A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 9

The proctors’ gaol was a nasty, damp building behind St Mary the Great. Bartholomew only visited it when prisoners needed medical attention, and each time he went, he remembered how much he disliked it. The cells were in the basement, on the grounds that this would reduce the risk of the inmates being broken out by indignant cronies.

Although he complained about the unhealthy atmosphere, it was not bad as such places went. There were vents to supply fresh air, and the beadles kept it fairly clean. The food was often better than what was served in Michaelhouse, and there were reasonable arrangements for sanitation. Nigellus had been provided with a lamp, books, parchment, pens and blankets. He was writing when the beadle unlocked the door, taking the opportunity to prepare lectures for the following week – underlining the fact that he expected to be free to give them.

‘Have you come to release me?’ he asked archly, when Michael and Bartholomew entered. ‘If so, do not bother with apologies. You have offended me so deeply that only financial restitution will salve my distress. You will be hearing from Stephen first thing in the morning.’

‘We are here for answers,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed; Bartholomew leaned against the doorframe. ‘The matter is far from over, I am afraid. At least a dozen of your patients are dead, and if your feathers are ruffled in our search for the truth, then so be it.’

‘I am surprised at you, Bartholomew,’ said Nigellus coldly. ‘You are a colleague, and I had expected your support. How can you betray me in this manner?’

‘Shall we begin with Barnwell?’ asked Michael, ignoring the remark. ‘And the six people who died within days of each other while under your care?’

‘Three very elderly men, two servants who did nothing but sit around and eat, and a woman with a wasting sickness,’ replied Nigellus dismissively. He glanced archly at Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think these are folk you might have saved?’

‘Then what about Frenge?’ demanded Michael. ‘He was your patient, and he was neither ancient, fat, nor cursed with poor health.’

‘Yes, but his last visit to me was more than a week ago. You cannot lay his fate at my door.’

‘You have seen him since,’ countered Michael. ‘We have witnesses who say you argued with him over the sour ale he sold Zachary. Please do not lie: it will only make matters worse.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘I had forgotten – it was an unmemorable event. I did inform him that selling us inferior wares was unacceptable, but that is not a crime. However, I had nothing to do with his demise. Or do you imagine that I lurk in convents waiting to strike my victims?’

‘I am not in a position to say – yet,’ replied Michael. ‘Now tell me about Letia.’

‘Shirwynk summoned me too late to save her,’ said Nigellus, treating the monk to an unpleasant look. ‘Personally, I think he did it deliberately, because he wanted her dead. When I arrived, she was so dizzy that she barely knew her name.’

‘You mean she was delirious?’ asked Bartholomew.

Nigellus shot him a disdainful glance, and when he spoke, it was as if he was addressing an annoying and particularly stupid child. ‘No, because she was not suffering from hallucinations. You cannot have one without the other. Surely you know that?’

‘Actually, it is perfectly possible to be in an acute confused state without delusions,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Nigellus might think otherwise. ‘What were her other symptoms?’

‘She was hot and she had vomited, but those were irrelevant to my diagnosis. Dizziness is a serious and often fatal condition, and it was obvious to me that she was going to die.’

Bartholomew did not bother to argue. ‘And Lenne?’ he asked.

‘Metal in the mouth, a disease described by Hippocrates. I prescribed garlic, not only to remove the taste, but to rebalance the humours. Garlic is hot and wet in the second degree, as I am sure you know.’

Bartholomew knew no such thing, and was also sure that Hippocrates would never have considered ‘metal in the mouth’ a disease. He regarded his colleague intently, trying to decide whether Nigellus was simply a terrible physician, or a very clever one attempting to conceal his crimes with a show of bumbling ineptitude.

‘Brother Arnold,’ he said eventually. ‘You claimed he died of insomnia.’

‘Yes, which can be deadly in elderly patients, as the Greek physician Xenocrates says. If they do not have access to the rejuvenating powers of sleep, they sicken and die. And before you ask, Irby was suffering from a loss of appetite, another dangerous disease.’

