‘Then he will remain desperate,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Because such a thing does not exist.’
‘It does!’ objected Redmeadow. ‘Bacon says so. I read it myself.’
‘You cannot believe all you read in books, Redmeadow,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Not even Bacon’s.’
‘Did you notice signs of poisoning as Warde died, sir?’ asked Quenhyth, changing the subject. ‘I do not think you did, or you would have denounced Rougham immediately – or he would have used the opportunity to denounce you.’
‘Not all poisons have obvious symptoms,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is why they are popular with killers who want to conceal a murder.’
Bartholomew stood on a bench to retrieve a piece of equipment from the top shelf in his medicines room. It was a small metal stand with a shallow dish on top, and there was room underneath it to light a candle. He made sure the dish was clean by wiping it on his sleeve, then poured half the phial’s remaining liquid into it. His first task was to strengthen the solution by evaporation. Then he would use the concentrate to test for specific ingredients.
Because the candle provided a very gentle heat, it would be some time before the excess liquid boiled away, and Bartholomew accepted Quenhyth’s offer to monitor its progress. He and Michael went to wait in his bedchamber, where Redmeadow started to read aloud from the new copy of Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum.
It was not long before a discussion began about the nature of the continuum, and whether or not it consisted of indivisible mathematical parts that could be finite or infinite in number. Redmeadow held his own for a while, but then just listened as the Fellows put their points with impeccable logic. Bartholomew enjoyed the debate, feeling that he and Michael were fairly evenly matched, while Michael grew positively animated. They were both so preoccupied that it was several moments before they became aware of Quenhyth standing in the doorway, holding a limp bundle of feathers.
‘Rougham did poison Warde,’ he said triumphantly. ‘While I was waiting for your experiment to work, I performed one of my own. I took the rest of the potion from the phial and fed it to Bird. He is quite dead.’ He gave the feathers a vigorous shake, but there was no response.
Bartholomew gazed at him in horror. ‘You have killed Walter’s pet? How could you do such a thing? You know it is the only thing he loves.’
‘But nobody else does,’ said Quenhyth, unrepentant. ‘We all complain about Bird – even you – because he crows all night, and damages books and belongings. Look what he did to your Trotula.’
He pointed to the shelf above the window, where Bartholomew saw that part of his newly acquired scroll had peck marks all along one edge. An avian deposit had also been left on it.
‘We were going to tell you about that,’ said Redmeadow uncomfortably. ‘Bird got at it before we could stop him. We were leaving it to dry, so we could scrape off the lumpy bits without making too much of a mess.’ He brightened. ‘But he did not eat any parts with words on, so it is still legible.’
‘We all hate Bird for destroying our most precious possessions,’ Quenhyth went on, capitalising on his teacher’s dismay as he inspected the ravaged document. ‘And none of us will miss him. Agatha can put him in the stew tonight, and Walter will think he has flown away.’
‘His wings are clipped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He cannot fly.’
‘A fox, then,’ said Quenhyth, waving a hand to indicate that such details were unimportant. ‘But are you not pleased? You had long and tedious experiments in mind, and I have given you your answer instantly. Bird died almost at once. He fought for breath for a few moments, but then just perished, as I heard Warde did.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, then looked at the pathetic bundle under Quenhyth’s arm. Doubtless most College members would indeed be glad to be rid of the chicken that had plagued their sleep for years, but he did not know how he was going to tell Walter what had happened. He decided to let Quenhyth do it. Perhaps, when the student was forced to witness Walter’s distress, it might make him think twice about sacrificing animals in the future.
‘Where is the cat?’ demanded Redmeadow, looking around him suddenly. He came to his feet with a murderous expression in his face. ‘You did not–?’
‘No,’ said Quenhyth coolly. ‘You told me not to.’
‘Bird’s death is not enough to convict Rougham,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the ball of feathers closely in the hope that Quenhyth’s diagnosis had been premature and that there might be something he could do to revive it. There was not: the cockerel was quite dead. ‘For all we know, chickens might have an aversion to one of the ingredients in Water of Snails, and Bird’s demise might mean nothing as far as humans are concerned. There are other tests we need to conduct. Has the water boiled yet?’
Quenhyth blanched and dived quickly into the storeroom. Bartholomew followed, knowing exactly what he would find. He was not mistaken.
‘Oh, no!’ cried Quenhyth, running to where a small fire danced merrily on the bench top. ‘I only left it for a moment.’
‘But, unfortunately, it was a moment too long,’ said Bartholomew, throwing a cloth over the flames. ‘And now we have none of the mixture left. You fed half to Bird, and you allowed the rest to burn away.’
Quenhyth’s face was a mask of shame. ‘I was only trying to help. I did not mean to cause a disaster.’
‘It is not a disaster,’ said Michael, less fussy about empirical experimentation than Bartholomew. ‘I am a practical man, and believe what my eyes tell me. Bird died when he was fed Water of Snails from that pot, and that is good enough for me. We can conclude that Warde was poisoned.’
‘Not necessarily,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Nor do we know what kind of poison was used.’
‘Why does that matter?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘Poison is poison, and its type makes no difference to Rougham’s guilt.’
‘You can always make up a name, if someone asks,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. ‘Quenhyth is right: poison is poison, and trying to identify a particular kind is irrelevant to what was done with it.’
Bartholomew ignored them both, and continued to address Michael. ‘Nor do we know for certain that Rougham gave it to Warde. He says he did not. Someone else may have sent it in his name – Paxtone for example.’
Quenhyth was outraged. ‘That is a terrible thing to say! Besides, I heard Paxtone say in a lecture once that he has no use for Water of Snails, because it brings about excessive wind. He would never prescribe such an old-fashioned remedy.’
Redmeadow agreed. ‘I attended that lecture, too. Rougham is the guilty culprit here, not Paxtone. Paxtone does not go around poisoning his patients. I do not think the same can be said for Rougham.’
‘But we cannot prove that Rougham sent Warde the poison,’ insisted Bartholomew.
‘Well, Warde said he did, and so do Master Thorpe and Bingham,’ said Michael, exchanging a triumphant glance with the students. ‘Things are not looking good for Rougham at all.’
Bartholomew was not happy with Michael’s conclusions, and felt the ‘evidence’ was too open to alternative explanations for Rougham to be charged with Warde’s murder. He insisted they should investigate further before openly accusing the Gonville physician, and decided they would begin by visiting Lavenham the apothecary, to ask whether he recognised the phial and then to question him about the possibility of a mistake with ingredients. These were not questions he wanted to put to a man who supplied most of his medicines, but, he felt he had no choice.
‘Do you think Warde’s death is related to the murders in the mill?’ asked Michael, as they waited outside the porters’ lodge for Quenhyth to emerge. Bartholomew had forced him to confess immediately, and did not want to leave the College until he was sure the lad had done his duty. ‘That if Rougham killed Warde, then he also dispatched Bottisham and Deschalers? We did find that other phial in the King’s Mill. Remember?’