A Poisonous Plot (18 page)

‘What happened when he and Wayt parted ways?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not know. I could not bear to be in the same vicinity as either, so I walked to the dyeworks, where I listened to Edith and Anne talk about woad balls for the rest of the day.’

Edith confirmed Rumburgh’s tale, which meant that he – and Anne – had alibis for Frenge’s murder. Bartholomew was thoughtful. Had the burgess witnessed the quarrel that had led one man to poison another, and he and Michael need look no further than the Acting Warden of King’s Hall for their culprit?

A little later, Bartholomew saw Rougham, and supposed he had better apologise for what had happened the previous day. He was surprised to see him talking to Nigellus, though, because no one else from Zachary had accepted Langelee’s invitation. As Bartholomew seriously doubted that Nigellus was a more gracious loser than the rest of his colleagues, he was instantly suspicious.

‘I hope your lads learned something useful yesterday, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham pleasantly. ‘Nigellus and I certainly put them through their paces. Indeed, there were several instances when they were stunned into silence by the beauty of our logic.’

Bartholomew breathed a silent prayer of relief that Rougham was so full of hubris that he had failed to realise what was really happening. ‘They told me they had enjoyed themselves,’ he replied ambiguously.

‘You can thank me by explaining why Stephen has withdrawn his offer to give Gonville his books,’ said Rougham. ‘I saw you talking to him earlier. Did he mention it?’

‘I know why.’ Nigellus spoke before Bartholomew could answer. ‘Because Michaelhouse made such a fuss about you having them that Stephen decided to disinherit both Colleges.’

Rougham eyed him coldly. ‘Do not try to stir up hostility between Bartholomew and me, Nigellus. It is unbecoming. And speaking of unsavoury antics, I am unimpressed with Zachary’s fervour for decanting to the Fens as well. It is a stupid notion, and you would be wise to drop it.’

‘On the contrary,’ growled Nigellus, ‘it is the most sensible idea I have heard since I enrolled in the University. But do your objections mean you will not be coming with us?’

‘They do,’ averred Rougham. ‘I am not going anywhere, and neither will Michaelhouse, King’s Hall, Bene’t College or any other quality establishment. Your new
studium generale
will comprise nothing but a lot of ruffians from the lowest kind of hostel.’

‘Is that so?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Well, we shall see. However, I am delighted to learn that we shall soon part company permanently. To be frank, I do not respect either of you as
medici
.’

‘There speaks the
Junior
Physician,’ scoffed Rougham. ‘However, it is not we who have lost so many patients of late – Letia, Arnold, Lenne, six clients from Barnwell …’

‘None of them would have died if they had followed my advice,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘I calculated their horoscopes with great precision, and outlined exactly what they needed to do to save their lives. Is it my fault that they elected to ignore me?’

‘You mean they declined to take the medicines you prescribed?’ probed Bartholomew, thinking of the arsenal of potentially toxic ingredients that was available to physicians, many of which would not be detectable even if the victim was dissected.

‘I do not prescribe medicine,’ replied Nigellus haughtily. ‘If a patient needs some, then he is past saving and it would be a waste of his money.’

‘Lies!’ cried Rougham, while Bartholomew regarded the Zachary man askance. ‘You
do
dispense cures, because I saw you at the apothecary’s shop only today.’

‘Yes – buying liquorice root for sweetmeats,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘Not that it is any of your concern. Irby has a fondness for them, and I thought they might cheer him up. He is a colleague, you see, so I am prepared to go the extra mile for him.’

‘How is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing some of Nigellus’s clients were listening, as he was sure they would defect to another practitioner if they knew their current one did not consider them worthy of his best efforts.

‘Ill,’ replied Nigellus shortly. ‘He has lost his appetite.’

Bartholomew waited for a fuller report, and when none came said, ‘What ails him exactly?’

Nigellus regarded him askance. ‘I have just told you: loss of appetite. It is a nasty disease.’

‘It is not a disease,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘It is a symptom.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Nigellus. ‘But I expect him to die of his malady, and then we shall have Morys as Principal. I cannot say I am sorry. Zachary needs a strong man at the helm, and while Irby is a kindly soul, he is hardly what you would call an inspiring leader.’

