‘Be careful,’ warned Paxtone, watching. ‘Those little pots usually contain something to be treated with caution – and it is not always medicine. I have purchased viper venom in one of them before now.’
‘What did you want that for?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Another time,’ replied Paxtone enigmatically, in a way that made Bartholomew’s senses jangle all manner of warnings. ‘What is in it? Can you tell?’
Bartholomew sniffed its contents gingerly. He shook his head. ‘It smells the same as the Aqua Limacum Magistralis that killed Warde. I can detect coltsfoot quite strongly, but no liquorice. And there is something bitter and nasty underlying its other scents.’
Paxtone took it. ‘You are right. But if there is no liquorice, then perhaps it is not Water of Snails. Liquorice is one of its essential components.’
‘Lavenham omits expensive ingredients from his recipes, if he feels he can get away with it.’
‘Does he indeed?’ asked Paxtone, round eyed. He turned his attention back to the phial. ‘This dirty scent is familiar. It smells rank.’
‘Could it be henbane, do you think?’ suggested Bartholomew casually, watching him intently.
‘It could,’ said Paxtone, nodding vigorously. ‘But I have never heard of it used in a medicine to be swallowed before. I only ever add it to plaisters for external use.’
‘Unfortunately, since Quenhyth destroyed Warde’s mixture in a misguided effort to be helpful, we have no way of knowing whether Bess’s phial and Warde’s pot contained the same things.’
‘We also do not know if she drank it or that it killed her,’ Paxtone pointed out reasonably. ‘She may have found an abandoned bottle and picked it up because it was pretty – but did not sample the contents. Do not forget she was not in her right mind. And is henbane really that deadly when swallowed? I have never come across a case of ingestion before.’
Bartholomew pointed. ‘There is a pink trail on her chin, where it dribbled from her mouth, and, like Warde, she died feverish, dizzy and gasping for breath. These are all symptoms of henbane poisoning, and mean that she did swallow the stuff.’
Paxtone shook the phial gently. ‘You are more knowledgeable than me, Matt. I did not know how to recognise the signs of henbane ingestion. I think I shall take this pot to King’s Hall and perform a few experiments. You do not want Quenhyth “helping” you a second time. He may use your College cat now the cockerel is unavailable, and I like that animal.’
Bartholomew did not think it was a good idea to allow Paxtone to make off with the potion, when his own role in the grisly business was far from clear, but did not know how to stop him – at least, not without showing that he did not trust him. He watched Paxtone tuck the phial away and wondered whether he would ever see it again – or whether it would make its next appearance when another victim was claimed.
‘What do you think this means?’ he asked, trying to hide his misgivings. ‘That Bess purchased poison intending to take her own life? Or did someone give it to her?’
‘I do not see why anyone would want to kill her. She had lost her wits.’
‘Perhaps someone was afraid she might regain them.’ Bartholomew regarded Bess’s body thoughtfully. ‘Deschalers gave her a purse of gold. He was not a generous man, so he must have had some reason for providing her with such a large sum. Perhaps there are others who felt obliged to pay her, but they decided to kill her instead, in a bid to save their money.’
‘You make everything so complex,’ said Paxtone accusingly. ‘You have been too long in the company of Brother Michael, and you see plots and connivance wherever you look. Bess was a poor wench, who either intended to die or who mistook poison for something pleasant. She could not have blackmailed Deschalers, because she did not have the wits. And remember he was dying, Matt. Dying men are apt to be charitable. He gave Bosel new clothes, too.’
‘So he did,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Bess had said as much to Redmeadow. ‘That means two recipients of his uncharacteristic generosity are now dead.’
Paxtone sighed in exasperation. ‘And a good many others are doubtless still living. It is dangerous to be poor in Cambridge, you know that. Beggars are often killed by those who think it is good sport to attack the defenceless. Bess’s death has nothing to do with your other cases.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. He considered the people he had recognised in the crowd that had gathered to watch her die, and who were connected to the other deaths. There was Rougham, hovering in the background – Bartholomew’s prime suspect in the poisoning of Warde. There was Bernarde, whose stories about discovering the bodies of Bottisham and Deschalers made no sense, and who had frolicked with Bess hours before her death. There were the Lavenhams, who dispensed Water of Snails from their shop, and who admitted to varying their recipes. Two other members of the Millers’ Society were close by: Cheney and Morice, who bought Water of Snails from Lavenham, and might know what an added dash of henbane would do. Bartholomew suspected Thorpe and Edward Mortimer would not be too far away, either. And, of course, there was Paxtone himself.
‘She had just learned about the death of her lover,’ said Paxtone, seeing his colleague was not convinced. ‘She was distraught – just look at the way she clings to his hat, even in death.’
‘But she had forgotten what Tulyet had told her by the time she met Matilde. She did not take her own life. In fact, I am willing to wager a jug of ale in the Brazen George that when we discover the truth behind her death, we will also know more about these other murders.’
‘I do not drink in taverns,’ said Paxtone primly, standing up and moving away as Suttone arrived. ‘But you can bring it to me in my quarters. It is a long time since I won a wager of ale – and I will win, because what you are suggesting is nonsense. The demise of a beggar-woman will not be connected to the death of rich merchants and respected scholars.’
‘We shall see,’ replied Bartholomew stubbornly.
When Tulyet eventually arrived with the stretcher-bearers, Bartholomew told him what he had reasoned about Bess’s sudden death. The Sheriff rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger, and asked how many more murders would be committed before they had worked out what was happening.
‘We do not know they are all connected,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone thinks not.’
‘Of course they are connected! How could they not be? You found those little phials with Deschalers and Bottisham, then Warde, and now Bess. Paxtone is trying to mislead you.’
‘But if Bottisham and Deschalers died in the same way – with a nail in the palate – as we first surmised, then the flask at the King’s Mill is irrelevant. We think Deschalers took it there, to ease his pain – or perhaps to subdue Bottisham – but we have no evidence to support such a theory.’
‘This town is falling to pieces,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘And there seems to be nothing I can do to save it. Thorpe and Mortimer are having their revenge indeed. There is nothing like a few unexplained murders of townsmen and scholars to produce panic and discord.’
Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse, mulling over the new facts he had uncovered. When he arrived, Quenhyth and Redmeadow were sitting quietly, both engrossed in their studies. Bartholomew walked into the room, then tripped over a chest that had been placed at the foot of his bed. It had not been there before.