A Poisonous Plot (34 page)

‘Stand up, Nigellus,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am letting you go.’

There was a resounding cheer and Nigellus smirked. It was an unpleasant expression, designed to annoy, and Bartholomew found himself wishing his colleague
had
been guilty.

‘I shall see Stephen the lawyer this morning,’ Nigellus declared. ‘My reputation has been severely damaged, and for that you must pay.’

‘On the contrary,’ said the Carmelite. ‘Your reputation is enhanced – you are a martyr for the cause and we all admire you. You will certainly find your practice swollen with new patients now.’

Nigellus shot him a foul look. ‘I do not want new patients. I want compensation.’

He stalked through the door, and made a show of brushing himself off once he was in the street, declaring in a ringing voice that the University had never had any real evidence against him. He had been arrested, he informed passers-by, purely to conceal the fact that Edith was poisoning the town with her dyeworks, aided and abetted by her brother.

‘Edith has harmed no one,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound as though he believed it.

‘You would say that,’ jeered Nigellus. ‘Michaelhouse has become fabulously rich of late – mostly because she is giving you half her profits.’

Bartholomew doubted even that would be enough to save the College from fiscal ruin. ‘No,’ he began. ‘She would never—’

But Nigellus was already stalking away.

It was Suttone’s turn to officiate at Mass, and as he was inclined to be wordy, it went on longer than usual. The scholars arrived home to see smoke billowing from the kitchen, and the breakfast pottage was full of crunchy black bits. Agatha had attempted to disguise the damage with an additional dose of salt and a generous sprinkling of parsley.

‘Perhaps we
should
go to the Fens,’ said Michael, poking at the mess without enthusiasm. ‘Living off the land cannot be worse than this. I am glad no benefactor is here to see what we really eat, or he might be forgiven for thinking we will not last the term.’

‘We won’t,’ said Langelee in a low, strained voice. ‘Our creditors are demanding payment, and our coffers are empty. Word will soon spread that we cannot pay our debts, and that will be the end of us. If we had secured even one donation, we might have weathered the storm, but we have won nothing.’

‘It is your fault,’ said William sullenly to Michael. ‘The University has never been so unpopular, and as Senior Proctor, you should have taken steps to maintain good relations.’

‘The town does hate us,’ agreed Suttone unhappily. ‘Our College is usually exempt from animosity, because Matt tends the poor and Michael feeds the choir. But those vile dyeworks are owned by Matt’s sister, while Michael keeps arresting people for breaching the peace.’

‘At least we have a nice mural to look at in our final days as Fellows,’ said Clippesby, who was holding a pot on his lap, in which swam several fish. ‘Aristotle, Plato, Galen and Aquinas, all teaching eager students.’

‘It
is
a nice mural,’ said Suttone sadly. ‘And I
like
that oak tree – it reminds me of the one I used to scale when I was a boy.’

‘I wish we had commissioned a tapestry instead,’ said Langelee, after a brief silence during which they all tried to imagine the portly Suttone ever being lithe enough to climb anything. ‘We could have sold a tapestry, but we cannot sell a wall.’

‘The mural was Wauter’s idea,’ said William bitterly. ‘Perhaps he realises it was sheer folly, and that is why he has disappeared.’

‘I searched his room,’ said Langelee. ‘His
Martilogium
has gone, which makes me suspect that he plans to be away for some time – perhaps even permanently.’

When the meal was over, even the abstemious Bartholomew felt the need for something else to eat, so he went to see what Michael had in his private pantry. He tended not to buy spare food – called
commons
– himself because he either forgot it was there or his students got to it first. He was impressed when Michael produced smoked ham, an excellent cheese, several boiled eggs and half a loaf of bread. Obligingly, his students went to the hall to study, leaving the two Fellows alone to discuss their investigation. Michael began.

‘Our culprit – I shall call him the
strategist
, on account of the cunning way he manipulates us all – knows exactly how to stir up trouble between University and town, both with real events and with rumours.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘Our so-called removal to the Fens; what or who is causing the
debilitas
; the murder of Frenge. All have aggravated the situation, especially when combined with the ill-feeling about the various lawsuits and the dyeworks.’

