A Poisonous Plot (20 page)

‘That would be an extreme thing to do,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Although if he were drunk …’

‘And finally, Wauter.’ Michael raised a hand when Bartholomew began to object. ‘I do not believe him capable of such wickedness either, but he has said and done some very odd things of late, and until they are explained, he must remain on our list.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, albeit reluctantly.

Michael stood. ‘So there are our suspects: Nigellus, Shirwynk with Peyn, Stephen, Wayt and his two alibi-less colleagues from King’s Hall, Hakeney and Wauter. We had better go to Zachary before any more of the day is lost, and assess whether Nigellus has made an end of Irby.’

They knocked on Zachary’s door a short while later, and were admitted to a building that was as grand as any College. It possessed a handsome hall on the ground floor, beautifully decorated with geometrical designs, and with real glass in its windows. Unlike most foundations, it did not serve as a refectory
and
lecture chamber – Zachary had designated classrooms for teaching, so that its masters did not have to compete with each other to make themselves heard.

‘If you are here to fine us for improper dress, think again,’ said Morys challengingly. He was wearing another yellow and black outfit, while his students had also dispensed with their uniform tabards in favour of something more colourful, and Nigellus was in red. ‘We are indoors, and can do what we like in the confines of our own home.’

Michael smiled pleasantly. ‘You may, of course. However, my beadles are under orders to stamp down on infractions in the streets, so you might want to change before going out.’

Morys’s expression turned smug. ‘You will never see the fine you levied on Saturday, though. Tynkell has quashed it for us, on the grounds that it was Hallow-tide.’

‘He does not have that authority,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Besides, it has already been entered in our official records, so unless you want “payment refused” put next to it – which means that no Zachary man will graduate until the matter is resolved – I suggest you settle the debt.’

‘You cannot—’ began Morys furiously.

‘I already have,’ said Michael. ‘So what will it be? Payment or a battle you will never win?’

Scowling angrily, Morys counted out the coins and handed them over, while Michael sat at a table to write a receipt. Nigellus made no effort to contribute to the discussion, and went instead to pick up a book and flick through it with studied disinterest. Bartholomew regarded him with dislike, thinking that here was a man who had spent so many years cowing patients with arrogant condescension that he exuded disdain as a matter of course.

‘Do you not consider it demeaning to browbeat a man by telling tales to his mother, Morys?’ asked Michael as he worked. ‘It seems rather a shabby thing to do.’

‘I am perfectly within my rights to write to my new in-laws,’ declared Morys, bristling like an angry insect. ‘It is hardly my fault that Tynkell is frightened of his dam.’

‘If she is as terrifying as he claims, you might have done yourself a serious disservice by summoning her,’ warned Michael. ‘She may have words for you, too.’

Morys drew himself up to his full unimpressive height. ‘Let her try! I am more than capable of standing firm against a woman, even one who counts royals among her friends.’

‘Are you Principal now that Irby is dead, or will there be an election?’ asked Michael, changing the subject abruptly as he scattered sand on the ink to dry it. ‘I imagine you are not the only scholar who would like a stab at the post.’

‘Actually, he is,’ said Nigellus. ‘So there will be no election, because we are all agreed: Morys is the man to lead us forward.’

Morys grinned nastily. ‘Wauter will be sorry he left Zachary when he hears that Irby is dead. He wanted to be Principal himself.’

‘He is happy where he is,’ said Bartholomew sharply.

‘You think being a Fellow is preferable to being a Principal?’ sneered Morys. ‘Wauter will not – he is an ambitious man. Or have you not yet seen that side of his character? Your Langelee should watch himself.’

‘Irby,’ said Bartholomew, declining to pursue such a distasteful discussion. ‘I would like to examine him now. Where is he?’

‘Examine him?’ demanded Nigellus, eyes narrowing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I need an official cause of death to enter in the records,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘As is the case for any scholar who dies.’

‘Nigellus conducted the only examination that is necessary,’ stated Morys. ‘He rested a hand on Irby’s forehead after he died, to test for the presence of his soul.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘He did what?’

‘It is a standard medical technique,’ replied Nigellus loftily. ‘As you would know if you had my extensive experience. Cadavers vibrate if the soul is still within them.’

