It was often difficult to determine a cause of death, but he had discovered that drowned men often foamed at the mouth when he pressed on their chests. He pushed now, and watched bubbles emerge from between bluish lips. Nicholas had certainly drowned, although it was not possible to say whether by design or accident. He pushed again, trying to detect the scent of ale. It was not there, but something else was: a pungent, fishy smell. With a start, he suddenly remembered something that had been said at Kelby’s celebration, by the priest John Suttone. John had mentioned how he had detected a rank odour on the body of a man who had died in the Braytheford Pool – a man called Nicholas Herl. Simon had mentioned the death of a man called Herl, too, saying he had expected it to shift the balance of power between Guild and Commonalty, and result in bloodshed.
Bartholomew removed the corpse’s clothes, noting an unnatural swelling of the feet and a hint of rot – Nicholas had endured a severe bout of Holy Fire, and its symptoms were still evident. The condition was a painful one, so it was small wonder the man had been morose and unhappy. As he was replacing the garments a few moments later, Bartholomew spotted a scar on the point of the shoulder. It was not like the drawings on Flaxfleete and Aylmer, although it was in the same place. He bent to inspect it more closely.
‘I doubt his arm will tell you anything useful, Doctor.’ Sabina’s voice was so close behind him that he jumped in alarm and almost dropped the lamp.
‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. Suttone was with him. ‘I told her to stay outside, but she wants to make sure she is getting her money’s worth. She slipped past me when Hamo distracted us with some Lombard slices.’
‘What made this mark?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing at it.
She frowned. ‘I have never noticed it before, but then we never saw each other naked. It is recent, though, because it is still raw. However, during the last month, Nicholas was busier than he had been over the past five years combined, labouring in his workshop all hours of the day and night. It will be a burn, caused by spitting metal, like the ones on his hands. So? How did he die?’
‘He drowned,’ said Bartholomew, handing Michael the lamp and straightening Nicholas’s limbs.
‘I know,’ said Sabina. ‘What I need you to tell me is whether it was accident, murder or suicide.’
‘I have some questions first. Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’
She regarded him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘How badly?’
‘He needed to be tied up, to stop him from biting himself, and the only place he became calm was the church. We prayed to St Anthony and he recovered, although he was never fully well after. Why?’
‘Did he have trouble breathing? Dizzy spells? Pains in his chest and arms?’
‘All those.’ She gazed at him. ‘But how do you know? He never told anyone but me and his friend Will Langar. And what does it have to do with his death, anyway? The Madness was months ago.’
‘There is a theory that Holy Fire – Summer Madness – is caused by a toxin, which accumulates in the body and eventually causes a fatal imbalance of the humours. I suspect your husband ingested a large quantity of this substance in August, and it has remained inside him – his swollen feet tell us he was still suffering from its effects. When he swallowed more of the poison, it killed him.’
‘Summer Madness is caused by poison?’ she said doubtfully. ‘How can that be true, when we all know the Devil is responsible? And even if you are right, how could more of this poison have got inside him? No one else has suffered from the Madness for months now.’
Bartholomew shrugged, not looking at Michael, who was drawing his own conclusions about the substance that had now killed two men. ‘I have no idea. However, Nicholas’s initial dose seems to have been a large one – as evidenced by your description of his illness, the swelling still remaining in his feet, and his continued dizziness. In addition, I suspect he had a natural weakness in his blood that would have made him especially susceptible to the ravages of Holy Fire.’
She was confused. ‘I do not understand what you are saying. He drowned and he was poisoned?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The substance was strong on his breath, so he swallowed it shortly before he died. Then, faint and weak, he probably toppled into the water and drowned.’
‘But this does not help,’ she objected. ‘We still do not know where I can bury him.’
‘Then think about Nicholas himself,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘If he had wanted to commit suicide, would he have known where to obtain this poison? And would he have been aware what its effects might be on a body already weakened by its last encounter with Holy Fire?’
Slowly, her face broke into a smile. ‘No. He was a simple man, sometimes stupid, and would never have invented such a complex way of doing away with himself.’
‘Then you are left with accident or murder, but he can go into hallowed ground, regardless.’
