and hauled him away, leaving his colleagues proudly discussing their outwitting of the Mortimers.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Redmeadow sheepishly. ‘I was upset about Mistress Lenne. I did not mean to drag you into a fight.’

‘Well, do not do it again,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘We might not be so lucky next time.’

‘I gave that murdering bastard a good punch in the eye, though,’ added Redmeadow, with the shadow of a smile. ‘And I saw blood.
Perhaps I have done him more harm than he knows. Especially if he goes to Rougham for a cure.’

‘I would not take Rougham’s accusations too seriously,
Matt,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat in the conclave the following morning after breakfast. ‘Dick Tulyet saw them
for what they are: feeble and transparent attempts to shift the blame for Warde’s death on to someone else.’

‘It is not Dick I am worried about,’ said Bartholomew, stretching muscles that were stiff after the fracas of the previous
evening. ‘I am concerned about folk who do not know me so well, and who might believe Rougham is telling the truth. He has
not stopped talking about me since Warde died on Saturday night – and it is now Tuesday. There is hardly a soul in Cambridge
who has not heard that I killed Warde with angelica in order to inherit a book.’

‘People are not stupid, Matt. They can see Rougham is a pompous, blustering fool. You are right not to respond in kind, because
each new outbreak of accusations merely serves to underline the fact that he is a graceless, undignified oaf.’

‘I do not understand why he has taken against me so rabidly. We have never been friends, but we have tolerated each other
politely enough until just recently. What has changed?’

‘He does not like your students, particularly Redmeadow and Quenhyth,’ said Michael. ‘But it is hard to condemn him for that
– I do not like Quenhyth myself, while Redmeadow is a hot-headed brawler. He was also furious when you were made Corpse Examiner,
because he wanted the post for himself. He says he needs the fees to help pay for Gonville’s chapel.’

‘But these are hardly good reasons to declare war on me.’

‘Envy is a powerful emotion,’ preached Michael. ‘I told you before: he is jealous of your success.’

‘And his claim that I caused Warde’s death is unfair,’ Bartholomew went on, barely hearing him. ‘If
he
had not forced Warde to speak, then perhaps he might not have
died.’

Michael’s eyes were round. ‘Are you accusing
him
of murder now? I thought you had Paxtone in mind for that particular crime.’

‘I did … do. Well, perhaps.’ Bartholomew rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I do not know.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘You have not mentioned your suspicions about Rougham before. Perhaps I should ignore his refusal
to acknowledge the authority of the Senior Proctor and arrest him anyway. Who knows? He may confess to killing Bottisham and
Deschalers, too. After all, they were both his patients.’

‘I doubt he killed them deliberately,’ said Bartholomew wearily.

‘A nail through the roof of the mouth is not deliberate?’ asked Michael. ‘What was he doing, then? Practising some obscure
method of cautery, to effect a cure for Deschalers’s canker?’

‘I mean I do not think Rougham is their murderer. I would
like
him to be – to be rid of him and to solve the mystery at the same time – but he is so averse to surgery that taking a nail
to someone would be anathema to him.’ He smiled. ‘Matilde is certain he killed Warde.’

‘And his motive?’ Michael answered his own question. ‘To attack the King’s Commission – partly because Gonville men are the
Mortimers’ lawyers, and partly because Gonville has been promised Mortimer money for their chapel if they win against the
Millers’ Society.’

‘That is what she thinks. But there is no evidence that Warde was murdered. He just choked.’

‘But you just said Rougham’s actions brought about Warde’s death. Make up your mind, Matt. Which is it: did Rougham kill Warde
with his ministrations, or did he not?’

‘Not on purpose. I think he genuinely believed he was
helping, although even Deynman would have known not to make a gagging man speak – and not to mention deathbeds and graves.’

‘Then what about the Water of Snails?’ asked Michael. ‘Could that have killed him?’

‘You mean did it poison him?
Aqua Limacum Magistralis
is not a pleasant concoction, but it is basically harmless. However, Matilde said we only have Rougham’s word that it contained
Water of Snails and not something else.’

‘She has a point,’ said Michael. He shuddered. ‘I would never drink anything with a name like “Water of Snails”. I would sooner
eat cabbage – and that should tell you something!’ He rummaged in his scrip. ‘But I have the phial here, as it happens. I
took the precaution of securing it when you examined Warde, for no reason other than that it was to hand. Will you test it
now?’

Bartholomew took the tiny pottery container, and removed the stopper to inspect its contents. Warde had not obeyed Rougham’s
instructions to swallow it all: about half was still left. It was a milky reddish colour, and Bartholomew recalled thinking
in Lavenham’s shop that the apothecary had not taken as much care with its preparation as he should have done, because the
potion had not been filtered through sand, to clear it.

‘I want to know
exactly
what is in that,’ Michael went on. ‘The note Rougham sent Warde urged him to drink its contents in their entirety. Now, I
am no physician, but I have never heard
you
encouraging a patient to swallow an entire phial’s worth of a remedy.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You are right. Small pots, like this one, usually hold powerful medicines that are given only
in minute quantities. I would never tell a patient to down the whole thing.’ He sniffed carefully at the contents. ‘That is
odd.’

‘What?’ demanded Michael. ‘Do not tell me you really
have discovered poison? I thought we were just devising ways to expose Rougham as dangerously incompetent.’

