Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps he finished his business early and decided to go home.’
‘And abandon the wife of his employer without saying a word?’
Bartholomew was uneasy. ‘What are you saying? That he is implicated in Joan’s death?’
Tears welled in Edith’s eyes. ‘I am sure she did not take the pennyroyal deliberately, Matt. I know Mother Coton thinks Joan’s joy at being with child was a ruse, so she could rid herself of it without suspicion, but she is wrong. I spent three days with Joan – I would have seen through such an act.’
Bartholomew was not sure she would. Edith was an honest, uncomplicated soul, and expected others to be the same. Her open nature was one of the things he loved about her, because it was not something he often encountered in the University, where men had been trained to prevaricate.
‘Then it was an accident – she took something she thought would help the baby,’ he said, feeling a sharp twinge of guilt when he thought about his missing supplies. ‘But she was misinformed.’
‘I cannot imagine how she came by pennyroyal. The apothecaries would not have sold her any.’
‘Perhaps she brought it with her.’ Bartholomew thought, but did not say, that if she had, then it indicated premeditation, and Joan’s few days of so-called happiness with Edith were indeed a cover for the crime she had been intending to commit.
He changed the subject, knowing they would argue otherwise, and began to talk about the forum on Blood Relics that was due to take place in nine days’ time. It was not a topic that greatly intrigued him, but the University was on fire with it, and some of the enthusiasm had seeped into him. He found he was looking forward to hearing some of the best minds in the country – Michael’s among them – hold forth on the matter.
‘I made you a cake,’ said Edith, passing him a neatly wrapped parcel when he paused for breath. Blood Relics did not interest her at all. ‘It contains the last of the almonds from our garden.’
‘Thank you. I had better be going. The Saturday Debate is due to start soon.’
‘The Saturday Debate?’ Edith frowned. ‘I thought you said this event was to be Monday week.’
‘The Blood Relic colloquy is on Monday. But the Saturday Debate is the weekly discussion at Michaelhouse, instigated by Thelnetham to keep our students off the streets. The Fellows kept avoiding them, so Langelee made them mandatory. I have missed the last two because of summonses from patients, and my colleagues will think I am shirking if I do it again.’
‘Can you spare a few moments more?’ asked Edith, rather tearfully. ‘Joan’s husband made arrangements to collect her body from St Mary the Great today, and I should talk to him. Will you come with me? I would rather not go alone.’
St Mary the Great was Cambridge’s biggest and grandest church, used by the University for events too large for the debating halls – such as discussions about Blood Relics. That day, loud voices rang from the Lady Chapel where Joan lay, and Bartholomew saw that quite a deputation had arrived to claim her earthly remains. Two men and an elderly woman stood side by side, watching the verger and half a dozen servants struggling to load the body into a sturdy box for transport home.
‘Which one is Henry Elyan?’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Joan’s husband?’
Edith regarded him askance. ‘The one wearing black, of course, to show he is in mourning. Do you know nothing of the latest courtly fashions?’
Bartholomew did not, but it was clear that Elyan was well versed in such matters. The cut of his black clothes indicated they were expensive, and his gipon, or tunic, was decorated with more buttons than the physician had ever seen on a single garment. His handsome shoes were made from soft calfskin, and the jewellery that glittered at his throat and on his fingers was exquisite.
‘It is a pity you could not save her,’ Elyan said bitterly, after Edith had introduced her brother and given a brief account of what had happened. Elyan’s eyes were red, indicating he had been weeping. ‘She was very dear to me, and so was her child – my heir. Their deaths are a terrible shock.’
The elderly woman stepped forward. She was tall for her age, and voluminous skirts swirled around thick, practical travelling boots. A veil covered her head, but several strands of white hair had escaped to hang rakishly down the sides of her leathery cheeks. Sharp blue eyes indicated a person of character, who was used to having her own way.
‘I am Agnys Elyan,’ she announced. ‘My grandson and I are grateful for your efforts. Joan often talked about her happy childhood here, and we are glad she died among friends.’
‘Her death was unnecessary,’ said Elyan. His voice was unsteady. ‘She came to buy ribbons for our child – she should not have died purchasing ribbons.’
‘No, she should not,’ agreed his grandmother gently. She reached out to touch his arm, a self-conscious gesture of sympathy that caused him to look away quickly, a sob catching at the back of his throat. She turned to Bartholomew and Edith, speaking to give him time to compose himself. ‘Joan was fit and well before she left, and we were horrified to learn about this horrible accident.’
‘Accident?’ asked Edith.
Bartholomew felt like jabbing her with his elbow, but suspected Agnys would notice and demand an explanation. He held his breath, hoping Edith’s question would not lead the Haverhill folk to wonder whether there was more to Joan’s death than they were being told. It would do no one any good if they clamoured murder – and Bartholomew was sure it was nothing of the kind.
Agnys nodded. ‘Constable Muschett told us how she had swallowed a potion to strengthen the babe. We were appalled, because she was very careful about what she ate and drank. But I suppose even cautious women make mistakes.’
‘Her mistake cost me a much-loved wife,’ said Elyan in a muffled voice. He stood with his back to them, scrubbing surreptitiously at his eyes. ‘Not to mention an heir twenty years in the making. Of course, this assumes it was her fault. For all I know, someone gave her this poison on purpose.’
‘Pennyroyal is not poison,’ said Bartholomew, thinking guiltily about the loss of his own. ‘It is–’
‘Pennyroyal?’ echoed Agnys in disbelief. ‘I sincerely doubt she drank that! I taught her about herbs myself, and she was well aware that pennyroyal is not for expectant mothers.’
‘You are right,’ said Edith, before Bartholomew could stop her. ‘Joan did not take it on purpose.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Elyan, whipping around to regard her intently. ‘If she would not have taken it of her own volition, and she was too sensible to have swallowed it by accident, does this mean she was forced to imbibe it against her will? She was murdered ?’
‘Of course she was not murdered,’ said Agnys, before Bartholomew could say the same thing. ‘But there are many elixirs with fanciful names that make no mention of the nature of their contents. She must have bought one that promised health and vitality, and the seller neglected to–’
‘That is murder,’ said the third member of the visiting party, entering the discussion for the first time. He was small and dark, with short black hair that was plastered to his head like a greasy cap. Spindly red-clad legs poked from under a purple gipon, giving him the appearance of a predatory insect.
‘I agree, d’Audley,’ said Elyan coldly. ‘Any apothecary or physician giving pregnant women pennyroyal is guilty of murder, as far as I am concerned. And he deserves to hang for his crime.’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ ordered Agnys sharply. She glared at d’Audley. ‘And you can keep your nasty opinions to yourself. No one asked you to accompany us to Cambridge, and I, for one, wish you had not. You have been nothing but trouble – complaining all the time.’