A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 2

St Michael’s Church was a pretty place, and Michaelhouse revelled in the fact that it alone of the eight Cambridge Colleges actually owned the place where it performed its daily devotions. But it was more than a status symbol to Bartholomew: it was a haven from the hectic round that comprised his life, and the final resting place of many much-loved colleagues. Heart in his mouth, he raced towards it, hating the notion that it might be lost.

‘Thank God,’ gasped Michael, when they arrived to find the bonfire blazing merrily but the church unscathed. ‘I was sure disaster had struck.’

Bartholomew nodded as he leaned against a buttress to catch his breath, thinking sourly that there had been no need for the townsfolk to have built their pyre quite so high. Perhaps they did hope it would damage University property, which was galling, as Michaelhouse had tried hard to win their affection. Not only did he physick many of them without charge, but Michael ran a choir that was essentially an excuse to provide the needy with free food, while the other Fellows gave money they could ill afford to charitable causes or said free Masses for anyone who asked.

‘People have short and selective memories,’ said Michael soberly, reading his friend’s thoughts. ‘But our church still stands – for now, at least – so we had better visit the brewery to break the news of Frenge’s death before they hear it from someone else.’

They began to walk along the High Street. It was busy with people who were either ‘souling’ – earning cakes in return for prayers for the dead – or making last-minute adjustments to their bonfires. Those who were to take part in the torchlit procession were beginning to assemble, but the atmosphere was more menacing than celebratory, and both scholars were glad to turn down a road that was devoid of revellers.

Water Lane, where Frenge’s brewery was located, was one of several alleys that ran between Milne Street and the river. It was fairly well maintained because it was in constant use by the wagons that carried goods to and from the wharf, and boasted a number of fine houses. Some belonged to the merchants whose warehouses stood nearby, but most had been bought by scholars after the plague had emptied the area, and were now hostels. The largest and grandest was Zachary, which had recently been fitted with new window shutters – a gift from one of its many wealthy members.

Unlike most of the river thoroughfares, Water Lane did not end in a muddy slope and a rickety pier. It finished in a spacious cobbled yard dominated by two very different but equally handsome buildings, and a spanking new jetty. Of the buildings, one was the brewery, while the other was owned by Bartholomew’s sister, Edith Stanmore.

A few weeks before, Edith had startled her brother and everyone else who knew her by announcing a decision to expand her late husband’s highly profitable cloth business. She had achieved this by entering the dyeing trade, and had acquired premises, equipment and a workforce before anyone had really understood what she was doing – which was unfortunate, as the venture had aroused a lot of ill feeling. There were two main reasons for this: first, dyeing was a noxious process, and generated a lot of bad smells and unwholesome effluent; and second, she had chosen to hire staff from a controversial source.

‘Prostitutes,’ said Michael, as two women emerged. ‘I understand Edith wanting to do something good for the town’s downtrodden, but did she have to open her doors to harlots?’

‘They are not harlots,’ objected Bartholomew. He loved his sister, who had raised him after the premature death of their parents, and disliked anyone disparaging her. Moreover, helping the women had allowed Edith to think of something other than how much she missed her beloved Oswald, and he was glad to see the sparkle back in her eyes after so many weeks of sorrow. ‘They might have walked the streets once, but now they are gainfully and decently employed.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, although doubt was clear in his face. ‘However, the place reeks and it fouls the river. All dyeworks do, which is why there are laws stipulating that they must be sited well away from any settlement. It is unfortunate she managed to find a way around them.’

‘You make her sound sly,’ said Bartholomew resentfully. ‘She is not.’

‘Not as a rule. However, she did commission Cambridge’s most slippery lawyer to look for a legal loophole – and Stephen’s contention that dyeworks are clean because they use a lot of water is disingenuous. I am surprised you support her in this, because such disgusting waste must surely be harmful to health.’

Bartholomew did not reply, because the truth was that he was concerned about the dyeworks’ effluent. He and Edith quarrelled constantly about it, so it was a sore subject for him – he hated being at loggerheads with her, and wished she had never started the scheme in the first place. Oswald Stanmore had not dyed his own wares in the middle of the town, so why did she have to do it? He supposed he would have to try again to persuade her to shut the place down, or move it somewhere out of sight and mind, although it was not a prospect he relished – Edith had thrown herself wholeheartedly into saving ‘her ladies’.

