Death of a Scholar (35 page)

‘It mends them, too?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.

‘Yes, if applied properly. But it is nothing compared to my remedy for gout. I have discovered that a pinch of
dormirella
, along with a few other choice ingredients, will banish it totally.’

‘What other choice ingredients?’ asked Meryfeld icily. He liked making dangerous medicines for patients himself, and was obviously chagrined that the surgeon should do it, too.

‘I decline to say,’ replied Holm haughtily. ‘It is a secret.’

‘
Dormirella
has but one use – as a poison,’ said Bartholomew, and because Holm had irked him, he repeated Michael’s lie, aiming to see if he could fluster the surgeon into a confession. ‘Contrary to popular belief, it is
not
undetectable. Obvious signs appear after a while, as evidenced by Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf. I do not suppose you treated
them
for gout, did you?’

Holm regarded him with such hatred that Bartholomew was hard-pressed not to recoil and, not for the first time in their acquaintance, he sensed a dangerous core beneath Holm’s vanity and casual ineptitude. He remembered the conversation about bryony, and his blood ran cold to think of Julitta living with such a man.

‘No,’ the surgeon replied shortly. ‘None were my patients.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Rougham. ‘You tended them all at one time or another. However, clients do die, even with the best of care, and no
medicus
can make a pie without breaking eggs.’

‘How many eggs do you break a week, Holm?’ asked Meryfeld conversationally. ‘Roughly.’

‘Two or three,’ replied Holm. He saw the shock on his colleagues’ faces – this was high for a man who only conducted a handful of procedures – and added, ‘Although I save far more. Cambridge is lucky to have me, and I shall be missed when I leave.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Lawrence, all amiable politeness.

‘London, to follow in your footsteps and offer my services to royalty. Julitta will come with me, of course. No man would be complete without a beloved wife at his side.’

Bartholomew tried to mask his dismay, but he knew he had failed when he saw the flash of spiteful triumph in the surgeon’s eyes.

‘The King has recently hired a Genoese surgeon, one very well versed in dissection,’ chatted Lawrence pleasantly. ‘Perhaps he will show you some of his techniques.’

‘I hope not,’ said Holm with a shudder. ‘Anatomy is an abomination.’

‘Oh fie!’ exclaimed Lawrence. ‘Studying cadavers will help improve your surgical skills.’

‘I am skilled enough already, thank you,’ said Holm coolly. ‘When you have seen one liver, heart and brain, you have seen them all. They are identical.’

‘I doubt the heart of an eighty-year-old woman is the same as that of an eight-year-old boy,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘All organs will vary with age, sex, health, size and a host of other factors.’

‘I agree,’ nodded Lawrence. ‘And it is my contention that studying these differences will allow us to understand the nature of such diseases as—’

‘Dissection will teach us nothing,’ interrupted Holm. ‘Especially as the specimens available are usually from criminals. They are hardly representative of the rest of us.’

‘Would you rather surgeons’ cadavers were used, then?’ asked Lawrence drolly.

‘Certainly not.’ Holm glared at Bartholomew. ‘And if you lay so much as a finger on mine when I go, I shall return from the dead to haunt you.’

‘Please,’ said Rougham with a shudder. ‘No jokes about necromancy around Bartholomew, if you please. It is rather too close to the truth to be amusing.’

‘Who was joking?’ asked Holm.

Eyer the apothecary was another guildsman to grace Winwick with his presence. He was standing by the food, his face grave with concentration as he chewed.

‘Ginger and cinnamon,’ he said, holding up a cake in one hand. Then he raised the other. ‘Nutmeg and honey. An apothecary should be able to list the ingredients in anything he eats.’

‘It must be a useful skill,’ said Bartholomew.

Eyer laughed. ‘Yes – for stealing recipes from secretive cooks. Actually, I am here under false pretences – I did not attend Hemmysby’s funeral, I came to deliver a poultice for Bon’s eyes. But I am glad I stayed, because I want to warn you to be cautious around Lawrence.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lawrence? Why?’

‘He is not all he seems, and I do not like him.’

‘Really? He seems perfectly amiable to me.’

‘I knew him before we came here,’ explained the apothecary. ‘Years ago. I am not sure whether he will recall me, but I certainly remember him. It was in Oxford, where I was learning my trade and he was a master at the University. He made a mistake that caused a man’s death…’

‘It happens, unfortunately. Medicine is not an exact science.’