‘I visited every convent in Cambridge last night, and all had received an anonymous letter urging them to persuade the Austins to sue Hakeney.’

‘Then our culprit is Stephen,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘He is the one who will profit from all this legal activity.’

‘I managed to catch him in a tavern last night, and he says
he
had a missive as well. I am inclined to believe him. However, even the Senior Proctor is fallible, so he had better remain on our list of suspects for now.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘These messages
prove
the strategist exists – that someone
is
prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve his ends.’

‘Even kill,’ said Michael sombrely.

‘I do not suppose Stephen or the priors showed you these letters, did they? In other words, could you match the writing to any of our suspects?’

‘None of the priors kept them, while Stephen was in the Cardinal’s Cap, and so not in a position to oblige. However, Hamo saw the one that was sent to Joliet, so perhaps he was killed because he recognised the hand.’ Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘He would have recognised Wauter’s – a fellow Austin.’

‘I suppose he would,’ acknowledged Bartholomew reluctantly.

‘So let us consider what happened in the chapel last night. Hamo went to prepare it for vespers. He was alone, and while he was there, someone slipped in and stabbed him. He was no weakling, so his attacker either approached very stealthily or it was someone Hamo did not perceive as a threat. Such as a colleague.’

‘But no one else saw Wauter in the convent last night.’

‘Because the culprit entered via the broken back gate, as you yourself discovered. Of course, it could just be a townsman, aiming to win justice for Frenge. Did Hamo’s body provide any clues?’

‘All I can say is that he lived for some time after he was attacked. He lay a while by the altar, but managed to rise and lurch to the door. I could tell by the way the blood had splattered.’

Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘What a ghoul you are!’

‘Most people in his position would have called for help or staggered out to find some, but he stayed in the chapel.’

‘He probably wanted to die in a holy place. He was a friar – these things are important.’

Bartholomew shook his head slowly. ‘Perhaps, but something is not right about the affair. He spoke one word – “all” – but what did it mean? He did not look as though he was praying to the Almighty.’

‘Then perhaps Overe was right, and he started to say
aliteum
– a crime.’

‘He would not have wasted his final breath stating the obvious,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘And why did he not just tell us who stabbed him?’

‘The chapel was dark and he was stabbed from behind. He may not have seen his attacker.’

But Bartholomew remained troubled. ‘I cannot shake the conviction that he was trying to convey a message in that final word – one he mistakenly thought I understood. I have the sense that I have failed him.’

‘Then let us return to the friary now. Perhaps he left a clue, and all will become clear in the full light of day.’

Bartholomew and Michael were about to leave Michaelhouse when the gate opened, and Joliet and Robert walked in. Both were pale, and Joliet’s red eyes suggested he had been crying.

‘You need not teach today,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘Not after the nasty shock you had last night. I know from experience what it is like to lose a colleague. Go home and pray for his soul.’

Joliet looked away. ‘You are good, Master Langelee. However, we did not come to work, but to ask what Brother Michael plans to do about finding Hamo’s killer.’

‘All I can,’ replied Michael simply. ‘So perhaps we can walk to the friary now, to view the chapel in daylight.’

Joliet smiled wanly. ‘I hoped you would, so we shut it up after we took Hamo to the charnel house. No one has been in it since.’

They walked to the High Street, where they were hailed by Gilby, the dim-witted priest from White Hostel. He was riding on a cart that was piled high with his belongings. He was grey-faced, and one hand was clasped to his stomach.

‘I have the
debilitas
,’ he whimpered. ‘I do not want to die, so I have decided to leave Cambridge while I can. Three other scholars from White will follow me this afternoon, along with four from Trinity Hall and two from Peterhouse.’

‘We shall be sorry to lose you,’ lied Michael. ‘Where will you go?’

‘The Fens,’ replied Gilby with a vague flap of his hand. ‘We shall establish a new University where members can be free of poison – of the body
and
the mind. In time, this one will fade into oblivion, and we shall be regarded as the true
studium generale
.’

