A Poisonous Plot (21 page)

Eventually, the door opened and Nigellus stalked in. The student had evidently decided that reinforcements were needed, because he had brought Kellawe and Segeforde as well, a sight that lit Morys’s waspish face with relief. The Franciscan muttered something in his thick northern accent that might have been a greeting, but that might equally well have been an insult. His voice was hoarse, indicating that he had been ranting, almost certainly at the dyeworks. But it was Segeforde who caught Bartholomew’s attention: the man’s thick purple lips were stark against an unnaturally white face, which shone with sweat.

‘Go to see if Yerland is better, Segeforde,’ instructed Morys. ‘Then lie down yourself. You are exhausted after the effort of preparing … our students for yesterday’s debate … drilling them in the art of disputation, I mean. Not making them learn chunks of legal tract verbatim.’

‘We lost because Michaelhouse cheated,’ snarled Kellawe, and out went his pugnacious jaw, all bristling antagonism.

‘What is wrong with Yerland?’ asked Bartholomew, treating the ridiculous claim with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it.

‘A headache,’ replied Nigellus. ‘I told him he would feel better if he recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards, but he refuses to do it on the grounds that he cannot concentrate. Fool!’

‘Perhaps Bartholomew has a remedy,’ said Segeforde, the hope in his voice suggesting that if so, he would have a dose of it himself.

Bartholomew made for the door. ‘Where is Yerland? Upstairs?’

‘Yes, but there is no need for you to see him,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘Just give me what you usually prescribe for severe pains in the head, and I will make sure he swallows it.’

‘I cannot prescribe anything without examining him first,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Nigellus should think he might. ‘Headaches are symptomatic of all manner of conditions, and it would be reckless to dispense medicine without making a proper diagnosis first.’

Nigellus scowled. ‘Very well, if you must, although you are wasting your time. Segeforde will take you to him, while I stay here with Morys and Kellawe. They can help me answer the Senior Proctor’s questions, which I imagine will be deeply stupid.’

Segeforde took Bartholomew to the students’ dormitory, where Yerland writhed in agony. A brief glance inside the lad’s mouth showed no evidence that he had swallowed anything caustic, but that did not mean he had
not
been poisoned. As the student was unable to answer questions himself, Segeforde obliged. He did so in a voice that shook with fear, and Bartholomew saw he fully expected to share Yerland’s fate.

‘It came on suddenly. Before that, he was as hale as the rest of us.’

‘Has he eaten or drunk anything different than usual?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There must have been special Hallow-tide treats over the past three days.’

‘Of course, but they were all from common pots, and no one else is ill. He did have a
lot
of apple pie, though.’

‘What about you? Did you eat a lot of apple pie too?’

‘No,’ whispered Segeforde. ‘I do not like fresh fruit, so I kept to the Lombard slices. I cannot imagine what is wrong with me. Do you think it is a deadly contagion that will carry us all off?’

‘It is not a contagion.’ Bartholomew decided to be blunt. ‘Has Nigellus given you or Yerland anything to swallow? Some remedy, perhaps, which he claimed is beneficial to health?’

Segeforde would not look at him. ‘He thinks such things are a waste of money, and I was surprised when he agreed to let you prescribe a cure for Yerland. Perhaps he feels the boy is beyond his skills – just as Irby was last night.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He rummaged in the bag he always carried over his shoulder for wood betony and poppy juice, hoping Yerland’s pain would subside with sleep. He mixed a milder dose for Segeforde, who gulped it down eagerly. It was not long before Yerland’s breathing grew deep and regular, and the lines of agony eased from his face. The colour returned to Segeforde’s cheeks, too. Bartholomew recommended that they both confine themselves to barley broth and weak ale for a few days, and to call him if there was no further improvement. Then he went downstairs, where Michael was still grilling Nigellus.

‘What does
similia similibus curantur
mean to you?’ he was asking. Nigellus, Morys and Kellawe sat in a row facing him, all looking like courtiers in their gorgeous robes; even Kellawe’s habit was a princely garment, quite unlike those worn by most friars in his Order. ‘Irby wrote it shortly before he died – addressed to Matt.’