Seeing the physician was unwilling to discuss it further, Michael marched towards the brewery and rapped on the door. ‘Frenge owns … owned this business with a man named Shirwynk,’ he said. ‘Shirwynk is a very unpleasant individual, and I have had several altercations with him over the last few weeks.’

‘What about?’

‘Selling inferior brews, picking fights with scholars, grazing his horses on College land. I hope he does not turn violent when he learns that Frenge is dead.’ Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘And I hope our interview with him does not take long, because I should hate to miss the feast.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You think about your stomach as you are about to deliver news of an untimely death? Not to mention the fact that the town is on the verge of a riot, you have a murder to solve, and there is a bonfire next to our church that may set it alight at any moment?’

Michael shot him a disagreeable look and hammered on the door again. ‘I notice you say that I, not we, have a murder to solve. I shall need your help if I am to find the culprit.’

‘I cannot, Brother. Nigellus and Rougham are coming to put my students through a mock disputation in the morning, so I will be busy.’

‘You plan to let Nigellus loose on your pupils?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘Why? The man is an ass, and I would sooner die than call on him for medical assistance.’

‘Those are strong words, Brother. What has he done to vex you?’

‘He is smug, arrogant, overbearing and as clever as clay. He is probably an Oxford man.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘As am I, Brother, in case you had forgotten.’

‘Yes, but you had the intelligence to abandon the Other Place and come here as soon as you were qualified, whereas Nigellus has been stagnating at Barnwell for the past forty years. So am I right? Did Nigellus learn his medicine at Oxford?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Followed by practical training in Norwich. Or so he says.’

‘You do not believe him?’

‘He is probably telling the truth. Unfortunately, he seems to have learned nothing since, and some of his skills could do with updating.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Zachary should never have recruited him. His abrasive personality does nothing to make our University more popular among the townsfolk.’

‘He is not an easy man, which is why I must be there tomorrow, to make sure everything goes smoothly.’ Bartholomew sighed ruefully. ‘And to ensure that he and Rougham do not teach my lads a lot of nonsense. I should have refused when they made the offer, but I did not want to offend the only two other medici in the University.’

‘Your boys are more than capable of distinguishing the intelligent from the twaddle, and I need you. Besides, you always object to lending a hand but we both know you will do it in the end. We go through the same charade every time there is a suspicious death.’

‘I do not–’ began Bartholomew indignantly.

‘Just agree to help me, Matt,’ said Michael testily. ‘It will save us both a lot of trouble.’

Bartholomew knew the monk was right, although it galled him to admit it. He leaned against the wall and kicked moodily at the cobbles, resenting the loss of precious teaching time. Then there was a loud clatter from the dyeworks, followed by a rank smell that grew stronger with every breath. He detected the distinct tang of old urine, mixed unpleasantly with brimstone and something so powerful that he wondered if it was melting his lungs.

He and Michael were not the only ones who thought the dyeworks should move away from the town, and dozens of people had gathered to protest when Edith had first opened her doors. Most had given up when they realised the place was there to stay, but a few diehards persisted. That day, they comprised a handful of scholars from the nearby hostels, who claimed the fumes were distracting them from their studies, and an equal number from the town, who objected to the fact that laws had been twisted to allow Edith to start the business in the first place.

Bartholomew watched them wave their fists as the reek rolled out, although it was not long before the angry voices turned against each other – the two sides might have a common cause, but they still could not bring themselves to join forces. All he hoped was that the dyeworks would not provide the spark that would ignite the latest trouble that was bubbling.

It was some time before the brewery door was hauled open – by a great bear of a man who wore a sleeveless leather tunic that revealed hairy shoulders; his features were blunt and pugilistic.

‘You again,’ he said coolly to Michael. ‘What now?’

‘We bring sad news, Shirwynk,’ said Michael kindly. ‘May we come in?’

‘If you must,’ replied Shirwynk ungraciously. ‘Although no decent townsman likes having scholar-scum on his property, so say your piece quick and get out.’