‘Well, this was pure ineptitude,’ said Eyer. ‘Even I, a mere apprentice, knew that liquorice root can be dangerous to certain patients. God only knows how he won a royal appointment, but perhaps we should not be surprised that the Queen did not last long in his care.’

Bartholomew disliked this sort of discussion, and wondered if Eyer’s willingness to disparage colleagues was why he himself always felt slightly reserved in the apothecary’s presence.

‘She was old,’ he said shortly. ‘And had been ill for some time.’

‘Yes, but ill with what?’ pressed Eyer. ‘Something that could have been cured by a competent practitioner? And there is something else that worries me, too. All the physicians buy powerful substances from me, and I
always
ask what they intend to do with them – it would not be the first time a patient has died because a
medicus
has failed to appreciate what he has purchased.’

‘We are trained to know—’ began Bartholomew.

Eyer cut across him. ‘Lawrence wanted dwale and hemlock for a specific client a few days ago, but I happened to meet her on my way here, and she had not been in need of them at all. He lied.’

‘Perhaps you misunderstood,’ said Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable with the revelations.

‘I challenged him just now, but he denied the transaction ever took place, even though it is plainly written in my records and I remember the conversation perfectly. Perhaps the matter slipped his elderly mind, but it has left me very uneasy. Furthermore, since you and I spoke this morning, Nerli came and wanted rather a lot of realgar.’

‘Did you sell it to him?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘No. He claimed he wanted to set it alight, as he had read that it helps plaster to dry more quickly – a ridiculous assertion, as I am sure you will agree. I told him I had run out, because I was afraid Lawrence had sent him to get it so that he could add it to hemlock and dwale and have the makings of
dormirella
. However, I am not the only person who sells the stuff.’

‘You think they have acquired some elsewhere?’

Eyer nodded, then his eyes fell to the cakes he was holding. ‘Heavens! Do you think
dormirella
has been sprinkled on these?’

‘If so, I think you, of all people, would have noticed – it tastes faintly of garlic.’

Eyer looked relieved. ‘Of course! And there was no garlic here. However, one cannot be too careful.’ He dropped them on the floor, and wiped his hands on the tablecloth. ‘I shall make myself a purge immediately.’

‘I seriously doubt the poisoner will strike at quite so many people—’

‘Easy for you to say! You came when there was nothing left to eat.
You
are not at risk.’

After Eyer had raced away, Michael approached. The food and wine had run out, so most of the guests had gone home, and it was thus a good time to question the Winwick men about Elvesmere and Ratclyf. The monk wanted Bartholomew with him to gauge their reactions. As they walked to the other side of the hall, Bartholomew summarised his discussion with Eyer. Michael’s expression was thoughtful as he advanced on the Winwick men, but before he could speak, Nerli began a diatribe.

‘It was a shock to be told that our two colleagues had been poisoned, Brother,’ he declared. ‘Especially poor Ratclyf. We thought his weak heart had killed him.’

‘Which is what the killer intended,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘He no doubt believes that
dormirella
is undetectable, but he is sadly mistaken.’

‘What terrible things you know,’ said Bon wonderingly. ‘For once I am glad I am blind, because I should not like to see these blue-stained lips.’

‘You bought dwale and hemlock recently,’ said Michael to Lawrence, then turned to Nerli, ‘while
you
purchased realgar. It means the Fellows of Winwick Hall are in possession of three of the ingredients in
dormirella
– the toxin that killed your two friends.’

Nerli’s black eyes flashed with anger. ‘I did no such thing, and anyone who claims otherwise is a liar. I have no need to murder my colleagues. Or anyone else for that matter. In fact, I am disinclined to believe your tale of blue lips. You made it up.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bon, bemused. ‘It would be a wicked thing to do.’

‘To discredit Winwick Hall,’ snapped Nerli. ‘He is jealous of us, and would love to see us fail. But it is the other Colleges that will flounder. Michaelhouse, King’s Hall, Gonville, Bene’t – all will fall beneath the steady tread of our advancement.’