Nigellus leaned back in his chair, all arrogant confidence. ‘It means nothing – other than that his wits must have wandered as he slipped into his fatal decline.’

‘What do you think killed him?’ asked Michael.

‘Loss of appetite,’ replied Nigellus. ‘How many more times do you need to be told?’

‘No one starves to death in a few hours,’ put in Bartholomew impatiently.

‘I did not say he starved,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘I said he lost his appetite. Clearly, his lack of eating caused a fatal imbalance in his humours. However, he did not stop drinking, and he was fond of Shirwynk’s apple wine – perhaps that played a role in his demise.’

‘We will never know,’ said Michael pointedly, ‘because someone had emptied the wineskin he always carried.’

‘Irby himself, probably,’ shrugged Nigellus. ‘As I said, he had a fondness for the stuff.’

‘A lot of your patients have died recently: the Barnwell folk, Letia, Lenne, Arnold, Frenge and now Irby.’

Nigellus was unfazed by the accusation inherent in the observation. ‘It happens, as Bartholomew will tell you. Indeed, he has lost two clients himself in the last month.’

‘Three,’ corrected Kellawe. ‘I heard that the cousin of Vine the potter died an hour ago,’

‘Did she?’ Bartholomew was dismayed. He never had been summoned to see her, almost certainly because Vine objected to his association with the dyeworks, but he had intended to visit anyway. It had slipped his mind, and now it was too late.

‘Why are you concerned about these particular fatalities anyway?’ asked Morys. ‘None are people who will be missed: Letia did nothing but moan, Lenne and Frenge were troublemakers, and Arnold was too old to be useful. And as for Barnwell, well, that was weeks ago, so who cares about them now?’

‘You dispense some very odd cures, Nigellus,’ said Michael, eyeing Morys with distaste before turning back to the Junior Physician. ‘Such as telling those at Trinity Hall to stand in moonlight and wear clean undergarments.’

‘And most have recovered,’ asserted Nigellus haughtily. ‘Thanks to me.’

‘Have you heard the good news about Kellawe?’ Morys spoke even as Michael drew breath for another question. ‘He has been granted licence to absolve all scholars from acts of violence. It means we shall have the advantage in the looming crisis – we can dispense any lessons we like to aggravating townsmen, but nothing we do will count against our souls on Judgement Day.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘The University has not applied for one of those.’

‘Oh, yes, we have,’ said Morys. ‘Chancellor Tynkell obliged, at my suggestion.’

‘And we shall be needing it soon,’ added Kellawe, eyes gleaming. ‘Scholars will not stand mute for much longer while the town abuses us. And the biggest insults of all are the dyeworks and their scheming whores.’

Bartholomew did not often feel like punching anyone, but he experienced a very strong desire to clout the Franciscan. Michael pushed him towards the door before he could do it, informing the Zachary men curtly that he would be back with more questions another time.

‘Damn Tynkell!’ Michael hissed, once they were outside. ‘And damn Morys, too! The town will see Kellawe’s licence as a deliberate move against them. It was a stupid, wicked thing to have done when we are on the brink of serious trouble.’

‘If Kellawe insults my sister again, he will be absolving
me
from an act of violence,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘But what are we going to do about Irby? Just because we found no evidence against his colleagues does not mean they are innocent of harming him.’

Michael nodded. ‘So we shall ask Stephen if Irby said anything significant as he lay dying.’

The lawyer lived on the High Street in one of the best houses in the town. A maid led Bartholomew and Michael to an elegant room filled with sunlight, where her master was reading. Books stood in regimented rows on shelves that lined one complete wall, so numerous that Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping – books were expensive, given that each had to be handwritten, a task that might take a scribe several years.

‘My library,’ explained Stephen proudly. ‘Mostly tomes on architecture.’

‘You promised them to Michaelhouse,’ recalled Michael. ‘Then to Gonville Hall.’

‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘But I have decided to keep them for myself. They mean a great deal to me, and I do not want them to go to a place that is on the brink of collapse.’

‘Michaelhouse is a very stable foundation,’ lied Michael, then added spitefully, ‘although I cannot say the same about Gonville. Its Master has been in Avignon for years, and shows no sign of returning.’