He turned and stalked inside, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to follow as they would. The place smelled strongly but not unpleasantly of barley and yeast, and was full of the huge vats used to ferment ale. A lad of eighteen or nineteen lounged against one. He was unshaven, dour-faced, and he looked like the kind of youth who would find fault with everything. He scowled at the scholars and spat, narrowly missing Bartholomew’s foot.

‘My son Peyn,’ said Shirwynk, nodding towards him with obvious pride. ‘He is going to Westminster soon, to work in the Treasury.’

‘Is he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Such posts were highly sought after, and the slovenly Peyn did not look like the kind of person who would appeal to the fastidious and exacting officials who ran the country’s finances.

‘Yes,’ said Shirwynk tightly, sensing an insult in the response. ‘Now what do you want?’

‘It is Frenge,’ began Michael, but then could not resist taking the opportunity to fish for information before breaking the news. ‘Do you know where he might be?’

‘We are not his keepers,’ replied Peyn insolently. ‘All we can tell you is that he went out just after terce – five hours ago now – to deliver ale to King’s Hall.’

Bartholomew did some quick calculations: that left a three-hour window between when Frenge had left the brewery and when the Austins had found the body.

‘Why would he go there?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘He hates the place.’

‘Perhaps the barrel was a peace offering,’ said Peyn, with the kind of smirk that suggested he thought it highly unlikely.

Bartholomew experienced a growing sense of unease. Had Frenge done something sly to the ale, something that would lay an entire College low? And if so, had King’s Hall seen through the plot and forced him to swallow the stuff himself? It would certainly explain the bruises on his jaw. But then how had Frenge’s body gone from the College to the Austin Priory?

‘I am afraid Frenge is dead,’ said Michael gently. ‘He was taken ill near the Austin Priory, and although the friars did their best to help him, it was to no avail. I hope you can take comfort from the fact that they are praying for his soul as I speak.’

‘We already heard,’ said Shirwynk. He seemed more irked than distressed. ‘Although it is hard to believe – he was perfectly well earlier.’

‘He was poisoned,’ Michael went on. ‘My Corpse Examiner here–’

‘Your what?’ interrupted Shirwynk, regarding Bartholomew askance.

‘Matt inspects all those who die on University property,’ explained Michael. ‘He–’

‘In that case, I do not want him near Letia,’ said Shirwynk firmly. ‘Not if he has had his hands on cadavers.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Letia?’

‘My wife. Nigellus did her horoscope, see, and he says she will die before tomorrow. I was considering getting a second opinion, but I do not want one from a Corpse Examiner.’

The last two words were spoken with considerable distaste.

‘I am a physician first,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Nigellus had done something more useful for the poor woman than predict the time of her passing.

‘Perhaps,’ said Shirwynk with a shudder. ‘But you will stay away from her – now and when she is dead. Is that clear? Now get out.’

He began shoving both scholars towards the door before Bartholomew could say whether it was clear or not.

‘Wait,’ ordered Michael, resisting. He was a large man, and all but impossible to budge if he did not want to go. ‘Your friend was poisoned, Shirwynk. Surely you must want to help us catch the culprit? You can do it by answering questions.’

‘I already know who is the culprit,’ snarled the brewer. ‘King’s Hall.’

And with that, he gave Michael a push that sent him staggering into the street, a feat that revealed him to be a very powerful man. Bartholomew was thrust out after him and the door slammed closed. Michael straightened his rumpled habit.

‘He was very determined that an expert on death should go nowhere near his ailing wife,’ the monk remarked. ‘It was suspicious.’

Bartholomew agreed, but could hardly insist on seeing the woman against her husband’s wishes, and his immediate concern was King’s Hall. He broke into a run, aware of Michael struggling to keep up, but the monk had enjoyed too many sumptuous meals at University expense, and his girth had expanded accordingly. He was a long way behind by the time Bartholomew reached Cambridge’s largest and most influential College, and rapped on the gatehouse door.

‘Thank God you are here at last, Doctor!’ cried the porter who answered. ‘Come in quickly. Master Cew is dying.’

King’s Hall was proud of its royal connections. It had been founded by Edward II forty years before, and was the College of choice for the kin of barons and high-ranking churchmen. Grateful alumni showered it with gifts, and it occupied by far the most sumptuous buildings in the town, set amid beautifully manicured grounds. Each Fellow had the unthinkable luxury of one or even two rooms to himself, and its table was among the finest in the country.