‘Easy, Nerli,’ said Lawrence uncomfortably. ‘There is no need for passion.’ He smiled at Michael, although the expression was more wary than happy. ‘I am afraid you are mistaken about my purchases, Brother. I never use dwale and hemlock, as I feel the risks outweigh the benefits. I always have.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How do you treat severe inflammations, tumours and swellings? Gentle treatments are rarely effective on the more serious ailments.’

‘I pray,’ replied Lawrence shortly, and turned back to Michael. ‘And Nerli is right – this tale of blue lips does seem outlandish. Are you sure about it?’

‘I am. But if you doubt me, come to St Mary the Great and look.’

Bartholomew was horrified, sure his artwork would never pass muster to sceptical eyes in the cold light of day. And what if the Winwick men wanted to inspect the rest of their colleagues’ remains, and the incisions were discovered?

‘No!’ said Nerli quickly. ‘We should leave our dead in peace. Have they not suffered enough? It would be wicked to disturb their rest.’

‘I agree,’ said Lawrence. ‘Indeed, I recommended that they all be buried by now – Michaelhouse did not dally with Hemmysby, and we should have afforded the same consideration to Elvesmere and Ratclyf.’

‘You know why we delayed,’ snapped Illesy. ‘Like Mistress Knyt, we wanted our colleagues buried on a Sunday, which is a holier day than—’

‘Superstition,’ interrupted Nerli disdainfully. ‘Or are you of the belief that our colleagues need all the advantages they can get when their souls are weighed?’

‘We all do,’ said Illesy shortly. ‘Fallible mortals that we are.’

Nerli made an angry gesture with his hand. ‘Regardless, I strongly protest against further indignities to their poor corpses. We should leave them alone.’

‘They will not object in the interests of truth,’ said Illesy, and shot Nerli a look that was difficult to interpret. ‘So follow me, and let us see this “evidence” for ourselves.’

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and marched towards the church, where Michael scowled at the proprietary way he flung open the door. They reached the Lady Chapel, and Illesy indicated with an imperious flick of his hand that his Fellows were to open the caskets.

‘You are the
medicus
, Lawrence,’ he said, watching Nerli wrestle with the clasps. ‘You examine them – not just Ratclyf and Elvesmere, but Knyt, too.’

‘I am not qualified to probe the secrets of corpses,’ protested the elderly
medicus
. ‘And while I have no objection to anatomical studies in principle, I do not want to engage in them myself.’

‘I am not asking you to carry out a dissection,’ said Illesy impatiently. ‘Just to look and see if they have blue lips. Come on, man! It cannot be that difficult.’

With considerable reluctance, Lawrence bent over the coffins, watched intently by Illesy, Nerli and Michael, while Bon cocked his head this way and that as he struggled to determine what was happening from the odd grunt and tut. Bartholomew stood well back, trying to decide whether to take to his heels if the deception was spotted, or stay and attempt to brazen it out.

‘Two or three tiny blue blemishes,’ said Lawrence eventually, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible. ‘On Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Nerli in disbelief.

‘Yes,’ replied Lawrence. ‘Come and see for yourself.’

But Nerli shook his head and backed away.

‘This is dreadful,’ whispered Bon. ‘I knew the other Colleges and the town were jealous of our good fortune, but I did not think their bile would extend to murder. Poor Elvesmere! He was my closest friend. And poor Ratclyf, too! He was making great strides towards finalising our College’s endowment. How shall we manage now he is gone?’

‘I wonder if these “great strides” troubled him,’ mused Illesy. ‘He spent so much time at prayer that I sometimes wondered whether he was entirely happy about some of the things he was obliged to do as bursar. Money matters are invariably sordid.’

‘I had to give him medicine for anxiety,’ put in Lawrence. ‘And then there was…’

‘Then there was what?’ asked Michael.

Lawrence’s expression was bleak. ‘I could not reveal this were he still alive, but I came in here on Tuesday, and he was on his knees by Elvesmere’s body, begging for forgiveness.’

Michael regarded him sharply. ‘Like a killer and his victim?’

Lawrence would not meet his eyes. ‘It appeared that way to me. And before you ask, I did not tell anyone, because it was none of my business.’

‘You misinterpreted what you saw,’ declared Illesy. ‘The culprit is someone outside the College. And do not say Potmoor, because poisons are not his style.’

It was hardly a resounding endorsement of his former employer’s innocence, and Michael was about to say so when Nerli spoke.