The three looked at each other, mystified. ‘I would say not,’ said Gray. ‘Students provide him with much of his trade. He has been operating in the George for years.’
So, it would seem that Armel had not been sold the poisoned wine intentionally – at least not by Sacks. But there was always the possibility that someone had given it to Sacks to peddle knowing exactly what was in it.
‘Where does Sacks live?’ asked Bartholomew.
Gray shrugged. ‘No one really knows. He has cheated so many people that it is safer for him to keep his lodgings secret. I think he has some kind of dwelling to the north, up in the Fens. He certainly does not live in Cambridge.’
‘Two more questions,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and then we will say no more about these illicit visits to taverns. First, how many bottles did Sacks have yesterday?’
‘Four,’ said Gray promptly. ‘And they looked like the same ones he had tried to sell last month – thin bottles of a smoky-brown colour.’
‘And second, to whom did he sell the other bottle?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We know Armel bought three.’
The students looked at each other, frowning in concentration.
Deynman suddenly brightened. ‘One of fat old Stanmore’s apprentices bought one when Sacks first tried to sell the stuff a month or so ago. I do not know his name.’
‘One of Oswald Stanmore’s lads?’ asked Bartholomew.
Deynman blushed, embarrassed. He had forgotten Stanmore was his teacher’s brother-in-law.
‘That was … four weeks last Saturday,’ said Bulbeck hurriedly, before Deynman could dig himself into a deeper trench of indiscretion. ‘Perhaps Sacks still has the last bottle. He said he had half a dozen when he first tried to sell them, and he had four last night. So, if he had only sold two bottles in a month, he could not have been doing too well with them.’
Gray and Deynman agreed and looked at Bartholomew warily, not certain what he would do with the knowledge that they had been regularly and flagrantly flouting the University’s rules about inns.
‘We only went out because Sam has been depressed,’ said Deynman. He looked at Gray, who gnawed anxiously at his lower lip. ‘He has been sad since Eleanor Tyler left town last year. He was fond of her and we only wanted to cheer him up.’
Bartholomew was unmoved. ‘That was months ago and you had not known her for long.’
‘But it was love at first sight,’ protested Deynman, rallying to his friend’s defence. ‘They adored each other and he misses her terribly.’
Bartholomew sighed. Unconvinced as he was by Gray’s lovesick state – he seriously doubted that anyone could penetrate the thick skin of self-interest that was one of the less attractive aspects of Gray’s personality – he often felt the University’s regulations were too restrictive for young men with high spirits. Trying to ban them from taverns was as hopeless as emptying a well with a sieve. But he was fond of these three students nevertheless, and the thought that one of them might go the same way as Armel filled him with horror.
‘While I am gone, and until this business is over, I want you to promise me you will stay away from taverns and eat only in Michaelhouse. Do I have your word?’ He looked at them one by one.
‘But you might be gone for ages,’ protested Gray. ‘We will starve if we eat only Michaelhouse food.’ He looked sly. ‘And I need to build myself up for my disputation.’
Bartholomew could not help smiling. ‘Then you must attempt to ingratiate yourself with Agatha. She feeds Michael well enough.’
Gray could not argue that the obese Michael was anything but well fed. He nodded with ill grace. ‘I suppose, since you seem so concerned for our welfare, that we will humour you and suffer on Michaelhouse fare until you return.’
‘I am more concerned that years of my hard work should not be brought to an untimely end by a single sip of wine,’ said Bartholomew. He was gratified to see Gray look indignant. Gray had twice saved Bartholomew’s life and both times had claimed his sole motive was that if he lost his teacher it would interfere with his plans to become a wealthy and successful physician. Bartholomew felt somewhat avenged.
When he had wrung similar promises from the other two, he took his leave. Cynric was waiting for him, holding Bartholomew’s cloak over his arm and with spare shirt and hose packed in a bag. Michael joined them.
‘I need to talk to Harling before we leave for Ely. I must tell him what we have reasoned about Grene’s death.’
‘We should also speak to Oswald about the apprentice that Philius said he visited a month ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The one who died of symptoms similar to those suffered by Armel and Grene.’
‘Should we?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘And here was I under the impression that you wanted to have nothing to do with my investigation. Silly me!’
‘I do not,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘I only want to ensure the safety of Oswald and his apprentices. And I promised to check on Philius this morning. It will not take long.’
Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘We must leave enough time to reach Ely by nightfall and we will need longer than usual if the riding is rough. Especially with you along,’ he added rudely, referring to Bartholomew’s notorious lack of skill on horseback.
Leaving Cynric to take their bags to the Brazen George, Bartholomew and Michael went first to Gonville Hall. Michael talked with Master Colton while Bartholomew went to see his patient.
Philius was sitting up in his bed eating oatmeal cooked with milk. He was pale and ate carefully so as not to hurt his burned mouth, but at least he was well enough to eat at all.
‘I hear I need to thank you twice – once for delivering me from the poison that was eating away at my innards, and once for quenching a fire that would have burned me to a cinder.’ He gestured for Bartholomew to sit on one of the stools near the bed. ‘Now, as to the matter of payment …’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Who knows? I might need your services one day.’
Philius smiled. ‘So be it. Although I was always under the impression that you regard my traditional approach to medicine with more than a degree of scepticism.’
‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. He shrugged. ‘I just experiment more than you do.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Philius. ‘Isaac told me …’ He trailed off and the events of the previous night hung in the air uncomfortably between them. Philius swallowed hard and continued. ‘Isaac told me that you had treated a case of the bloody flux with nothing more than boiled water.’
‘It worked,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘And I used infusions of cumin and anise as well, not to mention a specially devised diet for afterwards–’
‘I know, I know,’ said Philius, raising one hand to quiet him. ‘I was not criticising you, merely repeating what I had been told. I was going to suggest we might learn something if we could be a little more patient with each other’s ideas. I hear you are writing a treatise on fevers. I have always been interested in fevers and would very much like to read it when it is completed.’
‘That will not be for some time,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘There are too many distractions – teaching, my patients and now this summons to Ely.’
He told Philius about the attack on the Chancellor. The Franciscan shook his head. ‘Cambridge is becoming a dangerous place. I am seriously thinking of leaving and returning to Italy. There are brigands there, too, of course, but at least it does not rain all the time.’
He toyed with his food and then looked at Bartholomew, his eyes anxious. ‘It is a bad business with Isaac. I was uncertain whether you understood what I was trying to say. Isaac was always looking to make money, although I usually turned a blind eye. Anyway, I attended Stanmore’s house late on a Saturday night – more than a month ago now – where one of the apprentices had been struck down with some kind of seizure. He was already dead when I arrived and, since there was nothing I could do, I left almost immediately. But I noticed the symptoms you mentioned last night – blistering of the lips and signs of suffocation.’