‘Would you like Rougham or me to visit him?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. Irby had not been in good health when they had last met, but he had certainly not been dying. Did it mean that Nigellus
was
the killer, and was in the process of claiming yet another victim – one whose death he had just said would suit him very well?

‘I do not. He is
my
patient, and I shall thank you not to meddle.’

Bartholomew went on the offensive. ‘You claimed that Letia died of dizziness, but—’

‘Dizziness?’ blurted Rougham. ‘I have never heard
that
ever given as a cause of death.’

‘Then you are a poor physician,’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Next you will say that there is no such disease as metal in the mouth, which killed Lenne. Or insomnia, which took Arnold. Or pallor, which carried away so many at Barnwell, although I bested it when it struck Trinity Hall.’

‘But they are
not
diseases,’ cried Bartholomew. ‘And what is “metal in the mouth” anyway?’

‘I am shocked that you should need to ask,’ declared Nigellus. ‘Call yourself a
medicus
? Clearly, you have a very long way to go before you match me in experience and skill. Now, if you will excuse me, there are wealthy burgesses who may need to buy a disease-preventing horoscope.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Rougham, watching him strut away, while Bartholomew supposed the last remark explained why Nigellus had accepted Langelee’s invitation. ‘If I am ever ill, promise you will not let him anywhere near me. I shall do the same for you.’

Bartholomew made the vow with all sincerity. Then Rougham went to refill his goblet, and Bartholomew turned to see that Michael had overheard the entire conversation.

‘Even I know you cannot die of pallor, insomnia and dizziness,’ said the monk. ‘While “metal in the mouth” is a nonsense.’

‘He should not be allowed anywhere near the sick,’ stated Bartholomew. ‘Unless we can believe his claim that he does not bother with medicine.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps we need look no further for our poisoner. But would Nigellus be strong enough to force a fit man like Frenge to swallow something deadly?’

‘Yes, if the first mouthful was taken willingly. Then, when Frenge collapsed from the shock, Nigellus could have grabbed his head and poured the rest into his mouth. But why would Nigellus do such a thing? He has no reason to inflict such a terrible death on a client.’

‘Actually, he has – I have just learned that Irby bought ale from Frenge, but it was bad. Several Zachary masters stormed to the brewery to demand a refund, but Frenge refused. The confrontation grew quite heated, by all accounts.’

‘And you think this is sufficient to drive a healer to murder?’

‘I think it is sufficient to drive
Nigellus
to murder. Apparently, he was most indignant about the wrong that was done to his new hostel. Perhaps it is his way of demonstrating loyalty to the foundation that brought him from a dull country practice to the hub of academia.’

‘He was not the only one who quarrelled with Frenge.’ Briefly, Bartholomew told the monk what Rumburgh had confided, but when they went in search of the Acting Warden of King’s Hall, it was to discover that he had left early. Someone else had left early, too.

‘My wife has gone home,’ said Rumburgh. ‘She found your hall a little too warm.’

‘So did Wayt,’ said Michael. ‘And I imagine they are both busily dispensing with unnecessary clothing as we speak.’

It was late by the time the last of Michaelhouse’s guests went home, leaving their hosts with a mass of dirty goblets and a crumb-strewn floor. Wearily, Fellows and students began setting all to rights, while the servants were packed off to bed before they could claim overtime.

‘That went well,’ said Suttone, whose idea of clearing up was to eat the leftovers. ‘No one will think we are on the brink of bankruptcy now, and benefactors will flock to us.’

‘Have any flocked so far?’ asked Wauter eagerly.

‘Not yet,’ replied Langelee. ‘So we must continue the illusion for a little longer. Our next ploy will be to change the colour of our tabards from black to green.’

‘We cannot buy new cloth for sixty students and Fellows, Master,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘The expense would finish us for certain.’

‘And therein lies the beauty of my plan,’ said Langelee smugly. ‘We will not have
new
tabards made – we shall dye the old ones. Edith has offered to oblige for a very reasonable price.’

‘But they are black,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘The colour will not take.’

‘I am sure she knows what she is doing,’ said Langelee. ‘She would not have accepted the commission if she did not think she could do it.’

‘Then I hope your trust is not misplaced,’ said Wauter worriedly. ‘Or we shall have no tabards at all, and our students will have to wear secular clothes.’