Bartholomew saw none of the tastefully understated elegance as he hurried through the College on the heels of the porter, but he did notice the students. All wore some form of armour and carried weapons, even though University rules forbade it. A few were in major holy orders, but even these had donned leather jerkins and toted thick wooden staffs.

‘We are expecting trouble,’ explained the porter. ‘There is a tale that Frenge is dead, and we will be blamed, even though we had nothing to do with it. Rough men from the town have been drinking all morning, so it is only a matter of time before they attack.’

‘Have you received a delivery of ale today?’ Bartholomew asked urgently. ‘From Frenge?’

‘We would not have accepted anything from him! He might have spat in it – or worse.’

‘Then what about from another brewer?’

The porter shook his head. ‘The only thing to arrive was a horoscope from Nigellus for Master Cew. Then Acting Warden Wayt said we should not open our doors again – other than to you – because too many townsmen are stupid with drink.’

‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew, sagging with relief. ‘Now tell me what ails Cew.’

‘Impending death,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘Would you like a soul-cake?’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the non-sequitur.

‘A soul-cake,’ repeated the porter, stopping to take one from a platter that stood on a table in the hallway; the air around them was rich with the scent of butter and spices. ‘Then you can say a prayer for my mother, who died last year.’

He turned at the sound of footsteps – Michael had caught up at last. Without a word, the monk snatched the biscuit from the porter’s hand and rammed it into his own mouth.

‘I need nourishment,’ he muttered, spraying crumbs down the front of his black habit as he spoke, ‘if I am to gambol around the town like a spring lamb.’

‘Then take several,’ said the porter, beginning to hurry forward again. ‘It is a shame to waste them, and I doubt we will be giving them to friendly callers this Hallow-tide. Wise scholars will stay home and townsmen will not be welcome. Not if they plan to accuse us of murder.’

‘That is a pity, because these are very nice,’ said Michael, who considered himself an expert on pastries. ‘A little sweet, perhaps, but there is a good balance of cinnamon and nutmeg.’

‘I am sorry Warden Shropham is away,’ whispered Bartholomew as they followed the porter through a labyrinth of corridors and halls. ‘He is much more reasonable than Wayt, and would never have sued Frenge in the first place.’

‘Wayt is a menace,’ agreed Michael, almost indecipherable through his next cake. ‘Shropham should have appointed someone else as his deputy, although from what I understand, Wayt simply announced that he was doing it and Shropham was too taken aback to object.’

Eventually, they reached the library, a huge room with a magnificent hammer-beam roof and purpose-built bookcases. Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement when he saw that Cew was not breathing his last, but standing on a shoulder-high windowsill with a dish on his head, a poker in one hand and an apple in the other. John Cew was a small man in his fifties, and the physician wondered how he had managed to scramble up there.

Two men were pleading with him to come down. One was Acting Warden Wayt, who was distinctive by having an unusually hairy face. The other was Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic prowess was nowhere near as impressive as he thought it was.

‘Your porter told me that Cew was dying,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly.

‘He is,’ averred Wayt. ‘Every day that passes sees more of his mind destroyed – and it is all Frenge’s fault. Cew was the greatest logician our College has ever known, but now look at him.’

‘He thinks he is the King of France,’ elaborated Dodenho. ‘The bowl is a crown, and the poker and apple his sceptre and orb.’

‘Have you come to pay homage to your monarch?’ demanded Cew in a booming voice that he would never have used had he been well. ‘Then kneel before us.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, watching Bartholomew push a table under the window so that he could stand on it and help Cew down. ‘He has been like this ever since Frenge startled him?’

Wayt nodded. ‘I have heard that a violent fright can turn a man’s wits, and that is what happened when Frenge hid behind a buttress and leapt out. I saw it happen, and I witnessed the terror on Cew’s face. It was a wicked thing to do.’

