The Hand of Justice

For want of anything better to do, and because he was nearby, Bartholomew went to visit Paxtone at King’s Hall. He longed to hear that his medical colleague’s odd meetings with Wynewyk were harmless, and knew the matter would prey on his mind until it was resolved, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. He hoped Paxtone would mention in passing some perfectly reasonable explanation for his strange behaviour, and obviate the need for an unpleasant interrogation. But he knew he was deluding himself. Whatever Paxtone and Wynewyk were up to involved secret meetings that necessitated lies, and Bartholomew knew their antics were unlikely to be innocent.

Paxtone was reading Philaretus’s De pulsibus to his students, and was behind with his timetable; Bartholomew had finished Philaretus and his commentaries weeks before. Paxtone was a thorough teacher and his lectures were well organised, but he made dull work of explaining what was an exciting text. Most of his class was bored, and some were even asleep.

While he waited for Paxtone to finish, Bartholomew found a roaring fire and a pile of spiced oatcakes at the back of the hall. He ate four, then wished he had stopped at three, but the cakes contained cinnamon and sugar, both of which were a rare treat, and it was difficult to resist anything that smelled so delicious. He ate a fifth and began to feel queasy.

‘Rougham has finished Philaretus and is on Galen’s Aphorismi,’ said Paxtone gloomily, when his students had clattered out at the end of the lesson. ‘I do not know how he manages it.’

‘But how well do his students know the material?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that he had finished the Aphorismi, too. ‘Still, I suppose we shall find out at their disputations.’

‘If you fail anyone from Gonville, Rougham will claim it is revenge for this business with Warde,’ warned Paxtone. ‘I know you are not the kind of man to strike at Rougham through his students, but that will not stop him from making accusations. He is a fool. It will not be long before Michael unearths proof that his Water of Snails was responsible for Warde’s death — whether Rougham killed him deliberately or not.’

‘His Water of Snails contained henbane,’ said Bartholomew, watching Paxtone’s jaw drop in horror. He knew he should have said nothing, since the rumours about Warde’s death were escalating out of control, but decided to press on regardless, to see whether his revelations induced any meaningful reactions in a man whose own behaviour was also suspect. ‘We do not know whether Rougham added it himself, whether Lavenham made a mistake, or whether someone else decided to dispatch one of the King’s Commissioners.’

‘My God!’ breathed Paxtone. ‘Henbane? Are you sure? I understand it can be deadly when swallowed in large amounts.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘We found a similar phial in the King’s Mill, after Deschalers and Bottisham died. Do you know what Rougham prescribed for Deschalers’s sickness?’

‘Nothing in a phial. We argued about it, actually, because I said Deschalers needed something more than barley water.’

‘Rougham prescribed barley for a debilitating and painful disease?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘But that is tantamount to giving him nothing at all! Deschalers would have needed a powerful pain-reliever. In fact, he must have been getting one from somewhere, or he would not have been able to leave his house, let alone ride about the streets of Cambridge.’

‘I did not prescribe him one,’ said Paxtone. ‘But Lynton may have done. He was also appalled by Rougham’s refusal to give Deschalers what we felt he needed.’

‘But why did Rougham do such a thing? Was it revenge for the time when he withdrew the funds offered for Gonville’s chapel?’

‘He said Deschalers’s ailment was incurable,’ said Paxtone with some disgust. ‘And he believes there is no point in giving medicine to a man who cannot be made well again. He says such practices are a criminal waste of the patient’s money.’

‘He said that? Did he imagine Deschalers would want to save his treasure for the future, then?’

‘I would have recommended henbane seeped in hot mud, had Deschalers asked for my advice,’ said Paxtone. ‘Not taken internally, of course, because henbane causes warts, but applied as a plaister to the skin of the stomach.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Deschalers had had a narrow escape from Paxtone’s ministrations, too. He only hoped Lynton had had the sense to give the poor grocer a sense-dulling potion, since the other two physicians had failed him.

‘Was there henbane in the phial you found in the King’s Mill?’ asked Paxtone. ‘As well as the one that did away with Master Warde?’

‘It was empty, so I could not tell. But, if it did, then I do not think Deschalers could have killed Bottisham. The henbane would have made that impossible.’