A Poisonous Plot (29 page)

‘Clearly, he was reflecting on the best way to counteract the stench caused by Edith Stanmore’s dyeworks.’ The speed of Nigellus’s response indicated that he had already given the question serious consideration. ‘He was pondering whether creating odours of his own would neutralise hers.’

‘Can you prove that?’ asked Michael.

‘Can you
dis
prove it?’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘You think I harmed all these people, but you have no evidence to support your theories, or you would not be here now, fishing for answers.’

Michael stood, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘Thank you for your time. You will no doubt be seeing more of us in the coming days.’

‘I cannot wait,’ said Nigellus acidly. ‘However, do not forget to ask Tynkell how much money is in the University Chest. You will need every penny once Stephen is through with you.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael once they were outside. ‘He had an answer for everything, but only a fellow
medicus
will know whether his replies were reasonable.’

‘There is something to be said for treating headaches by sending the patient to rest in a dark room, although I suspect he misremembered the sources he quoted.’

‘That does not answer my question.’

‘Letia’s high temperature and sickness should have formed part of Nigellus’s diagnosis, but he chose to ignore them. And it is common knowledge that patients with Irby’s condition can slip into a fatal decline if they fail to eat. Nigellus should have taken steps to prevent it.’

‘So ineptitude rather than malice killed Irby and Letia? What about the others?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He assumed the symptoms exhibited by Lenne and Arnold were diseases, and elected to treat those rather than identify the underlying causes. They might have lived if he had approached them differently, but they might not. We will never know.’

‘Then what about the damage to stomachs and livers that you found in the three Zachary men and Lenne?’ Michael was sounding exasperated. ‘You said that might be evidence of poison.’

‘Yes –
might
be evidence of poison. But I cannot prove it.’

‘I am not very impressed with your help in this matter, Matt. If you do not give me something useful soon, I may be forced to let him go.’

‘Well, if you do, it should be on condition that he does not practise medicine again. Do you have the authority to enforce that?’

‘Yes, but only temporarily. He will contest my decision and Stephen will argue that he be permitted to trade until the case is resolved in court. Thank God we have Irby’s note – the only truly compelling piece of evidence against him.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘His explanation of the note made no sense: if Irby
had
been reflecting on how best to combat the reek from the dyeworks, why did he address his letter to me, the brother of the owner? Why not Nigellus, the
medicus
in his hostel? Or one of his colleagues?’

‘Those are good questions,’ said Michael. ‘And one we shall ponder while he sits in my gaol.’

While Michael went to do battle with Stephen, Bartholomew trudged home to Michaelhouse, wanting no more than a quiet evening in the conclave. Unfortunately, the porter handed him a long list of patients who needed to see him. Given the uneasy atmosphere, Bartholomew was reluctant to venture out alone, and as Cynric was with Edith, he took two students instead – Melton and Bell.

‘Prior Joliet is a gifted speaker,’ said Melton, as they walked to the home of a wealthy merchant. Bartholomew did not have many rich patients, but Rob Upton did a lot of business with Edith and thought hiring her brother was an easy way to stay in her good books. ‘But Father William refused to let us take any breaks, so it was one long, continuous session.’

‘What about the noonday meal?’

‘Cancelled,’ scowled Melton. ‘To save money after the lavish display we put on over Hallow-tide. So now we are
starving
.’

Upton claimed he was suffering from the
debilitas
, although Bartholomew suspected that the half-empty plate of marchpanes might have more than a little to do with the patient’s ‘griping in the guts’. He asked enough questions to prove himself right, and set about writing out the remedy for over-indulgence that he was often obliged to dispense to those with more money than sense.

‘Three other burgesses fell ill with the
debilitas
today,’ whispered Upton miserably, ‘while it killed Lenne, Arnold, Letia and the scholars from Zachary.’

‘You will feel better tomorrow,’ Bartholomew assured him, ‘although you should abstain from rich foods for a few days. And that includes marchpanes.’

‘Let me try one,’ begged Bell plaintively. ‘To assess whether they are safe.’

Bartholomew shot him an admonishing glance, but that did not stop the lad from snagging one on the way out anyway.