Bartholomew climbed on the table and offered Cew his hand. With great solemnity, Cew gave him the apple to hold while he made his descent. When he was down, he reclaimed the fruit and went to sit by the hearth, where he recited a list of all the French barons who had lost their lives at Poitiers, complete with a description of the armour they had worn. Unlucky chance had put Bartholomew at that particular battle, so he was able to say with certainty that Cew’s analysis was uncannily accurate.

‘He is very pale,’ he observed. ‘Has he been eating properly?’

‘He will only accept oysters and soul-cakes,’ replied Dodenho. ‘He says those are all that is fit for the royal palate.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But they block his innards, and he has not been to the latrine in days.’

‘We summoned Nigellus the day Frenge did this terrible thing to Cew,’ Wayt went on, ‘because he is the most expensive of the University physicians and therefore must be the best. He spent hours calculating a horoscope, then told us that Cew would only recover if we took him to stand under an oak tree in the light of the next full moon.’

‘But it was raining on those particular nights,’ added Dodenho. ‘And Cew refused to leave his rooms anyway. He thought the Prince of Wales might be out there, and he is wary of him after what happened at Poitiers. Do you have any advice, Bartholomew?’

Bartholomew was tempted to say that he had, and that it was never to hire Nigellus again. But diplomacy prevailed and he kept his opinion of the Zachary medicus to himself.

‘Ailments of the mind are a mystery to me, I am afraid, and you are already doing what I would recommend – making sure his needs are met, and preventing him from harming himself.’

‘These rumours about Frenge,’ said Wayt, turning to Michael. ‘Are they true? Is he dead in the Austin Priory?’

Michael nodded. ‘He was poisoned – murdered.’

‘I do not believe that, and neither should you,’ scoffed Wayt. ‘I imagine he broke in intent on mischief, but was struck down for his audacity – God had obviously had enough of him. There was a tale that he planned to raid us again tonight, so I cannot say I am sorry he is no longer a threat.’

‘Do not blame Frenge’s death on the Almighty,’ warned Michael sternly. ‘If you do, we shall have even more trouble with the town.’

‘I do not care. If they do not want a war, they should not have applauded Frenge’s crime.’ Wayt rounded on Bartholomew. ‘And speaking of crime, can you do nothing to stop your sister from killing us all? Her dyeworks are poisoning the river.’

‘It is true, Matthew,’ said Dodenho. ‘All the fish are dead, and I am sure she was responsible for that bout of sickness at Trinity Hall last week. After all, it happened after they drank ale made with water from the river and–’

‘That ale was from Frenge’s brewery,’ interrupted Wayt. ‘Doubtless he and Edith conspired together to bring Trinity Hall low.’

‘Actually, the culprit was a syllabub,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Which had nothing to do with my sister or Frenge. I tasted it myself and the cream was bad – not to mention the fact that it was so sweet as to be unpleasantly cloying.’

‘Probably because it was stuffed full of sucura,’ said Dodenho.

‘Sucura?’ queried Bartholomew.

‘The sweet powder from Tyre that Sheriff Tulyet has recently deemed illegal,’ replied Wayt. ‘It is smuggled through the Fens to avoid import tax, so you will not see any in King’s Hall.’

‘Tell me again what happened when Frenge came and did all that damage,’ ordered Michael, whose refined palate told him that sucura had been in the soul-cakes he had just eaten. However, he was unwilling to waste time on the argument that would follow if he said so.

‘It was a week ago now,’ obliged Dodenho. ‘We were all at table, and did not know he was here until we heard the pigs rampaging in the yard. We hurried out to see Frenge driving them towards our hall. He turned his attention to the geese then, and chased them into the orchard.’

‘We followed, but he managed to evade us,’ said Wayt. ‘Then I saw him hiding behind the buttress. Cew was nearby, but before I could shout a warning, Frenge had ambushed him.’

‘Frenge escaped in the ensuing confusion,’ finished Dodenho, ‘and poor Cew has not been in his right mind ever since.’

‘It was an outrage,’ said Wayt angrily. ‘We are right to sue Frenge for damages.’

‘You cannot sue him now he is dead,’ said Michael. ‘He–’

‘Oh, yes, we can,’ countered Wayt. ‘We shall transfer our claim to his estate – the brewery he part-owned. That will show the town that they cannot get the better of us, not even if they die.’

‘In the interests of good relations–’ began Michael in alarm.

