‘Peacocks never gossip,’ he said, regarding Stasy with wide, innocent eyes. He gestured to the bird in question, a glorious creation with an enormous tail and an ego to match, who belonged to Walter the porter. ‘However, Henry did mention that you drove him and his harem into the kitchens last night, with a view to seeing them in trouble with Agatha for scoffing raisins.’
‘Then Henry is a liar,’ declared Hawick indignantly. ‘We did nothing of the kind.’
‘Birds do not know how to lie,’ said Clippesby, and it occurred to Bartholomew that the same was true of the Dominican himself. ‘They see no need for it.’
The peacock strutted towards Clippesby, hoping for a treat. For no reason other than malice, Stasy aimed a kick at him, and as Bartholomew chose that moment to step towards the gate, the flying sandal missed the bird and caught him instead. While Stasy staggered off balance, Henry lunged.
‘It bit me!’ howled Stasy, holding up a finger to reveal a tiny blob of blood. ‘It should not be allowed to roam free. That thing is dangerous!’
‘So are you,’ retorted Bartholomew, making a great show of hobbling about and rubbing his knee, although the truth was that Stasy’s shoe had barely touched him.
‘Hey!’ came Walter’s angry voice. The porter was inordinately fond of his bird, and had recently spent all his life savings on four peahens, because Clippesby said that Henry yearned for female company. ‘Come near my flock again and I will kick you! Now clear off!’
Stasy shot him a dismissive sneer before loping away towards the orchard, where the medical students tended to congregate at that time of day. Hawick muttered what might have been an apology, and trotted after him.
‘Do you want me to fetch them back?’ asked Clippesby, leaning down to pick up a chicken that was scratching about nearby; he cocked his head towards her as she clucked. ‘Ethel says you wanted to take them to see Isnard.’
‘I did,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘But not any more. Were they up to mischief here, John? The birds did not seem very happy when I arrived.’
‘Stasy wants to wring Henry’s neck,’ explained Clippesby. ‘So he and Hawick herded all the poultry here, so he could grab him. Ethel heard them planning the attack.’
‘What?’ cried Walter, shocked and angry. ‘He was going to do what?’
‘Do not worry,’ said Clippesby kindly. ‘I shall watch over the birds myself from now on. No harm will come to Henry, I promise.’
Bartholomew hoped he was right, for everyone’s sake, because if Henry did meet a premature end, murder would quickly follow, and he did not want Walter to hang for it.
The physician felt as if he was in a furnace as he headed towards the river, to take the towpath to Isnard’s cottage. The sun burned through his black academic tabard, which was so uncomfortable that he flouted College rules by removing it. Shirt sleeves were cooler, although not by much, and he pitied those who were in the grip of the flux, fevered and lying in houses that were like ovens.
The Mill Pond was a small lake, very deep in the middle, created by the West, Middle and East dams. Each dam had a sluice, which comprised great wooden gates that could be opened and closed as needed. In the past, several mills had operated there, but now there was only one: Mayor Morys’s. It stood near the Small Bridges, and the West Dam directed water down a specially constructed spillway that drove its wheel.
Morys’s mill ground grain. If the Mill Pond were low or empty, its wheel could not turn and he lost money, hence his determination to hog what little water trickled in from the drought-starved Cam to the south. The river’s flow was not cut off entirely, but the dams slowed it significantly, so what water did seep through was so sluggish as to be virtually stagnant. The situation was a little better when the West Dam was opened to drive the mill, but not much, as most of the water was directed along an arm of the Cam that flowed around the west of the town, and only joined the main river once past the Carmelite Priory.
Bartholomew reached Isnard’s house, which was near the Middle Dam, and stopped for a moment to look around.
There were not many buildings near the pond, as it had a tendency to flood in wet weather. The exceptions were Isnard’s house, which stood on a small rise; a row of cottages occupied by people who had not appreciated the location’s shortcomings when they had moved in; and a low, squat ugly building belonging to Peterhouse. This was Hoo Hall, named after an early Master, and currently offered as accommodation for students.
The Mill Pond itself was a hive of activity. Although less than half full, women flocked around its sun-baked shores to do their laundry or to scrub pots and pans; others collected water for cleaning, cooking and drinking. Guards employed by Morys prowled to make sure they paid for what they took. It smelled stagnant and Bartholomew wrinkled his nose in distaste.
‘It is no good advising them to use the wells, Doctor,’ said Isnard, emerging from his home to greet him; he spoke in a croak and he could not breathe through his nose. ‘Most of those have turned muddy, but the Mill Pond is still clean.’
Bartholomew was amazed that anyone should consider the Mill Pond ‘clean’, although he knew better than to debate the matter with Isnard, whose opinions were immovable once he had decided upon something. Bartholomew was fond of him, even though events earlier in the year had revealed the bargeman to be an intolerant bigot with a passionate and wholly irrational hatred of strangers.
‘Do you drink from the pond?’ he asked.
Isnard regarded him askance. ‘I do not! And nor will I, unless someone contrives to fill it with ale. But it is too hot to stand out here, so come inside and sit in the shade. Then you can cure me of this vile disease.’
Bartholomew entered to see that Isnard had company – Margery Starre was visiting. Margery was quite open about the fact that she was a witch, which should have been enough to see her hanged. However, she knew how to end unwanted pregnancies, prepare love potions, banish adolescent spots, and ward off evil. Thus she was popular with townsfolk and scholars alike, so the authorities tended to turn a blind eye to her activities.
‘I cannot help poor Isnard, Doctor,’ she said ruefully. ‘I have never been any good at curing common colds.’
Nor was Bartholomew, so the bargeman was horrified when told that he would just have to wait for it to get better on its own.
‘What do you mean, you cannot mend me?’ he rasped at Bartholomew. ‘You must! I can barely breathe, my head aches, my throat is sore, and I feel terrible. I intend to sing a solo at the University’s graduation ceremony, and I cannot practise feeling like this.’
‘Rest your voice, drink lots of boiled barley water, and let nature take its course,’ instructed Bartholomew. ‘You should be well in time for your solo.’
‘But I need to rehearse or they will give the part to John Godenave!’ cried Isnard hoarsely. ‘There must be something you can do.’
‘You can try a linctus of blackcurrant, but rest and time are really the only cures.’
‘You see, Isnard?’ said Margery. ‘What did I tell you? We medical professionals are all as helpless as each other when it comes to colds.’
‘And the summer flux,’ put in Isnard nasally, full of disgust for both of them. ‘Neither of you are very good at mending that either.’
‘He is right, you know,’ said Margery, as she and Bartholomew walked along the towpath together a short while later. ‘I have had no success with curing this horrible flux.’
Bartholomew did not reply, because he was holding his tabard over his nose and mouth so as not to inhale the stench of the near-stagnant river and its festering cargo of sewage, animal manure and refuse. He used his free hand to flap away the flies that swarmed around his head, determined to prevent them from alighting, as he knew exactly where they had been first. Margery was made of sterner stuff, and neither the insects nor the reek seemed to bother her.