‘Actually, I was referring to the University as a whole,’ said Stephen, ‘which is about to decant to the Fens, where it will not survive. Of course, I shall not mind seeing its lawyers go – it will mean more work for me.’

‘There is no truth in that silly rumour,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why would we abandon Cambridge when we have everything we need here?’

‘Because many of your scholars are weary of the discord between them and the town, and are delighted by the notion of a fresh start.’

‘Well, we are not going anywhere,’ averred Michael between gritted teeth. ‘How many more times must I say it?’

‘The town will be disappointed. It is looking forward to being shot of you.’

Michael scowled at him. ‘Relations might be easier if
you
did not dispense inflammatory advice – such as urging King’s Hall to sue Frenge, and encouraging Edith to open a dyeworks. Both have set town and University at each other’s throats.’

‘I suppose they have,’ acknowledged Stephen carelessly. ‘But it could not be helped.’

‘I understand you were with Irby yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly before his dislike of the man could start to show. ‘When he was ill.’

‘Yes, I sat with him for two or three hours. He was a good man and will be missed.’

‘Did he say anything at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or write messages to anyone?’

‘He was asleep most of the time. I stayed until his colleagues returned from the
disceptatio
, then came home. He thanked me when I went, but those were the only words he spoke. And he certainly did not pick up a pen.’

‘Why did Zachary ask you to do the honours?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Or do you have secret nursing skills?’

‘There is little nursing required for a man in slumber, as your pet physician will confirm. However, I volunteered to help because Irby was a friend, and I did not want him to be left alone while the others went out.’

‘Did you know he was dying?’ asked Bartholomew, manfully resisting the urge to insult Stephen back.

‘No – Nigellus told me that Irby was suffering from loss of appetite, which did not sound very serious, so I was stunned when I later heard that he was dead. Unfortunately, I think I caught something from him, because I do not feel well today. Nigellus says I have the
debilitas
.’

‘The what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘The
deb-il-i-tas
,’ repeated Stephen, enunciating pedantically. ‘The poor have flux, fleas and boils, but the rich have the
debilitas
. Nigellus says he would not sully his hands with common sicknesses, but the
debilitas
is another matter.’

‘Would you like me to examine you?’ offered Bartholomew, to avoid giving an opinion on such an outlandish claim.

‘No, thank you.’ The lawyer eyed the physician’s shabby clothes with open disdain. ‘I bought a horoscope from Nigellus, and he assures me that if I avoid onions and cats, I shall feel well again in no time at all.’

‘You had two visitors on the day that Frenge died,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could comment on Nigellus’s peculiar advice. ‘First, Frenge himself …’

‘Yes – he came to ask whether Anne de Rumburgh might prefer marchpanes or a bale of cloth as a token of his esteem.’ Stephen’s face was impossible to read.

‘He sought the opinion of a man who slept with her
once
?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Or are we to conclude that you know Anne rather better than you would have us believe?’

‘You may conclude what you like, Brother.’ Stephen smiled blandly. ‘But Frenge respected my wisdom in the matter. What more can I say?’

‘The second visitor was Shirwynk,’ Michael went on. ‘He—’

‘We have already discussed this,’ interrupted the lawyer. ‘He came to hire my services against King’s Hall.’ He stood abruptly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I have important business to attend. Good day.’

There was a powerful stench in the air as they emerged from Stephen’s house, and Bartholomew groaned. How could Edith expect her dyeworks to be accepted when they produced such rank odours every few hours? He started to hurry there, sure the demonstrators would not let the reek pass unremarked and wanting to be to hand if she needed help. Michael followed, but they had not taken many steps before they met Wayt.

‘No, I will not drop my case against the brewery,’ the Acting Warden snarled in response to Michael’s hopeful question. ‘Cew is costing a fortune in horoscopes – Nigellus is expensive – and I do not see why King’s Hall should pay for something that was Frenge’s fault.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘Michaelhouse would not baulk at the cost if one of
our
members needed specialist medical attention.’

Wayt shot him an unpleasant look. ‘We did not mind at first, but it is a bottomless pit, because Cew is not getting better. Nigellus’s latest advice is to apply cold compresses to the head – ones that contain some very expensive oils.’