‘I can detect ingredients here that I would expect – such as coltsfoot for loosening phlegm – but it should also contain powered
liquorice root. Liquorice root has a strong scent, and tends to mask other aromas. But it seems to have been left out.’

‘Perhaps Lavenham forgot it,’ suggested Michael. He regarded his friend intently. ‘What is the matter? You have noticed something
suspicious – I can tell from your face. What is it?’

Bartholomew looked at the phial. ‘There is something nasty in this – a strongly scented herb that I cannot identify.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘I suppose we shall have to look elsewhere for ways to discredit Rougham, then, if you cannot
be more specific.’

‘I have not started yet,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. His scientific method for analysing complex compounds comprised more
than a few arbitrary sniffs and the conclusion that one ingredient smelled vile. And he had not been entirely honest when
he said he was not able to identify the strong herb in the concoction, either. He had a notion that it might be henbane –
a powerful poison that might well have caused the sweating and breathlessness Warde had experienced before his death – but
he wanted to conduct proper experiments before he shared his concerns.

He left the conclave and went to the storeroom where he kept his medicines. Michael followed, intrigued to know what he planned
to do. In the bedchamber next door, Quenhyth and Redmeadow were studying. Redmeadow was none the worse for his skirmish the
previous evening, although he had expressed a reluctance to leave the College that day.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, when both students came to see why their teacher and Michael were crammed
into the small room.

‘I am going to test this phial, to see whether it contains poison,’ explained Bartholomew.

‘Why?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘The label says it is Water of Snails. Used sometimes for coughs,’ he added triumphantly, pleased to
show he had remembered his lessons.

‘It was the only thing Warde drank that his colleagues did not on the night of his death,’ said Michael. ‘So, we need to determine
what is in it.’

‘It is a good idea to test it,’ said Quenhyth approvingly. ‘It came from Rougham, and we all know what kind of man
he
is. He may well have murdered Warde with “medicine” that he claimed would make him better.’ His eyes gleamed, and Bartholomew
saw he was delighted with the notion that the hated Rougham might be unveiled as a villain. ‘I will assess it for you. It
will not take a moment.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, wanting to know why he seemed so confident of success in so short a time.

‘I will feed it to the College cat. If the cat dies, then we shall know Rougham fed Warde poison. If the cat lives, then Rougham
is innocent.’

‘And what about the cat?’ asked Bartholomew, who was fond of the burly tabby that prowled the kitchens in search of rats.
‘What has it done to deserve being used in such a manner?’

‘Its life is unimportant in the advancement of science,’ declared Quenhyth grandly. ‘But you seem to believe that Rougham
is guilty, or you would not be worried about it.’

‘I do not think any such thing,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Quenhyth might start another dangerous rumour. ‘But leave the cat
alone. If I find out you have harmed it, I shall see you are expelled.’

‘And I will run you through with Deynman’s sword,’ added Redmeadow. His voice was hard and cold, and
Bartholomew was certain he meant what he said.

Quenhyth ignored him. ‘I am only offering to do what you have taught me: experiment and explore the evidence with an open
mind. And besides, it is only a cat.’

‘I like cats,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Especially that one. So keep your hands off it.’

‘Very well,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘But how else will you prove Rougham is a killer?’

‘I am not trying to prove Rougham is a killer,’ said Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘I am trying to determine whether
this Water of Snails contains an ingredient that might have hastened Warde’s demise. That is a different thing altogether.’
He did not explain that finding poison in the Water of Snails would not leave Rougham as the sole suspect for murder: there
was Paxtone, too.

‘Rougham
is
a killer, though,’ said Quenhyth matter-of-factly. ‘And he is stupid. He told Redmeadow he believes in the existence of the
secretum secretorum
. Can you credit such nonsense?’

‘A
secretum secretorum
would come in very useful,’ said Redmeadow, who clearly did not share his room-mate’s scepticism about the fabled cure-all.
‘I would like to own one myself, but not nearly as much as Rougham would. He is desperate for one.’

‘Then he will remain desperate,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Because such a thing does not exist.’

‘It does!’ objected Redmeadow. ‘Bacon says so. I read it myself.’

‘You cannot believe all you read in books, Redmeadow,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Not even Bacon’s.’

‘Did you notice signs of poisoning as Warde died, sir?’ asked Quenhyth, changing the subject. ‘I do not think you did, or
you would have denounced Rougham immediately – or he would have used the opportunity to denounce
you.’

‘Not all poisons have obvious symptoms,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is why they are popular with killers who want to conceal
a murder.’

Bartholomew stood on a bench to retrieve a piece of equipment from the top shelf in his medicines room. It was a small metal
stand with a shallow dish on top, and there was room underneath it to light a candle. He made sure the dish was clean by wiping
it on his sleeve, then poured half the phial’s remaining liquid into it. His first task was to strengthen the solution by
evaporation. Then he would use the concentrate to test for specific ingredients.

Because the candle provided a very gentle heat, it would be some time before the excess liquid boiled away, and Bartholomew
accepted Quenhyth’s offer to monitor its progress. He and Michael went to wait in his bedchamber, where Redmeadow started
to read aloud from the new copy of Bacon’s
De erroribus medicorum
.