‘No,’ hissed Wayt. ‘We will not withdraw. Frenge did us a lot of harm, and we intend to ensure that he pays for it. His death is irrelevant as far as I am concerned.’

‘There are rumours that King’s Hall murdered him,’ said Michael, also growing angry. ‘If you persist with this lawsuit, everyone will believe them.’

‘Do you think we care what townsfolk believe? Their opinions matter nothing to us.’

‘Well, they matter to me,’ said Michael, controlling his temper with difficulty. ‘And my investigation must be one of which they will approve or we shall have a riot. That means interviewing every member of King’s Hall about the crime, which we shall do at once. Assemble them, if you please.’

‘What, all of them?’ asked Dodenho, startled. ‘This very moment?’

‘If you would be so kind.’

Interrogating every member of King’s Hall was a daunting task, as there were more than forty Fellows, all of whom had at least two students, not to mention an army of servants. Fortunately, the College had held a feast to mark the beginning of Hallow-tide, so most had an alibi for the three-hour window in which Frenge had died.

Michael was thoughtful when he and Bartholomew eventually left. ‘Only three of the Fellows cannot account for their whereabouts: Wayt went to attend urgent College business in his quarters; Dodenho disappeared to practise a lecture; and Cew was left unattended in his quarters, so no one knows whether he stayed there or went a-wandering.’

‘Can you really see any of them invading the Austin Priory to commit murder?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Michael. ‘Very easily, if you want the truth. Wayt is viciously spiteful, Dodenho thinks he is cleverer than the rest of us, while Cew is insane. Or is he? He might be pretending in the hope that we will exclude him from our enquiries. Well? Is it possible?’

‘I suppose so. Can we go home now? It is getting dark, and it is reckless to be out while so many drunken townsmen are spoiling for a fight.’

‘I ordered a curfew for all scholars between dusk and dawn, and it would not do for the Senior Proctor to set a bad example.’ Michael grinned at Bartholomew. ‘Which means I have the perfect excuse to stay in and enjoy tonight’s celebrations.’

The High Street was teeming, pitch torches bobbing in the gathering gloom as folk gravitated towards St Mary the Great, outside which the procession would start. Many folk were also still traipsing around the homes of friends and relations, and as refreshments invariably included a drink as well as a soul-cake, few were sober. Bartholomew was right: it was no time for two scholars to be abroad without good reason.

‘There are those Zachary men again,’ said Michael irritably. ‘What are they doing out in defiance of my instructions?’

Bartholomew’s stomach lurched when he saw that the scholars in question had gathered in a circle around two women, one of whom was his sister. Without considering the consequences, he surged towards them, shoving them away from her with considerable vigour.

‘It is all right, Matt,’ said Edith quickly, as blades appeared in a dozen outraged hands. ‘We are only discussing a consignment of red cloth.’

‘Were you?’ asked Michael, hurrying over to regard the hostel men archly. ‘Why, when your uniform is grey and cream? And speaking of academic tabards, you seem to have forgotten yours. Where are they?’

‘We decided to dispense with them.’ The speaker was an older man, a master rather than a student. He wore a black and yellow gipon – a knee-length tunic with sleeves. Its colour, coupled with his small size and bristling demeanour, were redolent of a wasp.

‘You cannot dispense with them,’ said Michael irritably. ‘They are–’

‘We do not answer to you, Brother,’ interrupted the man sharply.

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ countered Michael. ‘I am the Senior Proctor.’

‘And I am John Morys, bursar of Zachary and kin to the Chancellor,’ the wasp flashed back. ‘We make the rules for our own scholars, and care nothing for your silly strictures.’

‘Too right,’ agreed the second older man among the throng, who was remarkable for a pair of startlingly purple lips. ‘I am Peter Segeforde, Zachary’s philosopher. What Morys says is true.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘And does Principal Irby agree?’

‘Of course he does,’ replied Segeforde shortly. ‘He is no fool.’

‘Then he is included in the fine I am about to levy,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘A penny from every man in your hostel, for insolence and flouting University rules.’

‘You cannot,’ said Morys coldly. ‘Not without the Chancellor’s agreement – and Tynkell and I have recently become kin by virtue of his mother’s latest marriage. He would never dare cross a member of her new family, because she would skin him alive.’