‘Regardless,’ said Michael, speaking while Bartholomew was still processing the outrageous claim, ‘my Corpse Examiner is duty-bound to look for himself. So where is Irby?’

‘I am not telling you,’ said Nigellus. ‘You have no right to maul—’

‘We have every right,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or is there a reason you want to keep him hidden? Such as the fact that his death is not all you claim?’

‘Of course not!’ snarled Nigellus. ‘Very well – disturb his rest if you must. However, you will do it without me, because I want no part in such a vile desecration.’

‘Good,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Because you would not have been permitted to observe anyway. It is against regulations.’

This was news to Bartholomew, although Nigellus only gave an irritable sigh before returning to his book. This time, there was considerable agitation in his page flicking, so much so that one tore. Muttering under his breath, Morys led the way up the stairs, where Irby occupied the largest room, laid out ready to be carried to church.

‘Will you be long?’ Morys asked curtly. ‘We have sent for a bier, and it will be here soon. We do not want to pay extra because you make the bearers wait.’

‘Your grief for Irby is duly noted,’ said Michael drily. ‘And the answer to your question is that the examination will take as long as is necessary. Now leave us, please.’

Huffing irritably, Morys backed out and closed the door behind him. Michael took a scrap of parchment from his purse and shoved it in the keyhole. He and Bartholomew exchanged wry grins when they heard the new Principal curse softly on the other side.

‘Hurry up,’ Michael whispered, aiming for a large clothes chest, which he flung open. ‘I suspect it will not be long before they devise some pretext to interrupt us.’

‘What are you hoping to find?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him begin to rifle.

‘Poison – which will give us the evidence we need to arrest Nigellus.’

‘It will not be in here. If Irby has been murdered, the culprit will have taken any toxins away, to ensure that no one ever knows how his victim really died.’

‘We shall see.’

They were silent as they worked, Michael opening cupboards and peering under the bed, and Bartholomew intent on his examination. Unfortunately, it told him nothing. There were no marks of violence, no suggestion of illness – sudden or otherwise – and no indication that Irby had been forced to swallow poison.

‘So what did kill him then?’ asked Michael, exasperated. ‘Not “loss of appetite” surely?’

‘I do not know, Brother. However, Nigellus does not distinguish between symptoms and diseases, so it is possible that Irby complained about not being hungry – a remark that Nigellus then took to be an ailment in itself.’

‘You are too generous. Irby’s lack of hunger was probably caused by some insidious poison. Do you know of any that might have such a terrible effect?’

‘Plenty, although there is no way to tell whether they were fed to Irby – and dissection will not give us an answer, before you suggest it. In short, I cannot tell you why he died, and my official verdict will have to be “cause unknown”.’

‘Damn! Because something untoward is definitely afoot here. For a start, everything in this room belongs to Morys, and there is no sign of that grey and cream cloak Irby always wore. Morys could not even wait for Irby’s corpse to be moved before claiming these quarters as his own!’

‘Does that mean he is the killer, not Nigellus?’

‘Not necessarily – perhaps they did it together. After all, there does seem to be a consensus in Zachary that Irby was too placid.’

‘But we have no evidence. You found no sign that a toxin was used, and neither did I.’

Michael pointed to a jug on the table. ‘The obvious place for it is there – it contains Shirwynk’s apple wine, which we know Irby liked, because he always had a flask of it to hand. But I drank from it just now, and I am still here, so it must be innocent.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You sampled wine in a room where you suspect a man was poisoned? What were you thinking?’

‘That we needed answers,’ replied Michael shortly. Then he looked sheepish. ‘To be frank, I was thirsty, and it did not occur to me that it might be dangerous until I had taken a substantial swallow. But we are wasting our time here, Matt. If Irby was murdered, his killers have covered their tracks too well. We shall have to find another way to catch them.’

Bartholomew was about to open the door when he noticed a piece of parchment adhering to the bottom of the jug – one that might have remained hidden if Michael had not indulged his greedy instincts. It was folded in half, and he was surprised to see his own name written on one side. He opened it, aware of the thudding of his heart. Was it going to be an outpouring of Irby’s fears, naming Nigellus or Morys as the villain and berating Bartholomew for not coming to his aid? But there were only three words, and they made no sense whatsoever.

