He glanced at Ruth, and Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that any additional income would be used to buy something for her. And her returning smile told him that whatever was purchased would be treasured far more than anything from her husband. When they saw him watching, they flew apart abruptly, Bonabes to inspect Aristotle with exaggerated interest and Ruth to look out of the window.
‘This garden is a sad, forlorn place,’ she said. ‘I have never liked it, and I hate to think of anyone breathing his last here. There is an odd smell, too. Do you think the tales are true, and the pond is home to demons?’
‘Of course not,’ called Bonabes, indicating his ears were still attuned to her voice, even across the room. ‘It is just marsh air, which has a reputation for foul stenches. Some are even poisonous.’
Bartholomew stared at him. Could Northwood and the others have inhaled toxic gases released by the peaty mud at the bottom of the pond? He recalled the beadles claiming they had felt sick when they had disturbed the water, so it was certainly possible. He bowed a brief farewell, and hurried into the garden, aware of Michael puffing behind him, demanding to know where he was going. He did not stop until he reached the pool.
Beadle Meadowman was there, coated with slime as he continued the messy business of dredging through the deeper layers of sediment. He looked hot, tired and cross.
‘I have not found anything, Brother,’ he said. ‘This is a waste of time.’
‘Were you here when Langelee was attacked?’ asked Michael, watching in bafflement as Bartholomew knelt at the water’s edge and leaned down to sniff it.
Meadowman pursed his lips. ‘No – or I would have stopped it.’
‘Then did you see anyone loitering?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew abandoned the pond and turned his attention to the excavated silt, taking handfuls of the stuff and smelling it carefully.
Meadowman nodded bitterly. ‘Oh, yes. Half the town likes to gawp at the spot where four men died, and opinions are divided as to whether the Devil or God is responsible.’ At last, he could contain himself no longer. ‘What are you doing, Doctor Bartholomew?’
‘I thought the pond or its sediment might contain toxic fumes,’ explained Bartholomew. He saw Michael’s hopeful expression, and shrugged apologetically. ‘But they do not.’
‘Pity,’ muttered Michael, disappointed. ‘That would have been the best solution: death by misadventure and no murder at all.’
While Michael waited for Kente to return, Bartholomew went back to his teaching, hoping it would take his mind off the worries that clamoured at him. His students did not appreciate his zealous attentions, however, and when Cynric arrived with an invitation from Meryfeld, asking him to visit that evening for a resumption of their experiments, they used his momentary distraction to flee.
As there were no pupils to divert him, and the atmosphere in the conclave was icy – Langelee snapped at him when he tried to speak to Ayera – he went to check the wounded soldiers at the castle. Julitta was there, and he lingered far longer than necessary, just to be in her company. When he finally tore himself away, he found Cynric waiting to say that Isnard was unwell. He arrived at the bargeman’s house to find him hunched miserably over a bucket.
‘Have you been eating fish? Perhaps poached from Newe Inn and sold by the riverfolk?’
‘No,’ said Isnard weakly. ‘My malady is much more serious. Holm is trying to poison me.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘For your five marks,’ replied Isnard dolefully. ‘He knows I am innocent, but is unwilling to pay you, so he is trying to kill me instead. He bought me an ale at the King’s Head, and I should have known better than to accept it.’
‘How many other ales did you have?’ asked Bartholomew pointedly.
Isnard waved an airy hand. ‘Not many. Do you think he has done for me, Doctor?’
Bartholomew gave him the remedy he always dispensed for over-indulgence, and watched the colour seep back into the bargeman’s cheeks. When Isnard began to feel better, he started to chat.
‘That armed raid was nasty. It is said by some that the villains are local men, like Ayce of Girton, who bear a grudge against the town and will do anything to harm it. However, there is another rumour that the raiders are strangers – specifically a remnant of the French army, determined to avenge themselves for Poitiers. What do you think?’
‘I doubt the French would pick on Cambridge.’
Isnard sniffed. ‘If you say so. What do you make of the four bodies in Newe Inn? I suspect they are connected to the attack – the victims heard or saw something, and were murdered for their silence. Like Adam, the soldier and the riverman.’
‘I wondered the same. But those three had their throats cut, and there was no obvious cause of death for Northwood and his companions.’
‘So what? There were lots of raiders, and each probably has his own preferred way of killing.’
It was a valid point. ‘Have you learned any more about them? Or have the riverfolk?’
‘Only that they have been slinking into our town regularly after dark – as you found out when we had to rescue you the other night. Obviously, they come to look around.’
‘To look around for what?’
Isnard shrugged. ‘Sheriff Tulyet believes they are smugglers, but I have been thinking about that, and I am sure he is wrong.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I would have seen their boats. No, the raiders are not smugglers, Doctor, and you can tell the Sheriff that I said so.’
By the time Bartholomew arrived at Meryfeld’s house, his medical colleagues had been at the wine. They were not as drunk as they had been when they had thrown together the lethal combination of ingredients to create wildfire, but they were certainly frivolous. Meryfeld laughed a lot anyway, but Gyseburne and Rougham were serious men, and it was disconcerting to see them in boisterously silly spirits. Bartholomew’s heart sank.
‘It is all right,’ said Meryfeld, misinterpreting his concern. ‘We saved you some claret.’
‘Where have you been, Matthew?’ asked Gyseburne conversationally. ‘With a patient?’
‘Isnard,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He drank too much last night, and has been sick all day.’
Holm sniggered. ‘The man is a terrible sot.’
‘He told me you bought him the offending ale,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly.
‘I was in the King’s Head,’ acknowledged Holm. ‘A patient invited me there, and it would have been churlish to refuse, but I did not buy Isnard ale. As everyone in Cambridge knows – except you, it would seem – he is a criminal, and I do not associate with those.’
‘You do if you imbibe at the King’s Head,’ retorted Rougham, holding out his goblet for more wine. ‘No one who frequents that place is innocent in any sense of the word. Except Agatha the laundress. She drinks there, but I would not dare say anything rude about her – she would make garters of my innards.’
‘A lady drinks in a tavern?’ asked Gyseburne disapprovingly. ‘Surely, that is irregular? Or is she a whore?’
Rougham crossed himself. ‘Have a care, Gyseburne! That woman does as she pleases, and she is extremely dangerous.’ He tossed off the contents of his goblet, and indicated he wanted more.
‘She is not that bad,’ said Bartholomew, sipping the wine. It was very good, and when he had finished one cup and was on the second, he, too, felt his anxieties recede. ‘But she cannot cook.’