‘It takes longer than a few hours for a loss of appetite to prove fatal,’ said Bartholomew, whose only knowledge of Xenocrates was that the infinitely more famous and trustworthy Galen had criticised him for making ‘remedies’ out of particularly unpleasant ingredients.

‘Irby had a pre-existing condition that required a regular intake of nutrients,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘When he failed to eat, he fell into a torpid state, and that was the end of him.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand what might actually have happened. ‘Did he suffer a sudden loss of weight, accompanied by excessive urination and–’

‘Hah! You do know of the ailment. Your training is not as flawed as I was beginning to fear. His urine was sweet on my tongue, and was obviously abnormal.’

‘You tasted it?’ Bartholomew was repelled.

Nigellus’s composure slipped a little. ‘Of course, as the great Aretaeus of Cappadocia recommended we do. Why? How do you do it?’

‘By seeing whether it attracts ants,’ replied Bartholomew, regarding him askance.

Nigellus waved a dismissive hand, although a flush in his cheeks indicated his chagrin at having been found lacking. ‘But Yerland is the one who will prove my innocence. I did not give him medicine for his headache, you did. Ergo, you are the one who should be sitting here, not me.’

‘You gave him nothing at all?’ asked Michael.

‘No – I have one cure for headaches: sleeping in a darkened room. I have learned through the years that they either get better on their own or they become worse and the patient dies. Nothing the medicus does affects the outcome one way or the other, so I never bother to try.’

‘Did Segeforde have a headache, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He had a pallor,’ replied Nigellus. ‘So all I did for him was recommend an early night.’

‘Now what about this debilitas you have been diagnosing?’ asked Michael. ‘Matt tells me that there is no such sickness.’

Nigellus scowled. ‘Of course there is, and his remark does nothing but underline the fact that I am a better, more experienced medicus than he. He claims to have University degrees, but all I can say is that he cannot have paid much attention in class. I, on the other hand, listened to every word my tutors told me.’

‘When did you study at Oxford?’ asked Michael, aiming to make enquiries to see if Nigellus was telling the truth about his education.

‘Before you were born,’ came the sharp response. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant sneer. ‘When medical students were of a much higher calibre.’

‘Similia similibus curantur,’ persisted Michael, while Bartholomew felt himself begin to lose patience with Nigellus, and struggled against the urge to turn on his heel and march out. ‘Irby wrote it just before he died. What did he mean?’

‘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 disprove 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.

‘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.

When the Michaelhouse men approached, Cew bared his teeth, and Bartholomew saw a thin grey line around the top of them. It was identical to the one he had seen in the student the previous day, and similar to the problem suffered by Rumburgh. But there was no time to ponder its significance, because Cew began to gibber in a manner that made Dodenho back away in alarm.

‘Garlic and onions. Put them in my soul-cakes. List the syllogisms – Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio. Dodenho does not know them. Garlic in the oysters, onion in the pastries.’

‘You see?’ snapped Wayt, although there was more sorrow than anger in his voice. ‘Now tell us why we should care about the man who did this to him.’

‘He will not eat oysters now.’ Dodenho sounded sad and frustrated in equal measure. ‘Just soul-cakes. God knows why – they are far too sickly for me.’

‘You sweeten them with sucura,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Dodenho had let slip the last time they had met.

‘Not any more,’ averred Wayt. ‘We use honey instead.’

‘Honey is not a syllogism,’ babbled Cew. ‘Baroco, Bocardo. Nasty, sticky stuff to dissolve my orb and sceptre. I hate honey, so give me onions. Onions and garlic.’

‘He keeps asking for those,’ said Dodenho worriedly. ‘But he cannot mean it.’

Bartholomew was about to agree when he remembered Rougham quoting Galen the night before, about the body knowing what it needed. Nigellus had mentioned it, too, at a meeting of the consilium, when he and Bartholomew had argued about the importance of a balanced diet. But before he could suggest that they give Cew what he wanted, Wayt tried to propel him and Michael towards the door. Outraged that anyone should dare lay hands on the august person of the Senior Proctor, Michael resisted with a snarl, so Wayt ordered Dodenho to see the Michaelhouse men off the premises, loath to risk his dignity in a shoving contest he would not win.