‘
Similia similibus curantur
,’ he read aloud. He looked at Michael in puzzlement as he translated. ‘“Like things are cured by like things”. What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that it is time we asked Nigellus a few probing questions,’ said Michael with quiet determination.

‘Why him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And not Morys?’

‘Because of the word
cured
, which is what physicians do. Or do not do. I imagine Irby left this clue when you failed to answer his plea for help. He would have known that the Corpse Examiner would come, and it is his way of identifying his killer.’

‘You are reading far too much into it, Brother! It might just be the nonsensical ramblings of a dying man.’

‘Perhaps. But let us see what Nigellus has to say for himself.’

They descended the stairs to discover that Nigellus had gone to Trinity Hall, to tend those patients who had not benefited from standing under the full moon in clean underwear. Michael shot Bartholomew a look that revealed exactly what he was thinking: that Nigellus had fled to avoid being asked any awkward questions.

‘I am sure he will not be long,’ the monk said, sitting on a bench and making himself comfortable. The Zachary men exchanged glances of consternation: they had expected him to leave once the Corpse Examiner had finished with Irby. ‘Meanwhile, perhaps you will talk to us.’

Alarm flashed in Morys’s eyes, and he ordered a student to fetch Nigellus back as quickly as possible, which had Michael flinging Bartholomew another meaningful glance, this one asking why the new Principal was unwilling to suffer an interrogation on his colleague’s behalf.

‘We found this.’ Michael handed over the scrap of parchment. ‘Is it Irby’s writing?’

Morys nodded. ‘He must have penned it in his delirium – a nonsense, as I am sure you can tell. Where was it?’

‘Under the wine jug.’

Morys pulled a face. ‘Ah, yes, the apple wine he loved so much. Personally, I would never touch anything made by Shirwynk. His hatred of our University is unnatural, and he cannot be trusted not to piss in it – or worse.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully: did the remark arise from the perfectly understandable caution of a man who hated scholars? Or was he trying to shift the blame for Irby’s death on to an innocent party?

‘You assumed the mantle of responsibility very quickly, Morys,’ remarked Michael. ‘Was Irby even cold before you took possession of his room?’

‘Nigellus said Irby’s soul had left his body, so where lay the harm?’ shrugged Morys. ‘However, I can see what you are thinking, and you are wrong. No one at Zachary would have harmed Irby. He was weak, but we liked him, and we are sorry he has gone.’

‘Where are his belongings?’ asked Michael, his cool expression suggesting that he did not believe a word of it. ‘We need to examine those as well.’

‘Why?’ asked Morys suspiciously, then shrugged again when the monk’s eyebrows drew down in an irritable frown. ‘They are in the shed, ready to be sent to his kin.’

A student conducted them there, but although Michael and Bartholomew went through Irby’s things with the utmost care, they found nothing to help their investigation. Bartholomew paid special attention to the wineskin, but it was empty, and if it had contained something to hasten its owner’s end, there was no sign of it now.

They returned to Zachary’s hall, where Michael once again made himself comfortable, and Bartholomew stood behind him, tense and alert for trouble.

‘What happened last night?’ the monk asked. ‘We know Irby tried to summon Matt.’

Morys rolled his eyes to indicate his irritation at being questioned again, but answered anyway. ‘He had been unwell for two weeks or more, but woke feeling worse yesterday. Nigellus recommended that he stay in bed and told me to take his place on the
consilium
. A little later, the rest of the hostel joined us at the
disceptatio
.’

‘You left a sick man alone?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed.

‘No – Stephen the lawyer offered to sit with him. When we came home, Irby was fading fast. He asked for you, but then Nigellus arrived back, so you were not needed. Irby died shortly after. Of loss of appetite, as I am sure you discovered. Now is there anything else? I have work to do.’

Michael smiled enigmatically. ‘Then do it. Matt and I will not disturb you.’

Bristling with indignation, Morys busied himself with pens and parchment, but the presence of the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner was a distraction, and although he made a good show of being inundated with important business, he did little more than shuffle documents into random piles.