‘Too sweet,’ was the verdict once they were outside. ‘Like eating pure honey. No wonder Upton was queasy. But now I am hungrier than ever, and I doubt I shall sleep tonight.’

‘Nor will I,’ moaned Melton. ‘The pangs are growing worse by the moment.’

Bartholomew took them to the Brazen George, where Landlord Lister provided a large plate of tasty scraps for a very reasonable price. When they had finished, they went to Gonville Hall, where a Fellow named Osborne was suffering from a weakness in the legs. As Osborne reeked of claret, Bartholomew could not imagine why Rougham should want a second opinion as to what was wrong.

‘It came on him gradually,’ Rougham explained. ‘He cannot stand without falling over.’

When he heard how much Osborne had imbibed, Bartholomew was not surprised.

‘He drank to help with the discomfort of his
debilitas
,’ added another Fellow. ‘His knees were wobbly before his three jugs of wine.’

Declining to comment, Bartholomew prescribed a large bowl of his favourite cure-all – boiled barley water – and an early night. Afterwards, he accepted the offer of refreshments in Rougham’s quarters, where he was provided with wine so dry as to be almost unpalatable. While he warmed himself by the fire, he told Rougham what Nigellus had claimed about the patients he had lost.

‘I cannot imagine why Zachary recruited him,’ said Rougham in distaste. ‘He is the worst combination of unshakable conceit and incompetence. And Oxford-trained into the bargain.’

‘They probably hope he will leave them all his money,’ said Bartholomew, disinclined to remind him that Nigellus was not the only one who had studied at the Other Place. ‘He is a wealthy man, after all.’

‘He is a charlatan,’ spat Rougham. ‘If you do not want more folk to die – which we dare not risk when the town is in such turmoil – Michael should keep him under lock and key.’

‘The
debilitas
was his invention,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He probably blurted it out when he was stumped for a diagnosis, and it has become a popular term for a whole range of unrelated symptoms – headaches, stomach pains, nausea, constipation, weakness in the limbs …’

‘Perhaps you and I should rename it the Devil’s Pox,’ suggested Rougham wryly. ‘Then we would never see another case again. But you are wrong to say these symptoms are unrelated, Bartholomew. I have seen more of the
debilitas
than you – all my patients are rich, while yours tend to be paupers – and nearly everyone complains of two or three problems, not just one.’

‘Osborne did not. He just had weak legs.’

‘Along with a mild headache and nausea,’ corrected Rougham. ‘He did not mention them to you because he was more concerned about not being able to walk. I hate to admit it, but Nigellus might have stumbled across a new disease. It would be galling if he did – him being such an ass.’

‘Do you think my sister’s dyeworks are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew, voicing the worry that had been with him all day. He supposed Gonville’s strong wine must have loosened his tongue, because he was not sure he wanted to hear Rougham’s answer.

‘No, I do not,’ replied Rougham promptly. ‘Or rich and poor alike would be afflicted. However, the venture
will
claim lives eventually, because nothing can smell that bad and not be harmful. If you can persuade her to move to the marshes – or better yet, close down – you will be doing the town a great service.’

They talked a while longer, then Bartholomew stood to leave, wondering if he should claim to have the
debilitas
when he found himself decidedly light-headed.

‘You were pale and unhappy when you arrived,’ explained Rougham. ‘So I added poppy juice to your wine. It will give you a good night’s sleep, and restore the balance of your humours.’

‘You dosed me with soporific?’ Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Yes, and do not glower at me – it was for your own good. As the great Galen said, the body knows what it needs, so one should pay heed to it. Yours must require restorative sleep, or it would have vomited my mixture out. So go home now and rest well.’

Bartholomew did rest well, sleeping so deeply that he did not hear the bell when it rang the following morning, and nor did he stir when his students indulged in a pillow fight over his head. They left him to his slumbers, and went to assemble in the yard for church. However, he was not the only one who had failed to appear: Wauter was also absent.

‘Perhaps we need a bigger bell,’ muttered Langelee, striding towards the Austin’s room. ‘Because I cannot have my Fellows oversleeping. It sets a bad example to the students.’

