A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 7

The incident with Segeforde and Anne might have sparked a serious fight if some of Tulyet’s soldiers had not arrived. They waded into the mêlée with drawn swords, which encouraged the antagonists to disperse. First to go were the men who had stood behind Edith’s ladies, no doubt having fallen foul of the Sheriff’s troops before, and they were followed by the other townsfolk. The scholars slunk away under Michael’s withering gaze, and for the first time since the dyeworks had opened, the square was all but empty. Only the women, Rumburgh, Bartholomew and Michael remained. Edith was incandescent with outrage.

‘It does not matter,’ said Anne, now draped decorously in her husband’s cloak. ‘I wanted a new kirtle anyway, and this gives me the excuse to indulge myself.’

‘It does matter,’ fumed Edith. ‘It was not the act of a gentleman.’

‘No, it was not,’ agreed Rumburgh, scarlet-faced with shame on his wife’s behalf. ‘And if my gums did not pain me so much, I would challenge Segeforde to a duel.’

‘There is no need for reckless heroics, dear,’ said Anne, patting his arm kindly.

‘And it is not as if they have never been flaunted before,’ muttered Yolande. ‘Such as when she appeared naked in the mystery plays last year. It caused quite a stir.’

‘It did,’ agreed Michael, then felt compelled to add, albeit unconvincingly, ‘though I was not there myself, of course.’

At that moment, a contingent of Austins arrived.

‘What has happened?’ asked Prior Joliet in a shocked voice. ‘We have been regaled with such dreadful tales! Townsfolk say that Segeforde molested a helpless lady, while Kellawe informed us that she whipped off the dress herself.’

‘She did not!’ cried Rumburgh. ‘What terrible lies!’

‘We will have to decant to the Fens now,’ said Almoner Robert sombrely. ‘The town will never forgive Segeforde, and the University will never forgive Anne.’

‘Never,’ agreed Hamo.

Then Shirwynk called out from his brewery door, evidently reluctant to move closer lest Edith should decide to take issue with him for his role in the affair. ‘Sue them, Rumburgh. Just as they are suing Frenge for having a little fun in King’s Hall.’

‘The “fun” you encouraged,’ said Michael, stalking towards him. ‘No, do not deny it – I have a witness. That was not the act of a friend.’

‘Frenge was his own man,’ said Shirwynk defiantly. ‘He could have refused.’

‘When he was drunk? Moreover, I find it suspicious that you consulted a lawyer just after Frenge died. Stephen says you went to hire him to sue King’s Hall, but if I find out that you actually quizzed him about inheriting Frenge’s half of the brewery, you will be in serious trouble.’

Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look, then bellowed at Rumburgh. ‘Are you content to let a scholar rip the clothes from your wife in a public place?’

‘It was hardly–’ began Michael.

Shirwynk overrode him. ‘It was a clear case of assault, and dozens of witnesses will concur. If you have any respect for your wife, Rumburgh, you will restore her good name with a lawsuit.’

‘Do not bother, dear,’ said Anne to her husband. ‘It would be so tedious.’

‘You are a very wise lady,’ said Robert, smiling approvingly. ‘A lawsuit would drive yet another wedge between University and town. Besides, I doubt the compensation you would win would be worth the inconvenience of a trial.’

‘Compensation?’ echoed Anne sharply. ‘You mean money?’

Alarm suffused Robert’s face and he began to gabble. ‘Very little, I imagine. Certainly not enough to warrant the trouble.’

‘A paltry sum,’ put in Joliet quickly. ‘Especially to the wife of a rich burgess. Mere pennies.’

‘Rubbish,’ yelled Shirwynk. ‘Zachary is a wealthy hostel. You will be awarded a fortune.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Michael. ‘He wants you to sue a University foundation because King’s Hall is prosecuting him. His advice stems from a desire for vengeance.’

‘So what if it does?’ asked Shirwynk, still addressing Anne. ‘It does not detract from the fact that a lawsuit is an easy way to swell your coffers. Stephen will take the case, I am sure.’

‘Well, now,’ said Anne, exchanging a greedy glance with her husband. ‘I did suffer when Segeforde hurled himself at me. Perhaps we had better pay Stephen a visit.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Edith firmly. ‘A quarrel with Zachary will do no one any good, least of all us. The University is our biggest customer – we cannot afford to offend it.’

