A Poisonous Plot (30 page)

‘I have no idea, but we should have known better than to recruit an Austin,’ spat William. ‘They are all the same: lazy and unreliable.’

‘That is untrue, Father,’ objected Clippesby, who had a toad on the table and was trying to feed it pieces of meat. ‘Prior Joliet and Almoner Robert have worked extremely hard on our behalf, and my students say their lecture yesterday was a masterpiece.’

‘I would not know,’ said William acidly. ‘I did not hear any of it because I was trying to control a lot of unruly medics. Moreover, it is not the first time that Wauter has played truant. He vanished on All Souls’ Day, too, when the rest of us clerics were frantically trying to prepare the church for our founder’s Requiem Mass.’

‘Oh, yes,’ recalled Michael. ‘He returned breathless and dishevelled, and made that odd remark about us being “perceived as having an unstained soul despite our many blemishes”. I did not know what he meant then, and I do not know now.’

‘This toad heard Kellawe say—’ began Clippesby.

‘Kellawe!’ said William in distaste. ‘My Order should never have accepted him. And now he has a licence to absolve scholars from acts of violence. It is not fair! He will only use it on men from Zachary, leaving the rest of us stained with sin.’

‘You will not be stained with sin if you commit no crimes,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘
This toad
,’ repeated Clippesby loudly, cutting across William’s tart response, ‘heard Kellawe say that Wauter left the town on horseback yesterday. Wauter had a fat saddlebag, and it appeared as though he intended to be gone for some time.’

‘Without asking his Master’s permission?’ demanded Langelee angrily. ‘Well, when he returns he will learn that Michaelhouse is not Zachary –
we
do not permit Fellows to trot off in the middle of term. What about his teaching? Ah! Here is Prior Joliet and his helpers. We shall ask them about their fellow Austin’s antics.’

‘But where would he go?’ asked Prior Joliet worriedly, when Langelee explained what had happened. His arm was in a sling – a scrap of orange material that was very bright against the sober habit of his Order. ‘He has no family, and all his friends are here.’

‘I will ask our brethren,’ offered Robert. ‘Perhaps one of them will know.’

‘Will you teach his classes?’ asked William belligerently. ‘Because I am not doing it.’

‘Of course,’ replied Joliet. ‘Robert and I shall lecture on St Augustine’s
Sermones
while Hamo tries to finish the mural. And finish we must, as we start work in King’s Hall next week.’

‘Your Hallow-tide celebrations did much to secure us new commissions,’ said Robert with a smile that held the hint of a gloat. ‘I hope fortune shone on you as brightly.’

‘Of course it did,’ lied Langelee, unwilling to admit that it had not.

Assuming he was no longer needed now that Nigellus was in custody – Michael was more than capable of finding the evidence needed to prove the
medicus
’s crimes himself – Bartholomew informed his students that he planned to test them on Galen’s
De ossibus
that morning. He was irked by the relief on their faces when Michael announced that the investigation was still a long way from over, and that the physician could not return to his regular duties just yet.

‘A terrible thought struck me earlier,’ the monk confided, once it had been agreed that Robert would read the relevant passages to the medics on the understanding that they would have them verbatim by the end of the week.

‘That my students will never become physicians as long as you keep tearing me away from my teaching?’ asked Bartholomew sourly.

Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘I am serious, Matt. A lot of things are going wrong at the moment – the various lawsuits, the murders, the assault on Anne, the trouble at the dyeworks. And now Wauter has vanished.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘I do not understand—’

‘I have assumed they are all unrelated, a random collection of nasty events. But there are so many of them, and they all do one thing: damage the relationship between town and University. In short, I think someone is orchestrating the whole lot – someone who
wants
the situation to explode into violence.’

‘Why would anyone want that?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Who would benefit?’

‘Those who would like us to move to the Fens. What began as a silly rumour has become a movement with growing support. A
lot
of our scholars think it is a very good idea. And if there is open war between us and the town, even more will agree.’

‘But there is nothing in the Fens. It is a stupid notion.’

