A Poisonous Plot (7 page)

‘Yes,’ said Edith, a little crossly. ‘She runs the sales side of the dyeworks for us, and I praised her financial acumen to you for at least an hour. You gave every appearance of listening. Was your mind on something else, then?’

‘Of course not,’ mumbled Bartholomew, although he felt the colour rise into his cheeks at the lie. He had been thinking about his lost loves, Matilde and Julitta, as he always did when he was not occupied with patients or teaching.

‘Good,’ said Edith coolly. ‘Because I have better things to do than chat to myself. The dyeworks are a major undertaking, and there are many issues that require my attention.’

‘You mean like finding ways to avoid tipping waste in the river?’ asked Bartholomew.

Edith shot him a sour look. ‘Such as who to hire. So many Frail Sisters have applied to work with us that we are having to make some very difficult choices.’

Bartholomew experienced a sharp stab of loss. ‘Frail Sisters’ had been Matilde’s term for the town’s prostitutes, and she had championed their cause, organising them into an unofficial guild whereby they united to create better and safer working conditions. Now Edith was a widow, there was no one to tell her that they were unsuitable company for a respectable lady, and she had elected to take up where Matilde had left off. Bartholomew glanced at Anne, wondering whether she was one of them.

‘No,’ said Edith, reading his thoughts. ‘She is the wife of William de Rumburgh the goldsmith. You know him – he is one of your few wealthy patients.’

‘The one with the inflamed gums,’ supplied Anne, seeing Bartholomew rack his brains.

‘Oh, yes.’ The physician was often better at recalling ailments than the people who displayed them. ‘He has trouble eating.’

‘That is the least of his problems,’ said Anne with a grimace. ‘More annoying is that his condition adversely affects his performance in the marriage bed. You suggested ways in which we might remedy the matter, but none have worked. I am now a lonely and desperate woman, especially in the evenings when he is out at the guildhall.’

Another sultry smile came Bartholomew’s way.

‘Are you going to watch the procession, Matt?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject, clearly fearing he might be tempted by Anne’s none-too-subtle invitation.

‘No scholars can go,’ he replied. ‘The University has imposed a curfew.’

‘Ignore it,’ suggested Anne with yet another smouldering look. ‘And come to my house instead – to keep me company until my husband returns. He will be
very
late and—’

‘You heard him – he is obliged to stay in tonight,’ interrupted Edith sharply. ‘And you had better go home to change, Anne, or you will be late.’

Anne fluttered her eyelashes and sashayed away, hips swaying provocatively.

‘Are you sure it is a good idea to employ her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She does not seem to be your sort of … person.’

‘No,’ sighed Edith. ‘But so many folk want to close the dyeworks down that it is a relief to find someone who not only understands what I am trying to do, but who wants to be part of it. And do not say that you do, because you cannot see past the fact that we sometimes create a few smelly by-products.’

‘It worries me – I do not want you blamed if people become ill. And you have always been a considerate neighbour, so this sudden callous indifference to their health is a mystery to me.’

‘I am not indifferent to it – I just know that my dyeworks will not harm them. Ours is a
good
scheme, Matt. It has given desperate women a new chance in life.’

‘I know that, but—’

‘My ladies now have a regular and assured income that allows them to feed their children,’ Edith continued passionately. ‘They are at home at night, where they belong, instead of risking life and limb on the streets. No one would question the venture if it were being run by nuns – or by scholars for that matter – but because Frail Sisters are involved, it is deemed dirty and toxic.’

‘Can you be sure it is not?’ asked Bartholomew pointedly.

‘Yes,’ replied Edith firmly. ‘But I cannot debate it with you now. I need to go and make sure that all is safely locked up for the night. Good night, Matt. If you visit me tomorrow, I will mend that tear in your tabard.’

Bartholomew fingered the rip, sure it had not been there that morning. As Edith hurried away, his mind turned to the curious case of Rumburgh’s gums, a complaint that he had never seen before, and that might even prove to be—

‘—Matt’s verdict,’ Michael was telling the Zachary men, and mention of his name drew the physician from his medical reverie. ‘He should know: he has inspected hundreds of them.’

‘Hundreds of what?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Michael had not claimed anything too outrageous on his behalf.

