A Poisonous Plot (27 page)

‘Indeed,’ replied Bartholomew dutifully, although he would not have accepted a refill. Clearly, Norton’s definition of ‘exquisite’ was rather different from his own.

‘But now it is gone, and our older brews are rough by comparison. It was the sun, you see – it ripened the grapes at exactly the right time.’

There was something about the remark that made Bartholomew wonder if he was being told the whole truth, but the Prior asked him to tend two lay-brothers at that point – a sprain and a festering finger – obliging him to turn his mind to medicine. When he had finished, he walked home, thinking about what he had learned.

He had identified two common factors in the six deaths: Nigellus and fish from the river. He was inclined to dismiss the fish, because far more people would have died or become ill if those had been the culprit. Which left Nigellus.

When Bartholomew arrived home, Michael listened carefully to everything the physician had reasoned, then gave a brief account of his own discoveries.

‘Everyone who is ill or who has died of the
debilitas
was treated by a physician – most by Nigellus, but a few by you, Rougham and Meryfeld. Yet you say there is no such thing as the
debilitas
– it is a fiction invented by Nigellus.’

‘Not a fiction, but a grand term for a whole host of ailments, designed to make the wealthy think they have something more distinguished than stomach cramps, headaches, muscle weakness, constipation and so forth.’ Bartholomew’s expression was wry. ‘I imagine anyone with two pennies to rub together will be claiming to have it soon. It is fast becoming a status symbol.’

‘Then do not tell Langelee, or he will order everyone in Michaelhouse to acquire one.’

They walked to Water Lane, where Zachary’s door was answered by Morys, who was so angry that he seemed to have swollen in size – more hornet than wasp. Meanwhile, Kellawe had slunk home to change his shoes and glared challengingly as the visitors were shown into the hall. The students came to their feet as one, hands resting on the daggers they carried in their belts.

‘There is a statute forbidding the toting of arms,’ said Michael sharply.

‘It is no longer safe to be without them,’ retorted Kellawe. ‘And I have a licence to absolve scholars from violent acts, so protecting ourselves is not a problem.’

‘Your licence might save you time in Purgatory, but it will not protect you from a fine,’ said Michael. ‘And your warlike attitude has just won you one, as has your invasion of the dyeworks.’

‘I never—’ began Kellawe furiously.

‘The drips on your spoiled boots do not match the colours of the murals here,’ snapped Michael. ‘Do not take me for a fool.’

‘I did it for everyone,’ snarled Kellawe, not bothering to deny it further. ‘University
and
town. The dyeworks are a filthy abomination, and if you will not take steps to close them down, what choice do I have other than to take matters into my own hands?’

‘Five shillings,’ said Michael. ‘That is the fine for burglary. And three more for bearing arms. You will pay by the end of today or you can all enjoy a spell in the proctors’ cells.’

‘Is that why you came, Brother?’ asked Morys icily. ‘To demand yet more money and issue threats? Was not arresting Nigellus enough?’

‘It is an outrage,’ put in Kellawe hotly. ‘You had no right to—’

‘I have every right,’ snarled Michael. ‘His patients are dying like flies, and I would be remiss to ignore it. Yerland, Segeforde and Irby—’

‘Nigellus did not harm them.’ Kellawe was almost screaming. ‘You are a fool to suggest it. And why have you sealed them in their coffins? When I went to pay my last respects, one of your beadles refused to remove the lids.’

‘Because they are expelling poisonous miasmas,’ snapped Michael, although Bartholomew hoped
he
would not be asked to elaborate, given that he was not very good at telling convincing lies. ‘It happens on occasion, when a person has been fed toxic substances shortly before death. Lenne is similarly affected – another of Nigellus’s clients.’

‘What toxic substances?’ asked Kellawe, his voice dripping disbelief.

‘Ones that are sold to physicians and no one else,’ lied Michael, watching intently for a reaction. The only one he saw was an abrupt shying away from Bartholomew. ‘No, not him! He no longer uses them, on account of them being so dangerous.’

‘Then search Nigellus’s room,’ sneered Kellawe. ‘You will find nothing untoward there.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, although Morys shot the Franciscan an irritable scowl. ‘I will.’