Wauter was not there, although his undergraduates were, still in bed and claiming they could not rise because they had the
debilitas
.

‘He did not come home last night, sir,’ said one, which explained why there were several empty wineskins on the floor and all four looked decidedly seedy.

‘Where did he sleep then?’ demanded Langelee.

‘We do not know,’ replied the lad wretchedly. ‘At his old hostel, perhaps.’

Langelee’s expression was dangerous as he stalked across the yard to deal with his other missing Fellow, and it darkened further still when Michael regaled him with an account of how he had spent
his
evening: a throng of students from Zachary had invaded the King’s Head, a rough tavern where scholars were not welcome. Not surprisingly, there had been a fight.

‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Langelee, shaking Bartholomew’s shoulder with considerable vigour. When the physician only turned over and went back to sleep, he drew a blade – a wicked little thing that had been intended for use as a letter-opener, but that he had honed to extraordinary sharpness. It had been nowhere near a missive in years.

‘No, but someone will be if you brandish that thing around,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘What are you going to do?’

Langelee used it to prick the back of Bartholomew’s hand, and his eyebrows shot up in astonishment when the only response was a twitch. ‘I have never known that not to work before! I used to do it all the time when I was in the Archbishop of York’s employ. Of course, I usually applied my blade to the throat …’

‘No!’ snapped Michael, as the Master leaned down purposefully. He grabbed a bowl of water and splattered some on the physician’s face. Bartholomew sat up blinking.

‘Rougham gave me a soporific,’ he said defensively, surmising that it may have required some effort to wake him. He struggled to clear his muddy wits, then frowned when he saw the bead of blood on his hand and the blade that Langelee was putting away. ‘Did you
stab
me?’

‘No, I
nicked
you. You barely moved, so I should have jabbed harder.’

Bartholomew eyed him coolly. ‘You will never win wealthy benefactors if word gets out that you spear your Fellows while they sleep.’

‘On the contrary, I will probably win their approbation. They will all wish they had the courage to do the same to lazy minions. Besides, it was only a poke with a letter-opener.’

‘So that explains why I did not feel it,’ muttered Bartholomew, well aware of what the Master had done to what had once been an innocent little implement. ‘Blunt blades always hurt more than sharp ones.’

He rose and dressed quickly when the bell sounded again, and had to run to catch up with the procession, much to the delight of his students. He barely heard William’s Mass, overcome as he was with the frequent and annoying urge to yawn. As they walked home, Michael confessed that Nigellus’s arrest had done nothing to calm troubled waters.

‘Meanwhile, Anne is refusing to drop her case against Segeforde’s estate, and King’s Hall is just as stubborn about Frenge and the brewery.’

‘What about the Austins?’ asked Bartholomew, trying hard to concentrate. ‘Do they still aim to sue Hakeney for snatching Robert’s cross?’

Michael nodded. ‘I did suggest to Dick Tulyet that we put an end to the nonsense by arresting Hakeney for robbery, but Dick insists that the fellow is not in his right wits, and thinks putting him in custody would ignite a major riot. Unfortunately – as it galls me to see Hakeney strutting free after so brazen a crime – I suspect he is right.’

‘The Austins suing a townsman might ignite a major riot, too.’

‘Yes, but not immediately, and who knows what Dick and I might be able to achieve for the cause of peace in the interim?’

‘Stephen,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘I wager anything you like that it was
he
who encouraged the other priors to bully Joliet into suing Hakeney – and all so he could win himself another client.’

‘Of course it was Stephen,’ growled Michael. ‘And I shall visit him first thing this morning, and demand to know why he is so eager to see his town in flames.’

They ate a hasty breakfast in the hall, listening to William grumble about the fact that Wauter had selfishly abandoned him the previous day, leaving him to supervise the entire College alone.

‘He just disappeared! He was there one moment and gone the next, without so much as a word of explanation. And he has not been seen since.’

‘Where has he gone?’ asked Bartholomew. It was curious behaviour for a Fellow, especially one who was new and so still needed to win the respect of his colleagues.