‘Like Zachary,’ said Father William disapprovingly. ‘Not one was in his uniform today, and if we had lost the
disceptatio
, I was going to demand that they be disqualified on the grounds of illegal attire. But as we won, I decided to overlook it. Still, I am surprised that Tynkell did not order them home to change.’

‘It is time we were rid of Tynkell and had a proper Chancellor,’ said Suttone harshly. ‘One who is not afraid that Morys might carry tales to his mother.’

‘Incidentally, Irby summoned you earlier,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew. ‘He claimed he was dying and wanted you to visit. I was on my way to fetch you, but Nigellus intercepted me and volunteered to go instead. I did not think you would mind, as they are members of the same hostel.’

Alarmed, Bartholomew grabbed his cloak. ‘I had better go now.’

‘Unfortunately, there is no longer a need,’ said Langelee. ‘There was another message within the hour to say that Irby had passed away. It was very sudden, apparently.’

‘Well,’ breathed Michael, while Bartholomew gazed at the Master in dismay. ‘Yet another of Nigellus’s patients dead in curious circumstances.’

‘We should go there now,’ determined Bartholomew, donning his cloak. ‘Nigellus was very open in wanting to be rid of Irby so that Morys could be Principal. Well, this is one death that will
not
go unremarked.’

‘Would he have expressed such an opinion if he were the killer?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘It would be reckless, would it not, to announce a motive for murder before the event?’

‘He thinks we are stupid,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He does not fear an investigation, because he believes he can outwit us.’

‘Then he will learn the perils of underestimating the Senior Proctor and his trusty Corpse Examiner,’ vowed Michael. ‘But it is very late, and Irby will still be dead in the morning. I recommend we wait until tomorrow before beginning our assault – when daylight will assist in telling you what really happened to the unfortunate Principal of Zachary Hostel.’

The All Souls’ Day celebrations marked the end of Hallow-tide, and the scholars of Michaelhouse woke the following morning aware that it was time to return to their usual routines. There were groans from Bartholomew’s students when the bell rang to call them to church, and everyone was tardy about assembling in the yard. There were sore heads aplenty, and no Fellow thought it would be a good day for teaching.

It was William’s turn to take the church service, and as he prided himself on the speed at which he could gabble through the sacred words, it was not long before everyone was walking back to College for breakfast. Any food left over from the reception had been eaten by the servants by the time they returned, so they sat down to watery oatmeal flavoured with cockles, cabbage and nutmeg. The dismal fare told them for certain that the holiday was over.

‘I thought about Irby all night,’ said Bartholomew unhappily, setting down his spoon when he found a slug in his bowl. ‘When Nigellus told me that he had confined him to bed, I assumed it was part of the ploy to foist
nemo dat
on us – to dispense with a member of the
consilium
who would have voted against it. I wish to God I had gone to see him at once.’

‘I wish you had, too,’ said Michael. ‘Then he might still be alive.’

‘He tried to summon me,’ Bartholomew went on wretchedly, ‘which suggests he was dissatisfied with Nigellus’s care. And with good cause.’

Michael nodded. ‘He is the tenth of Nigellus’s patients to die – the eleventh if we count Frenge. It cannot be coincidence, and he did say that Irby was not the leader he wanted for Zachary. I imagine we will find motives for the other deaths, too, if we dig deep enough.’

‘We might.’ Bartholomew was still racked with guilt for not going to Irby’s assistance.

‘But why
kill
them?’ Michael went on. ‘He must realise that people will notice if he loses more clients than other
medici
. Then the surviving ones will desert him, which he will not appreciate, given how much he loves the fees they pay.’

‘He practised at Barnwell for years before coming here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could not have dispatched those customers at this sort of rate, or the whole village would be in their graves. We must be wrong, Brother. He is a physician – a healer.’

‘Of sorts – even I can tell that he is barely competent. Hah! Now there is a thought …’

‘What is?’

‘Perhaps he dispatched them to conceal evidence of his ineptitude – his failure to cure them. After all, if he used poison, who would know? You detected signs of a corrosive substance on Frenge, but there was nothing on Letia, so perhaps he learned from his mistake. Meanwhile, Arnold and the Barnwell folk are buried, so unless we exhume them …’