'Gone,' he called. 'And swept so clean that a spider could not hide.'
'This will confound your plans for the Festival of St Michael and All Angels on Sunday,' remarked Michael to Bartholomew leeringly. 'Whom will you ask to escort you now Hedwise Tyler has fled? I doubt you will get away with Matilde a second time. You might be reduced to taking Agatha given that you are so intent on being surrounded by women!'
Bartholomew pretended to ignore him, wondering how such things could occur to the fat monk when the situation was so grave.
'Why clean a house you are abandoning for ever?' he mused, looking around him.
'I will never understand women,' agreed Tulyet. 'What a waste of time!'
'Perhaps not,' said Bartholomew, frowning. Watched by the others, he began a careful examination of the room.
Finally, he stopped and pointed to some faint brownish s stains on one of the walls. When he moved some cracked] bowls and pots that had been left, there was a larger stain on the wooden floor.
'Cooking accident?' asked Michael, nonplussed.
'Hardly, Brother,' said Bartholomew. 'Only people who do not mind their houses going up in flames cook so close to the walls. This stain is blood. It splattered on the wall and then pooled on the floor.'
'Whose blood?' asked Tulyet, staring at it. 'ThisJoanna's?'
'Probably,' said Bartholomew, thinking again of Mistress Tyler leading him away from her house the night of the riot. 'There is enough of it to suggest that a serious, if not fatal, wound was inflicted and there was simply too much blood to be cleaned away.'
Michael puffed out his cheeks, and prodded halfheartedly at the stone jars and bowls that had been left. Bartholomew leaned against the door frame and thought. He had been hoping that there had been some mistake, and that they would discover the Tylers' part in the affair was coincidental, or innocent. But how could he hold to that belief now? They had fled the town, taking everything that was moveable with them. He wondered if Eleanor had been given the idea by Father William while at the Feast, since he had regaled her with stories of how he had run away laden with monastic treasures.
Hope flared within him suddenly. Perhaps they had been taken by force; abducted and taken away against their will. The hope faded as quickly as it had come. What abductor would take the furniture with him and sweep the upstairs chamber before making away with his prizes? Not only that, but Bartholomew very much doubted that the Tyler women could be abducted anywhere they did not want to go.
Michael bent to one of the bowls and Bartholomew saw him run his finger around its rim. He held it up lightly coated with a gritty, white powder and raised the finger to his lips to sniff at it. With a bound, Bartholomew leapt at him, knocking Tulyet sideways before slapping Michael's hand away from his face and wiping the powder from his finger with his shirtsleeve.
Michael looked puzzled. 'How will we know what this is unless we smell it?' he said. 'I have watched Jonas the Poisoner smell and taste his medicines often enough.'
'Then Jonas is a fool,' snapped Bartholomew. 'If, as you believe, that powder is the same kind that killed Edred, it is in a highly concentrated form.'
'But you told me last night that the poison might have worked more quickly on Edred because it entered a wound or because he inhaled it in. A small amount on my hand will not harm me.'
'It might,' said Bartholomew. 'Can you feel your finger now?'
Michael rubbed his finger cautiously. 'It is numb. I cannot feel it,' he added with a slight rise in pitch, and his eyes widening with horror.
Bartholomew pursed his lips. 'Go and rinse it off,' he said. 'The feeling will return eventually.'
Tulyet crouched next to the bowl, poking at it with his dagger. 'Is it the same concentrated powder that killed the friar in your room?' he asked, glancing at Bartholomew as Michael hurried from the house in search of water.
'It would seem so,' said Bartholomew. 'Even a small amount has taken the feeling from Michael's fingertip.'
Tulyet stood. 'I will send men after Mistress Tyler and her devious daughters to see what she has to say for herself.' He looked down at the bowls again. 'Although, all we can prove is that she had the same powerful poison in her house that Jonas sent to you.'
'I will go to see if Jonas knows where she might have gone,' said Bartholomew. If he has any ideas I will send you a message.'
Wringing and flexing his afflicted finger, Michael followed Bartholomew to the apothecary's shop, while Tulyet went to organise men to search for the Tyler family, although they all knew that they would be long gone.
Jonas's shop was empty of customers, and the apothecary was mixing potions on a wide shelf that ran along one side of the room. He was humming to himself, his bald head glistening with tiny beads of sweat as he applied himself to pounding something into a paste with considerable vigour. His two apprentices were hanging bunches of herbs to dry in the rafters of an adjoining room.
'You sent me a powerful poison, Jonas,' said Bartholomew without preamble, watching the apothecary jump at the nearness of the voice behind him. Colour drained from Jonas's usually pink-cheeked face. He cast a nervous glance at his apprentices and closed the door so that they should not hear.
'Please, Doctor,' he said. 'That matter was finished with a long time ago and I paid dearly for my mistake. Do not jest with me about poisons!'
'I am not jesting about the events of years ago,' said Bartholomew. 'I am talking about the events of yesterday.
You sent me oleander so concentrated that Brother Michael's finger is numb from touching a few grains of it.'
Michael held up his finger, an even more unhealthy white than the rest of him. Jonas's eyes almost popped from their sockets. Cautiously, like a bird accepting a much desired crumb, Jonas inched forward to examine Michael's finger. He put out a tentative hand and touched the pallid, puckered skin.
As though he had been burned, he snatched his hand back again.
'Oleander without a doubt,' he said. 'But why were you touching it?'
'That was caused by the same oleander you sent to me for the physic I use for leprosy,' said Bartholomew.
Jonas backed up against the wall, as though faced with a physical threat. 'Not me, Matthew,' he said. 'You know I am careful with such poisons. Have I ever made a mistake in the measurements and doses I send to you? Everything) that leaves this shop, even down to the mildest salve, is | checked. First by me, then by my apprentices and then i by my wife.'
'But nevertheless, this powerful oleander was sent to me,' said Bartholomew persistently. 'Yesterday afternoon.'
Jonas's confusion increased. He pointed to a package on one of the wall shelves. 'There is your order of oleander, Matthew. It is ready but, as I said, all potions leaving my shop are checked. Your order has | not yet been checked by my wife, which is why it is waiting. '
Now it was Bartholomew's turn to be confused. 'But you sent my order yesterday.'
Jonas bristled. 'I did no such thing. You can look in my record book if you doubt me.'
Bartholomew exchanged a puzzled look with Michael.
'Were Eleanor or Hedwise Tyler here yesterday?' he asked.
Jonas smiled suddenly. 'Both were here. Eleanor has been most helpful these last few weeks. The outbreak of] summer ague has meant that we have been busier than usual and she has been a valuable assistant. She helped A to prepare some of the orders yesterday, and even offered to deliver them, so that my apprentices would not have to leave their work.'
The smile slowly faded and he swallowed hard. 'Oh no!' he said, backing away from them. 'You are not going to tell me that Eleanor sent the poison?'
'Does she have access to your poisons?' asked Bartholomew.
'Not access as such,' said Jonas, his small hands fluttering like birds about the front of his apron in his agitation. 'But she was interested in my work and I showed her what was where.'
'I assume you store your oleander in its concentrated form and sell it diluted for medicines?' asked