‘Are you sure it is wise to travel while you are ill?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course it is,’ said Michael quickly, scowling at him. He turned back to the priest with a bright smile. ‘Go and found your university, Gilby. I wish you every success.’

‘I do not want to leave,’ said Gilby, eyes narrowing when he saw the monk was glad to be rid of him. ‘But your ineptitude as Senior Proctor leaves me no choice. And do not come crying to me when the town destroys you, because you will not be welcome.’ He turned to the Austins. ‘But you will.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joliet. He glanced nervously around him. ‘If the town continues to descend into chaos, you might be seeing us sooner than you know.’

‘How can
you
think of going?’ asked Michael reproachfully. ‘What about the paupers who rely on you – the ones you starved yourselves to feed last winter, and who you will help with the money you have earned by teaching and painting at Michaelhouse?’

Joliet looked away. ‘I pity them, but I must consider the safety of my people. This week has proved beyond all doubt that the town loathes us, despite all our sacrifices.’

‘And one of them killed Hamo,’ added Robert. ‘We cannot fight such deeply held hatred.’

‘You are quite right,’ agreed Gilby. ‘So do not wait too long before joining us.’

He cracked the reins and the vehicle rumbled forward. Another followed, bearing two men from Gonville Hall, one of whom was the drunken Osborne. Both looked wan.

‘Where they will sleep?’ asked Bartholomew, watching the wagons clatter away. Joliet and Robert dropped behind to talk in low voices, obviously giving serious consideration to Gilby’s invitation. ‘All are used to comfort, and I doubt they will enjoy bedding down under a cart, especially if they are ill.’

‘They will not sleep under a cart,’ predicted Michael. ‘I suspect they will aim for a specific location – one the strategist has already chosen. A settlement left empty after the plague, perhaps.’

‘Then they will be disappointed. It has been a decade since those were abandoned, and few will be habitable now. However, I suspect the strategist wants our scholars to think as you have – that his new university has decent buildings free for the taking.’

‘Then his foundation will not survive long – his cronies will not stay if they are forced to live like peasants. And they cannot come back to us, because I will not allow it. They will have tasted independence, so will be a divisive force. Yet we will not survive either if we are stripped of too many members, but how can we stop them from trickling away?’

‘There is only one way: find the strategist.’

It was not an easy journey to the Austin friary. Townsmen hurled abuse at them, although none was quite brave enough to launch a physical attack on the princely bulk of the Senior Proctor, while students roamed in belligerent packs.

‘We
should
follow Gilby,’ gulped Robert. ‘We will be safe in the marshes.’

‘Safe, but not comfortable,’ said Michael. ‘Do not abandon your lovely convent just yet.’

‘I am not comfortable here,’ averred Joliet, waving a hand in front of his face as a particularly noxious waft blew from the dyeworks.

They reached the priory, where Bartholomew and Michael surveyed every inch of the chapel for clues, but found nothing useful. The blood that had been dripped and smeared on the floor confirmed what the physician had already surmised – that Hamo had been attacked near the altar, but had managed to stagger to the door where he had died.

‘There is no suggestion that the culprit broke into the church,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the lock. ‘He walked inside freely.’

‘Of course he did,’ said Robert bitterly. He and his brethren were standing in the porch, watching the search with troubled expressions. ‘The door was open, because we were about to say vespers – and Hamo was in here, preparing the altar.’

‘I have been wickedly remiss,’ said Joliet, tears rolling down his round cheeks. ‘I saw how easy it was to invade our holy grounds when Frenge died, but I never imagined the killer would strike again. I should have posted guards, or barricaded the gates. And Hamo paid the price for my complacency.’

‘We will find the culprit,’ promised Michael, as the friars hastened to comfort their leader. ‘And we shall start by questioning Hakeney.’

Hakeney was not at home or protesting at the dyeworks, and Bartholomew and Michael were not sure where else to look for him. As they pondered, Isnard the bargeman swung up on his crutches, and began to regale them with his opinion of the latest rumour that was surging around the town.