‘Corpses,’ replied Michael. ‘I was just telling these gentlemen that we
will
catch whoever poisoned Frenge, no matter who the culprit transpires to be.’

‘And I was telling him that he will not,’ countered Morys. ‘Because
God
killed Frenge for daring to invade King’s Hall.’

‘That sort of remark is why the town does not like us,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is inflammatory and certain to cause offence.’

‘Good,’ said Segeforde spiritedly. ‘Then let them challenge us over it. It is high time we taught them a lesson.’

It was now completely dark, but Bartholomew and Michael had not taken many more steps towards home before they met Nigellus, hurrying after his Zachary colleagues.

‘Do not think of fining
me
for breaking the curfew,’ he said archly. ‘I have been on an errand of mercy to Letia Shirwynk, who was dying. Her husband refused to buy her a horoscope until it was too late to make a difference, so he should not be surprised that she is gone.’

‘What was the cause of death?’ asked Bartholomew with the polite interest of a fellow professional. He suspected that Shirwynk would not mourn the hapless Letia long – the brewer had not seemed particularly distressed when he had mentioned her predicament earlier.

‘Dizziness,’ replied Nigellus. ‘A very nasty way to go.’

‘Dizziness?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘How can she have died of that?’

‘Easily,’ said Nigellus coolly. ‘As she would confirm, were she in a position to satisfy your ghoulish curiosity. She reeled and fainted, and it was a blessed relief when she breathed her last.’

‘What were her other symptoms?’ pressed Bartholomew, sure Nigellus’s diagnosis was in error. ‘And how long did she have them?’

‘At least a month – she was suffering long before her husband finally overcame his miserliness and agreed to pay for her stars to be read. And her other symptoms are irrelevant, because it was the dizziness that killed her.’

‘Perhaps Matt can inspect her before she is buried,’ said Michael, as unhappy with Nigellus’s claims as Bartholomew. ‘I was just telling your colleagues that he is very good at determining accurate causes of death.’

Nigellus smiled tightly. ‘Which is why he holds the sinister title of Corpse Examiner, I imagine. However, I would rather he kept away from Letia. I do not want people thinking that he questions my proficiency, which is how it will appear.’

‘Was Frenge your patient?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling it
should
be questioned.

Nigellus regarded him coldly. ‘Yes, but it has been more than a week since I saw him. I read his stars and recommended that he spent more time asleep in bed and less drinking in taverns. He would doubtless be alive today if he had heeded my advice. And now you must excuse me. I am not in the mood for idle chatter.’

He stalked away. Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and without a word they began to walk back to the brewery, both suspicious that the belligerent Shirwynk should lose his friend and wife on the same day.

‘Of course, it is odd that Nigellus was
medicus
to both as well,’ said Michael. ‘Not to mention his order for you to stay away from Letia’s corpse. He would not be the first physician to dispatch his patients, either by design or incompetence.’

‘But both were wealthy,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Nigellus would not deprive himself of a useful source of income on purpose. And as to his competence, I have not seen him at work often enough to judge. However, his diagnoses are a little unusual …’

‘More than a little,’ murmured Michael.

Once they were off the High Street, the town was quieter, as most folk had gone to watch the procession. Yet neither scholar felt any safer, knowing that while law-abiding citizens might be enjoying the spectacle, there were plenty of others who prowled the darkness in search of mischief.

‘I hope you realise that I do not have the authority to look at Letia,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The brewery is not University property and she was not a scholar. Shirwynk has already asked us to stay away, and if he refuses to change his mind, there is nothing you can do to make him.’

‘We shall see.’ Michael had considerable faith in his powers of persuasion. ‘But speaking of authority, I am inclined to bring mine to bear on Zachary. I have never met so many unpleasant individuals under one roof: Nigellus, Segeforde, Morys, Yerland … There is a feisty Franciscan named Kellawe, too – the fellow with the big jaw.’

‘Yes, I have met him. He preached a sermon saying there is a sulcus in the heart that houses the soul. I told him that no anatomist had ever found such a feature, and he called me a heretic.’

‘You took a risk, admitting to knowledge of the evil art of dissection.’