‘Is it? The priests among us have long deplored the University’s growing secularism, and a move to the marshes would make us more like a monastery – a self-sufficient foundation set apart from the vices of the laity.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘Let us assume you are right. Is Nigellus the sly mastermind behind this scheme?’

‘It is possible: he does think we should go. But so does another suspect, one who is much closer to home.’

Bartholomew regarded Michael in alarm. ‘You mean Wauter?’

‘Yes. He was a scholar in Zachary until the beginning of term – Nigellus’s hostel. Their terms of tenure did not overlap, but they still had dealings with each other.’

‘You think Wauter encouraged Nigellus to … No, Brother! This is too outlandish.’

‘Perhaps. Yet Zachary lies at the heart of all our problems: one of its masters assaulted Anne; he and two other members lie dead in odd circumstances; another has a licence to absolve scholars from violent acts; its new Principal has an unsavoury hold over the Chancellor; it lies on the same street as the brewery and the dyeworks; and its resident
medicus
stands accused of murder.’

‘And an
ex
-member is a strong supporter for a move to the Fens,’ added Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘Although I do not see Wauter as an arch villain who would sacrifice lives to get what he wants.’

‘I do not know what to think. However, there is only one way forward: Frenge’s murder started it all, and I have the sense that finding
his
killer will allow us to make sense of everything. You have never been happy with the evidence against Nigellus, so let us explore our other suspects for a while instead – the men of King’s Hall, Shirwynk and Peyn, Hakeney and Stephen.’

‘The last four would be glad to see the University leave Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the King’s Hall men would rather it stayed.’

‘So they claim – they may be lying in an effort to confuse us. We shall ask them as soon as we have had words with Stephen about his sly manipulation of our gullible priors.’

They walked directly to Stephen’s house on the High Street, only to be informed by his maid that her master was out with a client, although she was unable to say which one.

‘Tell him we called,’ ordered Michael, not bothering to hide his irritation. ‘And that he had better be in when we visit later, or there will be trouble.’

The girl gulped, clearly loath to repeat that sort of message to the man who paid her wages. ‘Then come in and wait for him,’ she suggested. ‘He will not be long – he is still not very well, so he will be keen to come home and lie down. He has pains in his wrists and he keeps being sick.’

‘I hope he will not use ill health as an excuse to avoid answering our questions – if he is fit enough to dash out after customers, then he is fit enough to speak to us,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘You can tell him
that
when he returns as well.’

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and began to stalk towards King’s Hall. However, he and Bartholomew had not taken many steps before they met Tulyet and Dickon. The boy’s face was as vividly scarlet as ever, so he remained an unsettling sight. He favoured the two scholars with a wide grin, and they blinked their astonishment: his teeth were blue.

‘You cannot blame that on the dyeworks,’ said Bartholomew to the Sheriff.

‘He drank some woad,’ said Tulyet, giving his son a disapproving glare. ‘It was a stupid thing to have done. He might have poisoned himself.’

‘I did not
drink
it,’ Dickon informed him chirpily. ‘I just took a mouthful, kept it there during Mass, then spat it out.’

‘I wondered why you were so quiet.’ Tulyet turned anxiously to Bartholomew. ‘It will not stain him permanently, will it?’

‘No, although he might want to remember in future that one of the ingredients of blue dye is urine.’

Horror stole over the lad’s face, and there followed a good deal of agitated spitting.

‘Relations continue to deteriorate between us and the University,’ Tulyet said to Michael, dragging his eyes away from the spectacle. ‘The situation is not helped by that tale you told me about Frenge.’

‘That he was a cattle thief,’ put in Dickon. ‘Which he was not, so you lied.’

‘Dickon!’ snapped Tulyet. He turned back to Michael. ‘I am sure it was an honest mistake on your part, Brother, but the fact is that you were wrong. Frenge’s only real failing was a fondness for his own wares, which led him to do reckless things.’

‘Like invading King’s Hall and the Austins,’ said Dickon. ‘It was stupid when he could have gone somewhere like Zachary, which has lots of lovely things to steal, but not much in the way of defences.’