‘He means no harm,’ said Dodenho apologetically, once they were in the yard. ‘Although I shall be glad when Master Shropham comes home. Can you help Cew, Bartholomew? Or did Wayt not allow you sufficient time to judge?’

Suspecting Dodenho might baulk if anything as vulgar as onions and garlic was recommended for the patient, Bartholomew mumbled something about a remedy he kept at home.

‘I will prepare it now and bring it as soon as it is ready,’ he promised.

Leaving Michael to visit Stephen alone, Bartholomew hurried back to College, where he solicited Agatha’s help. Together, they produced a stew that contained plenty of onions and garlic, along with barley and sundry other vegetables. When they were soft, he mashed them to a paste, which he coloured with saffron left over from Hallow-tide, aiming to disguise the mundane ingredients with an exotic splash of colour. Then he added boiled water to turn the concoction into a smooth soup. Agatha grinned when he asked her to keep the recipe secret, delighted to indulge in a conspiracy with a Fellow.

He returned to King’s Hall, where Dodenho was waiting anxiously. He was whisked quickly to Cew before Wayt could see him, and was pleased when the patient gulped down a whole bowl.

‘What is it?’ asked Dodenho curiously, as Cew indicated that he wanted more.

‘Royal Broth,’ lied Bartholomew, smiling encouragingly at Cew. ‘It is full of expensive ingredients that only monarchs can afford.’

The logician wolfed down a second helping, after which he curled up and went to sleep.

‘We shall have some of this Royal Broth for our ailing students as well,’ declared Dodenho, watching in relief. ‘Nigellus calculated their horoscopes, but we are not sure we can trust those now that he stands charged with murder.’

‘What else did Nigellus do?’ probed Bartholomew. ‘What medicines did he prescribe?’

‘No medicines,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Only advice – mostly about foods that should be avoided when the moon and stars are in certain positions. It was all very complicated, and I am not surprised our lads made mistakes – it is not always easy to see where these celestial bodies are at specific times, and we cannot spend all night gazing at the sky.’

‘He gave them nothing at all to swallow?’

‘No – just a long list of instructions about the ascendancy of Venus and that kind of thing. When he first arrived in Cambridge, he confided in his cups that he planned not to accept any sick clients, and that he aimed to acquire a practice comprised solely of healthy ones.’

‘Well, a lot of them are sick now,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘And some have died.’

‘He should have realised that no one stays hale and hearty for ever, and his was an impractical aspiration. He must be livid that the debilitas has come to haunt us, given that he is not very good at curing it. Unlike you with your magical Royal Broth. What did you say was in it?’

To ensure that Dodenho continued to feed it to Cew, Bartholomew took a leaf from Nigellus’s book and became haughty. ‘I am afraid I cannot share my professional secrets with laymen. Suffice to say that it contains a wide variety of costly and efficacious compounds.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Dodenho pleasantly, and handed him a shilling, a fee far in excess of what the physician had intended to charge. ‘Is that enough, or do you require more?’

Bartholomew wanted to refuse it, feeling that to accept would be tantamount to theft. However, if he did, Dodenho would probably be suspicious, and he was loath to risk Cew’s well-being over a few pennies. He took the coin with a sheepish nod of thanks.

Dodenho spirited him to the students’ dormitory afterwards, both keeping a wary eye out for the bellicose Wayt. When he had examined his new patients, Bartholomew trailed back to Michaelhouse and handed the shilling to a delighted Agatha. She immediately set to work on a much larger pot of ‘Royal Broth’, promising to deliver it to King’s Hall herself when it was ready.

Bartholomew met Michael in the yard. The monk was disconsolate that interviews with Shirwynk, Peyn and Hakeney had yielded nothing of value, while Stephen could not have been as ill as his maid had claimed, because he was still out.

‘I discovered that Cew and Wauter were friends, though. Very good friends.’

‘We already knew that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told us so himself.’

‘No – he told us that he visited Cew to debate points of logic. It is not the same, and by all accounts he is deeply distressed by Cew’s descent into madness. And now he has disappeared.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Frenge’s attack on Cew sent Wauter on a spree of revenge that involves murder and the removal of the University to the Fens.’