Nigellus’s chamber was luxurious, and every piece of furniture was of the very highest quality. It did not, however, contain much in the way of medical paraphernalia, other than a urine flask that was dusty with disuse, a pile of astrological tables and a jar of liquorice root. If Nigellus had been dosing his customers with something deadly, he did not keep it at Zachary.

‘Or his colleagues have been here before us,’ muttered Michael, finally conceding defeat. ‘They would certainly conceal evidence of a crime to protect their hostel’s reputation.’

‘Would they?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If Nigellus
has
killed three of their colleagues, they might be wondering who will be next.’

They returned to the hall, where Michael began to put questions to the entire hostel. The atmosphere was glacial – Kellawe had been preaching insurrection while Bartholomew and Michael had been upstairs.

‘Tell us what happened yesterday,’ ordered the monk. ‘Start with Yerland.’

There was a moment when it seemed they would refuse to cooperate, but then Morys spoke.

‘He slept peacefully after Bartholomew gave him that draught. A few hours later, he woke and asked for more. Nigellus thought it too soon and told him to wait. Segeforde reported that Yerland slipped into an uneasy sort of doze thereafter, and died without uttering another word.’

‘So obviously, it was
your
medicine that sent him to his grave,’ hissed Kellawe. ‘Not Nigellus, who gave him nothing.’

‘How do you know Nigellus gave him nothing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did someone stay with Yerland the whole time, and so can swear to it?’

‘Yes,’ said the Franciscan coldly. ‘Segeforde did.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘So tell us what happened to
him
.’

‘He shut himself in his room after Yerland breathed his last,’ replied Morys. ‘Nigellus became worried after a while, and found him dead when he went to check on his well-being.’

‘Nigellus did?’ pounced Michael. ‘Fascinating. And Segeforde sleeps alone?’

‘Yes.’ Morys glared at him. ‘But that does not mean Nigellus sneaked in and killed him.’

No,’ conceded Michael. ‘Yet it is suspicious that the sole witness to Yerland’s death is dead himself,
and
that the man we suspect of murder is the one to discover Segeforde’s body.’

‘It is not
suspicious
at all,’ snarled Kellawe. ‘Nigellus has done nothing wrong, and you know it. He will sue you for wrongful arrest when you release him.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Michael, ignoring the threat.

‘Kellawe suggested taking Segeforde to the church,’ replied Morys. ‘Which was fortunate, given that you say his corpse is leaking nasty vapours. Normally, we would have kept him here.’

‘God told me to remove him to St Bene’t’s,’ said Kellawe smugly. ‘I am one of His chosen, so clearly He wanted to protect me from harm.’

Bartholomew itched to retort that God obviously did not care that much, given that Kellawe had then spent much of the night on his knees next to the bodies, but was afraid that observation might make Kellawe question Michael’s claim. And the last thing he wanted was for the lids to be removed and the victims examined.

‘Are you sure it is not because Segeforde had a better room?’ Michael was asking acidly. ‘And you wanted it empty so you could move into it yourself?’

Kellawe’s face was as black as thunder, especially when several students exchanged amused glances. ‘Perhaps I did lay claim to it this morning, but—’

‘At least you had the decency to remove the body first,’ said Michael.

Morys had the grace to blush.

‘That was helpful,’ said Michael brightly, once they were out in the street. ‘Nigellus almost certainly
did
give Yerland medicine, and Segeforde was murdered because he witnessed it.’

‘Perhaps, but you cannot prove it,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘I can prove that both victims – and Lenne and Irby, too – consumed something that damaged their livers and stomachs. Or rather, you can.’

‘Yes, but not that Nigellus was responsible. It might have been someone else. Kellawe or Morys, for example.’

‘Kellawe and Morys would not have murdered Lenne,’ argued Michael. ‘Whereas Nigellus was his physician. Moreover, you are forgetting that crucial piece of evidence – the note Irby wrote to you, in which he virtually
names
Nigellus as his killer.’

‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that the monk was putting far too much store in a message that was ambiguous at best.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘Then we shall visit Lenne’s wife and see what she can tell us. She will not enjoy an invasion from scholars, but it cannot be helped.’

Bartholomew fell into step beside him. They met the Austin friars on Milne Street – they had finished teaching the nominalism–realism debate to Michaelhouse’s students, and were on their way home. Prior Joliet was clutching his elbow, his round face creased with pain, while Robert had a solicitous arm around his shoulders and the burly Hamo toted a thick staff. Wauter was with them, looking angrier than Bartholomew had ever seen him.