‘She is Lady Joan de Hereford,’ said Segeforde, puce lips curling into a smirk. ‘Not only is she formidable, but she is also a friend of the Queen, and thus in a position to make life difficult for any man who dares cross her. So go home, Brother, and keep your nose out of our affairs.’

‘I think you will find that Tynkell fears me a lot more than his dam, no matter how ferocious and well-connected she happens to be,’ retorted Michael. ‘Now will you return to your hostel willingly or will you bear the shame of being marched there by my beadles?’

While they argued, Bartholomew turned to Edith. He peered at her in the darkness to reassure himself that she was well – he had not forgotten the depth of her sorrow during the first few weeks of her bereavement.

‘You scholars!’ she whispered, and he smiled when he heard the laughter in her voice. ‘If you are not arguing with us, you are squabbling with each other. I have never known a more quarrelsome horde.’

‘It is because they have too much time on their hands,’ explained the woman who was with her. ‘They would not be so querulous if they did an honest day’s work.’

‘This is Anne de Rumburgh, Matt,’ said Edith. ‘I told you about her the other night.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, then remembered his manners and bowed politely.

Anne favoured him with a smile that was, by any standards, full of sensual promise. She was taller than Edith, and her kirtle was cut to show off the voluptuous curves of her figure; its neckline was lower than was currently fashionable and certainly lower than was decent. Her lips were red and full, and her eyes bright with the suggestion of fun.

But Bartholomew only inclined his head in a brief nod before turning back to Edith. He had suffered some recent mishaps with his love life, which had wounded him deeply, and he was unwilling to risk another encounter with the opposite sex just yet.

‘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.

‘Can we leave you to finish here, Master?’ asked the monk wearily. ‘Matt needs to examine Letia Shirwynk, whom we believe might have died in suspicious circumstances.’

‘We cannot visit the brewery, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirwynk was among the onlookers just now, so he will not be at home to give us his permission.’

Michael smiled sweetly. ‘Then we shall just have to get it from Peyn instead – which I anticipate will be a lot easier than dealing with his sire.’

Once again, they hurried through the dark streets, Michael more fleet-footed than usual as he aimed to be home in time for the feast. They trotted down Water Lane, grimacing at the rank smell that seeped from the dyeworks even though they were closed, and were about to approach the brewery when Peyn emerged with some friends. He was so intent on bragging about his imminent move to Westminster that he did not notice the door pop open again after he had closed it.

‘His father will not be impressed by that cavalier attitude towards security,’ remarked Michael, watching him swagger away. ‘But it suits our purposes. Come on.’

Bartholomew baulked. ‘If I am caught examining someone’s dead wife without permission, the town will rise against the University for certain.’

‘Then we must ensure that you are not caught. I will guard the door, while you go in. Be ready to make a run for it if you hear me hoot like an owl.’

‘Can you hoot like an owl?’

Michael flapped an impatient hand. ‘Hurry up. You are wasting time.’

Heart hammering, Bartholomew stepped inside. A lamp had been left burning by one of the vats, so he grabbed it and made his way to the living quarters at the back of the house, expecting at any moment to bump into Shirwynk, back early from the festivities. But he met no one, and it was almost an anticlimax when he found Letia’s body on a pallet in the parlour.

He examined her quickly, ears pricked for anything that sounded remotely like a bird. However, it was a cacophony of cheers from the High Street that eventually drove him outside again.

‘That was the procession ending,’ whispered Michael. ‘Shirwynk will be home soon, so let us be off before anyone spots us. Well? How did she die? And please do not say dizziness.’

‘I could not tell. There are no marks of violence, and certainly nothing to suggest she swallowed the kind of poison that killed Frenge. To all intents and purposes, she appears to have died of natural causes. Yet there are compounds that kill without leaving any trace …’

‘So was she murdered or not?’ hissed Michael impatiently.

‘I have already told you,’ said Bartholomew, equally testy. ‘I could not tell.’

‘But you must! You were gone an age – you must have seen something to help us find out why Shirwynk’s fellow brewer and wife died on the same day.’

‘It is suspicious,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But I am afraid poor Letia provided no answers.’