‘It does sound outlandish,’ admitted Michael. ‘But we have both encountered stranger motives in the past, and we should not discount this one until we are sure it is wrong. I suggest we visit Zachary now, to see what Wauter’s old colleagues can tell us about him.’

They arrived to find the Zachary students sitting in their hall on benches, while Morys held his lecture notes upside down and Kellawe looked shifty. Bartholomew interpreted this as meaning that the pair had been giving incendiary speeches, but did not want the Senior Proctor to know.

‘We will not talk to you until Nigellus is released,’ stated Morys, to a chorus of defiant cheers. He was wearing hose with yellow and black stripes, a black gipon with an amber belt, and a hat stippled in the same colours. Bartholomew wondered why one of his friends did not do him the kindness of advising him to choose attire that did not scream ‘unpopular stinging insect’.

‘That would be foolish,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It will only prolong his incarceration.’

‘If you are here to suggest we apologise for what Segeforde is alleged to have done to Anne, you have had a wasted journey,’ said Morys. ‘It was an accident, and we are not giving that money-grubbing harlot a penny.’

‘She exposed herself deliberately,’ declared Kellawe, all wild eyes and outthrust jaw. ‘And poor Segeforde was so appalled by the sight that he fell into a fatal debilitas.’

One lad in the front row began to splutter, struggling to turn laughter into a cough when the Franciscan glared at him, while his cronies looked away or pretended to wipe their noses in an effort to conceal their own amusement. Clearly, the late Segeforde had been rather more worldly than Kellawe would have the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner believe.

‘Segeforde’s demise puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he could reveal what his illicit dissection had told him – one of the Zachary men might have an explanation. ‘He was well enough to protest outside the dyeworks and launch himself at Anne. But all of a sudden he is dead.’

‘It was not “all of a sudden”,’ snapped Morys. ‘He had been unwell with the debilitas all day, which you know perfectly well, because you physicked him.’

‘Along with Yerland,’ added Kellawe pointedly. ‘Yet it is poor Nigellus who is locked away accused of malpractice. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, because otherwise it would be you in that cell.’

‘While I am here, you can tell me why you went to the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael, ignoring the accusation and glaring at the students, although Bartholomew took a step towards the door, fearing the situation might turn ugly. ‘You should not have visited a notorious town stronghold.’

‘We have the right to go wherever we please,’ declared Morys. ‘However, in the light of what happened, we have advised all University men to arm themselves. We have also recommended that they do not wear their academic tabards, on the grounds that it makes them too visible a target. I have already seen a number of lads following our advice.’

‘Then the proctors’ coffers will soon be overflowing,’ said Michael. ‘And speaking of fines, you owe three shillings for the fracas last night. If you do not pay by noon tomorrow, I shall send beadles to seize the equivalent amount in goods. I am sure you have plenty of books we can take.’

Morys was furious. ‘You cannot! The Chancellor will not permit it.’

‘You have already summoned his mother, so he has nothing to gain by opposing me now.’ Michael smiled archly. ‘You should have confined yourself to threats, because then he would have been yours to manipulate as long as you wanted. You made a tactical error, Morys.’

‘How dare you–’ began Morys, but Michael overrode him.

‘Have any of you seen Wauter? He has disappeared, and while you may look the other way while your scholars wander where they please, we have rules at Michaelhouse. Unless Wauter returns immediately, he will lose his Fellowship.’

‘We no longer consider him a friend,’ said Kellawe sullenly. ‘He made a serious mistake when he abandoned us for another foundation. As far as I am concerned, he is dead.’

‘Figuratively speaking,’ added Morys quickly, shooting his colleague a warning glance. ‘We do not mean him physical harm, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ agreed Michael flatly. ‘But when he was still alive in your eyes, did you ever talk about the University moving to the Fens?’

The Zachary men exchanged glances that were impossible to interpret.

‘No,’ replied Kellawe shiftily. ‘But we are not discussing him or anything else with you. Now go away or we will–’

He was interrupted by the sound of a door being thrust open, after which Cynric burst in.

‘A number of scholars have marched against the dyeworks,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘And Mistress Stanmore needs you to disperse them.’