‘Nigellus said that?’ Bartholomew could not keep the astonishment from his voice.
She nodded again. ‘But Will’s suffering did not last long. After the metal came a recurrence of his old apoplexy, which is what carried him off.’
‘So he died of an apoplexy?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Not the debilitas?’
She flushed. ‘It was the debilitas, but it manifested itself in apoplexy-like symptoms. I will not have it said that Will died of anything vulgar.’
‘What happened exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to comment.
Isabel’s voice grew unsteady as she described how Lenne had returned from the tavern feeling ill. He had mentioned an unpleasant taste that Nigellus had diagnosed as metal in the mouth, the remedy for which was to suck raw garlic. Not long after, Lenne had exhibited all the classic symptoms of a major apoplectic attack and had died an hour later. As far as Isabel knew, nothing other than garlic had been recommended, and Nigellus had been the only visitor.
‘Your anatomising should have told us that he died of natural causes,’ said Michael crossly, once they were outside. ‘We could have saved the cost of a coffin.’
‘It is not as simple as that. Perhaps Lenne did die of an apoplexy – Isabel’s testimony certainly suggests it – but what about the damage to his liver and stomach? Moreover, this metal in the mouth is peculiar. I have never heard of it before, and I am puzzled as to what caused it.’
‘So did Nigellus murder Lenne or not?’ asked Michael impatiently.
‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, equally irritable. ‘There is no way to tell.’
‘You are no help,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘But you can make up for your inadequacy in the Corpse Examining department by accompanying me to interrogate Nigellus.’
‘No, Brother. I told you: he will think I am there to gloat.’
‘You must – he will try to confuse me with complex medical explanations, and I shall need you to tell me whether they are reasonable. Come on. The sooner we see him, the sooner we can go home. Even I feel vulnerable wandering about today.’
Chapter 9
The proctors’ gaol was a nasty, damp building behind St Mary the Great. Bartholomew only visited it when prisoners needed medical attention, and each time he went, he remembered how much he disliked it. The cells were in the basement, on the grounds that this would reduce the risk of the inmates being broken out by indignant cronies.
Although he complained about the unhealthy atmosphere, it was not bad as such places went. There were vents to supply fresh air, and the beadles kept it fairly clean. The food was often better than what was served in Michaelhouse, and there were reasonable arrangements for sanitation. Nigellus had been provided with a lamp, books, parchment, pens and blankets. He was writing when the beadle unlocked the door, taking the opportunity to prepare lectures for the following week – underlining the fact that he expected to be free to give them.
‘Have you come to release me?’ he asked archly, when Michael and Bartholomew entered. ‘If so, do not bother with apologies. You have offended me so deeply that only financial restitution will salve my distress. You will be hearing from Stephen first thing in the morning.’
‘We are here for answers,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed; Bartholomew leaned against the doorframe. ‘The matter is far from over, I am afraid. At least a dozen of your patients are dead, and if your feathers are ruffled in our search for the truth, then so be it.’
‘I am surprised at you, Bartholomew,’ said Nigellus coldly. ‘You are a colleague, and I had expected your support. How can you betray me in this manner?’
‘Shall we begin with Barnwell?’ asked Michael, ignoring the remark. ‘And the six people who died within days of each other while under your care?’
‘Three very elderly men, two servants who did nothing but sit around and eat, and a woman with a wasting sickness,’ replied Nigellus dismissively. He glanced archly at Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think these are folk you might have saved?’
‘Then what about Frenge?’ demanded Michael. ‘He was your patient, and he was neither ancient, fat, nor cursed with poor health.’
‘Yes, but his last visit to me was more than a week ago. You cannot lay his fate at my door.’
‘You have seen him since,’ countered Michael. ‘We have witnesses who say you argued with him over the sour ale he sold Zachary. Please do not lie: it will only make matters worse.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘I had forgotten – it was an unmemorable event. I did inform him that selling us inferior wares was unacceptable, but that is not a crime. However, I had nothing to do with his demise. Or do you imagine that I lurk in convents waiting to strike my victims?’
‘I am not in a position to say – yet,’ replied Michael. ‘Now tell me about Letia.’
‘Shirwynk summoned me too late to save her,’ said Nigellus, treating the monk to an unpleasant look. ‘Personally, I think he did it deliberately, because he wanted her dead. When I arrived, she was so dizzy that she barely knew her name.’
‘You mean she was delirious?’ asked Bartholomew.
Nigellus shot him a disdainful glance, and when he spoke, it was as if he was addressing an annoying and particularly stupid child. ‘No, because she was not suffering from hallucinations. You cannot have one without the other. Surely you know that?’
‘Actually, it is perfectly possible to be in an acute confused state without delusions,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Nigellus might think otherwise. ‘What were her other symptoms?’
‘She was hot and she had vomited, but those were irrelevant to my diagnosis. Dizziness is a serious and often fatal condition, and it was obvious to me that she was going to die.’
Bartholomew did not bother to argue. ‘And Lenne?’ he asked.
‘Metal in the mouth, a disease described by Hippocrates. I prescribed garlic, not only to remove the taste, but to rebalance the humours. Garlic is hot and wet in the second degree, as I am sure you know.’
Bartholomew knew no such thing, and was also sure that Hippocrates would never have considered ‘metal in the mouth’ a disease. He regarded his colleague intently, trying to decide whether Nigellus was simply a terrible physician, or a very clever one attempting to conceal his crimes with a show of bumbling ineptitude.
‘Brother Arnold,’ he said eventually. ‘You claimed he died of insomnia.’
‘Yes, which can be deadly in elderly patients, as the Greek physician Xenocrates says. If they do not have access to the rejuvenating powers of sleep, they sicken and die. And before you ask, Irby was suffering from a loss of appetite, another dangerous disease.’
‘It takes longer than a few hours for a loss of appetite to prove fatal,’ said Bartholomew, whose only knowledge of Xenocrates was that the infinitely more famous and trustworthy Galen had criticised him for making ‘remedies’ out of particularly unpleasant ingredients.
‘Irby had a pre-existing condition that required a regular intake of nutrients,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘When he failed to eat, he fell into a torpid state, and that was the end of him.’
Bartholomew struggled to understand what might actually have happened. ‘Did he suffer a sudden loss of weight, accompanied by excessive urination and–’
‘Hah! You do know of the ailment. Your training is not as flawed as I was beginning to fear. His urine was sweet on my tongue, and was obviously abnormal.’
‘You tasted it?’ Bartholomew was repelled.
Nigellus’s composure slipped a little. ‘Of course, as the great Aretaeus of Cappadocia recommended we do. Why? How do you do it?’
‘By seeing whether it attracts ants,’ replied Bartholomew, regarding him askance.
Nigellus waved a dismissive hand, although a flush in his cheeks indicated his chagrin at having been found lacking. ‘But Yerland is the one who will prove my innocence. I did not give him medicine for his headache, you did. Ergo, you are the one who should be sitting here, not me.’