‘I would not have spoken if the other half of his sermon had not been a diatribe against Edith for helping the Frail Sisters. He objects to them touting for business on the streets, but when someone provides them with an alternative way to earn a living, he complains about that, too.’

‘I am glad I poached Wauter,’ declared Michael. ‘He is too decent to live in Zachary.’

‘So is Principal Irby. He is on the
consilium
, and is a perfectly reasonable man. I am surprised he puts up with such colleagues.’

‘I would like to close the place down,’ said Michael. ‘Unfortunately, Morys was telling the truth when he claimed to have Tynkell in his sway – he does. Thank God Tynkell will retire at the end of next term. He used to be an ideal Chancellor, but he has shown a distressing independence of late, and I cannot work with someone who has ideas of his own.’

‘He is a scholar, Brother. He is supposed to have ideas of his own.’

‘Not ones that conflict with mine.’

Both stopped when there was a sudden roar of cheering voices. Bartholomew assumed it was the procession getting under way, but the direction was wrong, and Michael gave an urgent yelp before stabbing a plump finger to where bright flames danced up the side of St Michael’s tower.

‘That bonfire!’ he cried. ‘Now it
has
set our church alight!’

It was a fraught dash back to the High Street. Three different bands of marauding townsmen tried to waylay them, and it was not easy to extricate themselves without giving cause for offence. They arrived to find a large crowd watching gleefully as fire consumed a derelict lean-to shed that sagged against the base of the church tower.

‘We have been meaning to demolish that anyway,’ wheezed Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder for support as he fought to catch his breath. ‘So its destruction is no loss. However, the blaze might spread, so you start putting it out while I fetch help.’

Bartholomew seized a long-handled hoe and began to knock the little building to the ground. Fires were taken seriously in a town with lots of wooden houses and thatched roofs, so he was surprised when the onlookers did nothing but jeer and hoot. He glanced at them as he worked. The men were sullen and the women snide, united in their hatred of the University and its perceived affluence. One went so far as to lob a stone at him.

‘I love a good conflagration,’ taunted the furrier named Lenne, whose wife Isabel was at his side. ‘With luck, it will take their damned church as well.’

He coughed, the deep, painful hack of a man who had spent too many years inhaling hairs from the pelts he sold. Sadly, much of his antagonism towards the
studium generale
resulted from the fact that its physicians were powerless to cure him.

‘I have never liked St Michael’s,’ declared Isabel. ‘It stinks of scholars.’

‘Help me!’ shouted Bartholomew, bellowing to make himself heard over the mocking laughter that followed. ‘If the church ignites, your houses might be next.’

‘Not with this wind,’ countered Shirwynk. Bartholomew was surprised to see the brewer out and about so soon after losing his wife, and could only suppose that he had been unable to resist the temptation of joining the mischief. ‘The sparks are flying towards Gonville Hall and Michaelhouse, both places we should love to see incinerated.’

Bartholomew abandoned his efforts to persuade and concentrated on the shed. Just when he thought his efforts were in vain – that the church would burn anyway – Michael, Langelee and some of their students arrived. Once they did, the lean-to was quickly flattened and the flames stamped out.

‘I told you this would happen, Lenne,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘You promised to be careful.’

Lenne coughed again, then shrugged. ‘So I misjudged – just like Wayt of King’s Hall misjudged when he decided to sue Frenge for trespass. And now Frenge is dead.’

‘Murdered,’ hissed Isabel. ‘By a scholar.’

There was a growl of agreement from the crowd, but Michael drew himself up to his full and impressive height and it gradually died away.

‘We do not know the identity of the culprit yet, so I suggest you keep your accusations to yourselves. And before you indulge in any more shameful antics, you might want to remember that we cannot repair damaged buildings
and
buy bread and ale for the poor – your fellow citizens – after choir practices.’

‘Nor free care from the University’s Senior Physician,’ added Langelee tartly. ‘So bear that in mind the next time you leave us to burn.’

There were more mocking jeers, but they lacked conviction, and it was not long before the crowd began to disperse, especially when the wind changed course and blew smoke towards them. It made Lenne cough so violently that he had no breath to argue and limped away on Isabel’s arm. Soon, only the Michaelhouse men remained.