‘Someone threw a rock,’ he said tightly. ‘The whole town has gone insane, and not even priests are safe now.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Tell me, and I will arrest him.’

‘I was not there,’ replied Wauter bitterly. ‘I wish I had been, because I would have—’

‘No,’ interrupted Joliet, gently but firmly. ‘We will not sink to violent thoughts.’ He turned to Michael. ‘We did not see the culprit, Brother. I just felt the stone land.’

‘We do not know if the attack was because we are scholars,’ added Robert, ‘or because we were emerging from Michaelhouse, which is home to a physician.’

‘There is a rumour that
medici
are dispatching their patients, you see,’ explained Joliet, when Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement. ‘One has been arrested for it.’

‘Segeforde,’ grunted Hamo.

‘Yes, let us not forget that damned fool,’ spat Wauter. ‘He assaulted a popular lady in front of dozens of witnesses. And do not say it was an accident, because it was not.’

‘It certainly looked deliberate to me,’ said Joliet. He shook his head tearfully when Bartholomew offered to examine his arm. ‘It is just a bruise, and I would rather not stay out longer than necessary – I want to be safely inside my convent with the gate locked. I dislike the town when it takes against the University.’

‘Fens,’ growled Hamo, gripping the stave. ‘Good.’

‘You are right, Hamo,’ said Robert, wincing when a group of passing apprentices took the opportunity to howl abuse. ‘Because as soon as one problem is solved in this place, another raises its head. Like my cross – Hakeney stole it today.’

‘How do you know it was him?’ asked Michael tiredly.

‘Because he raced up to me, tore it from my person and danced away laughing,’ replied Robert sourly. He rubbed his neck. ‘And it hurt.’

‘When they heard, the head of every convent in Cambridge demanded an audience with me,’ added Joliet. ‘They all said the same: that attacks on priests cannot be tolerated and action must be taken. They ordered me to report Hakeney to the Sheriff immediately.’

‘Which he did, but Tulyet was reluctant to make an arrest, lest it ignited a riot,’ Robert went on bitterly. ‘He said that Hakeney is clearly not in his right wits, and it would be wiser to resolve the matter without recourse to a process that might see him hanged.’

‘So we decided to let the matter go,’ said Joliet, ‘but then my fellow priors descended on me
again
, this time with Stephen, who recommended a civil suit instead.’

‘No!’ cried Michael, horrified. ‘The University cannot sue another townsman. Dick Tulyet was right: it will cause no end of trouble. The priors should have minded their own business.’

‘I disagree,’ said Wauter stiffly. ‘If we ignore this vicious assault, what message will it send to those who wish us harm? A lawsuit is the only way to keep us all safe.’

‘Let me speak to Hakeney,’ said Michael wearily. ‘I will tell him to give back the cross and apologise. Then you can tell Stephen that his services will not be required, and the matter can be quietly forgotten.’

‘Very well,’ said Joliet, sadness etched into a face that was meant for laughter. ‘I should like to avoid bad feeling if possible, so please try your best.’

‘But if Hakeney refuses, we will have no choice but to proceed,’ warned Robert. ‘We cannot risk people thinking it is acceptable to assault clerics – which some may already believe, given that Prior Joliet has just been injured. It is—’

He was interrupted by another barrage of waved fists and combative yells, this time from a gaggle of bakers. Joliet whimpered his distress, Robert and Wauter flinched, and Hamo took a firmer grip on his staff. Michael saw the culprits on their way with a few sharp words, but Bartholomew was unnerved. The Austins were by far the most popular Order in the town, and if they were not safe, what hope did the rest of the University have?

Not many moments passed before Bartholomew and Michael were stopped again, this time by Wayt and Dodenho from King’s Hall. They were at the head of a phalange of students who wore leather jerkins under their tabards, and carried swords or bows. One even had a mace, a weapon rarely seen off the battlefield. Several were wan, and clearly not in the best of health. Bartholomew stared at a lad whose hand was to his stomach; the student saw him looking and sneered, which revealed a thin grey line around the tops of his incisors.

‘Are you aware that strutting around armed to the teeth is a finable offence?’ asked Michael.