‘Was it you then that amassed this fine collection of simples?’ he asked, investigating the shelves crowded with vials, earthenware pots, and jars of thick glass in which various coloured powders were distinguished by labels in strange vernaculars. He stopped more than once to investigate further, picking one out from the rest, opening its lid, and sniffing its contents.
‘A small, though comprehensive, collection that you might find interesting,’ the man said a little proudly, suddenly unguarded. ‘Some were gifts from pilgrims travelling from every part of the known world, as repayment for lodgings and food.’
‘And what lies behind this door?’ my master pointed with his carrot to an aperture on the far wall to one side of the fire.
The infirmarian, without glancing up from his work, answered, ‘The chapel, preceptor.’
I knew it was common practice for monasteries to have a small chapel near the infirmary for those whose illness prevented them from attending the services in the community church. However, I noted a lingering curiosity in my master’s eyes.
‘Yes, of course . . . and now, on another matter, do you keep poisons here or in the herbarium, Asa?’
‘Any potentia, used incorrectly, may be said to be a poison, preceptor,’ Asa pointed out.
‘No, I mean a specific poison, something very potent, that only requires the smallest amount to kill.’
‘We do have various substances, powders, derived from herbs we dry in our herbarium, atropa belladonna, colchicum autumnale, digitalis purpurea, datura stramonium. These compounds are very good in minute amounts for various treatments, but they are at the same time deadly. You don’t think that . . .’
‘I am exploring all possibilities, brother, and also I have to admit, all things curious interest me . . .’
‘We are not here to satisfy your curiosity of insignificant things, preceptor,’ the old man snarled.
‘No, you are quite right, I shall endeavour to be curious only of significant ones . . . and as it appears significant, I shall ask you where you keep these herbal compounds. Not in the reach of any person who might wander in, I hope?’
‘No, of course not!’ Setubar answered. ‘No one but the infirmarian and I have access to such things in the herbarium. We alone hold the keys.’
‘A prudent decision.’ There was a thoughtful pause. ‘On another matter, do you supply the monastery with any other substances apart from medicinal ones?’
‘We make our own ink,’ Asa said, ‘from the wood of thorntrees. I collect this wood for I am very often in the forest. However, the making of amalgam for applying gold leaf, the tempering of colours, and the production of glue, these things I leave to others who specialise in these arts.’
‘Yes, I see.’ My master then moved closer to the body on the great table, whose ashen features were troublesome, especially since there was a strange redness collecting on those parts beneath the trunk, lower arms and legs. Later my master was to tell me that when the heart stops beating the blood no longer circulates around the body, but collects in the areas where the body happens to be lying for a time after death, and this sometimes can indicate the length of time between a death and its discovery.
‘There is no bruising?’ he asked.
‘No, preceptor.’
My master handed me the stub of carrot and proceeded to his inspection of the body, firstly the feet, noting that they were covered in a red mud.
‘This is curious . . . clay?’
The infirmarian peered at the dead man’s feet. ‘So it is.’
‘But the abbey rests on dry, rocky earth,’ my master said thoughtfully.
‘Indeed, though if one digs lower, as I have occasion to do in the garden, a moist red earth reveals itself.’
‘I see.’
He continued working his way up the legs of the body, the torso, arms, and finally the fingers and hands.
‘His hands are sticky.’
‘Brother Ezekiel had a sweet tooth,’ said the old man in reply.
‘Ahh yes, the raisins.’ My master then searched the cadaver’s face, his ears, his eyes, and mouth. I looked away as he opened it and sniffed inside. ‘Was the venerable brother suffering from any illness or disorder that might account for his death? I can see his blood did not circulate well around his legs for here we see evidence of past ulceration, am I correct?’
‘Yes, if he were to bump his extremities in the slightest, his skin would tear, and within a few hours a terrible wound would develop,’ Asa answered.
‘And he was going blind, was he not?’ my master said, looking up.
‘Yes, for many years.’
‘We are then perhaps looking at the body of a man who suffered from a disease known in the east whose designation escapes me . . .’ He then quoted a medical text. ‘Just as the corpus of a man does not respire aqua,’ he said, ‘and a fish does not breathe air, so do many innocent substances kill those whose organisms find them unsuitable. It is only conjecture at this point, of course,’ my master stated, ‘but much knowledge can be gained by using the art of diagnostics.’