Michael and Bartholomew regarded him askance, both unsettled that he should know which University foundation would be best to burgle. Tulyet hastened to change the subject.

‘I do not know how best to keep the peace,’ he confided unhappily. ‘Flooding the streets with troops amounts to martial law, which is more likely to inflame than soothe.’

‘Then do it,’ suggested Dickon keenly. ‘A massacre will show everyone who is in charge.’

A soldier arrived at that point to announce trouble in the Market Square. Tulyet hurried away to deal with it, Dickon dancing at his heels, flashing his blue fangs at anyone who glanced in his direction.

‘Why are men so blind when it comes to their offspring?’ said Michael wonderingly as he watched them go. ‘Shirwynk is another example: Peyn is a sullen lout who is barely literate—’

‘And who has never heard of Virgil,’ put in Bartholomew.

‘—but Shirwynk thinks he will sail into the Treasury and make his fortune. Perhaps it is as well I will never have brats. I should not like folk to see
me
as a doting fool, fawning blindly over some useless young wastrel.’

King’s Hall was ready to repel an invasion. Its gates were barred, its walls were patrolled by archers, and a stone smacked into the ground when Michael and Bartholomew approached, as a warning that they should come no closer. The monk stopped dead in his tracks and scowled upwards, outraged that anyone should dare try to prevent the Senior Proctor from going about his lawful business. Alarmed, the culprit dipped out of sight.

‘No, I will
not
withdraw my complaint against Frenge’s estate,’ snarled Wayt, when they had been admitted to his solar by a porter who wore full battle armour and carried a bow. ‘We suffered shamefully at his hands, so why should we not sue for compensation?’

‘Because it is damaging the fragile relations between the University and the town,’ Michael snapped back, watching intently as he tried to assess whether he was speaking to a killer.

‘I care nothing for the town’s paltry efforts to make war,’ spat Wayt. ‘And Frenge’s prank destroyed Cew’s mind, so we owe it to him to persist.’

‘Frenge is dead,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Is that not punishment enough?’

‘Not as far as we are concerned. And speaking of Frenge, I do not believe that Nigellus dispatched him. The culprit is far more likely to be Shirwynk, in the expectation that we would drop our case against him. Which is another reason why we will not do it.’

‘Let us consider Frenge’s last movements again,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘He claimed he was bringing ale here, to King’s Hall. Your porters say such a delivery was never made, but you were seen arguing with him shortly before he died – about Anne Rumburgh allegedly, with whom you both had relations.’

‘How many more times must I repeat myself? First, if Frenge claimed he was supplying us with ale, he was lying: we have never done business with his brewery and we never will. And second, yes, he threatened to tell my colleagues about Anne, but his attempt to blackmail me failed: they already know, because most of them have had her themselves.’

‘Was it your colleagues he threatened to tell?’ probed Michael. ‘Or the wronged husband?’

Wayt smiled without humour. ‘He could hardly take that sort of tale to Rumburgh when he was enjoying Anne’s favours himself!’

‘But
he
did not stand to lose princely benefactions from an indignant donor,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I would say the power lay with him in this disagreement, and that you had very good reason to want him silenced.’

Wayt’s face turned pale with anger. ‘How dare you!
We
are the victims here. It was our pigs and geese who were set running amok in his foolish japes, and our colleague who was frightened out of his wits.’

Michael folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure there is not another dark secret in King’s Hall? One Frenge discovered when he came raiding?’

Alarm flared in Wayt’s eyes: Michael had hit a nerve. He began to lash out defensively. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about. Now come with me, both of you. At once!’

‘Go with you where?’ asked Michael, not moving.

‘To see Frenge’s victim. Then you will see who is in the right and who is in the wrong.’

He stalked out, so Bartholomew and Michael followed him along a corridor to where curious hooting sounds could be heard. It seemed the King of France had been replaced by an ape.

Bartholomew was shocked by the decline in Cew. The logician was no longer able to walk, as he had lost control of his left foot, which dragged whenever he tried to raise it. He loped about on all fours instead, making animal-like grunts while Dodenho tried in vain to persuade him back to bed.