‘You will not need its custom if you win funds from Zachary,’ coaxed Shirwynk.

‘We will make far more money by keeping its good graces,’ argued Edith. ‘There is–’

‘The dyeworks will make more money: you will not,’ called Shirwynk. ‘Be a man, Rumburgh. Take what is rightfully yours.’

‘I shall,’ declared Rumburgh, grabbing Anne’s hand and beginning to tow her towards the High Street. ‘We shall begin proceedings today, while memories are fresh.’

Michael watched Rumburgh and Anne go with a sense of helplessness, while Shirwynk filled the street with mocking laughter. Robert began to edge away, his face a mask of dismay, but Michael rounded on him before he had taken more than two or three steps.

‘What were you thinking, to mention compensation?’ he snarled. ‘Surely you must have realised what their reaction would be?’

‘I was praising her prudence,’ said Robert defensively. ‘Of course I did not predict that the pair of them would be seized by a sudden rush of greed.’

‘Go home,’ Michael ordered crossly. ‘And please watch what you say in future, especially to townsfolk.’

Robert bowed his head, cheeks red against his long white hair. Joliet opened his mouth to defend his almoner, but had second thoughts when he saw the dark expression on Michael’s face. He led his friars away, although Hamo felt compelled to have the final word.

‘Mistake,’ he murmured to Michael as he passed. ‘Sorry.’

Meanwhile, Edith was still furious – about Segeforde’s lunge, Shirwynk’s goading, Anne’s response and Bartholomew’s perceived treachery. The brewer was the first to feel her tongue.

‘How dare you tell Zachary that we run a brothel,’ she barked, stalking towards him. ‘Perhaps I should visit Stephen and take out a case against you – for slander.’

‘You could try,’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘But no judge will convict me, because your dyeworks do contain prostitutes, and the men guarding them are repaid with sexual favours.’

‘The men are paid with coins from me,’ countered Edith icily. ‘I assure you, nothing immoral happens here. It is a respectable establishment.’

Shirwynk attempted a sardonic laugh, although it was short-lived in the face of Edith’s wrath. He became defensive. ‘Well, it was not me who started that tale. Kellawe was lying when he claimed it was: I never said any such thing.’

‘Insult us again and you will regret it,’ hissed Edith, so venomously that the brewer blanched and retreated to his domain. When the door had closed behind him, she spun on her heel and stamped inside her dyeworks. Bartholomew followed, keen for her to know that Michael and Morys had misquoted him. He opened his mouth to explain, but the stench was far worse inside than out, and it took his breath away.

‘It really is foul, Edith,’ he gasped, once he had stopped coughing. ‘It cannot be doing anyone any good, especially the women who work here. Can you not open some windows?’

‘We could,’ replied Edith coldly. ‘But that would let the smell out, and we would have more complaints than ever. Besides, we barely notice it now.’

Bartholomew looked around unhappily. Several buckets of evil-smelling waste stood near the door, almost certainly destined for the river, while he did not know how anyone could bear the toxic atmosphere in the annexe, where Yolande was stirring the fermenting woad.

‘This cannot continue,’ he said quietly, holding his ground when Edith glowered at him. ‘The protesters have a point: there have been mysterious deaths and illnesses over the last few weeks – roughly coinciding with the time that this place opened.’

Edith’s expression went from angry to sad, which was much harder for him to bear as she doubtless knew. ‘So you are against us, too?’

‘I am against people becoming unwell and dying unnecessarily.’

Edith pointed at the watching women. ‘If my dyeworks are responsible for making people sick, then why are they not ill? They work most closely with these so-called deadly compounds.’

Bartholomew glanced at them, and thought that he had never seen a healthier horde. Every one was rosy-cheeked and sleek, and it was clear that regular meals and daytime work was doing them a power of good.

‘If you want a culprit, look to your own profession,’ Edith went on. ‘Everyone who has died – Lenne, Irby, Frenge, Letia, Arnold, Mistress Vine – was visited by a physician first.’

‘You mean Nigellus?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was not Mistress Vine’s medicus.’

‘No,’ agreed Edith. ‘You were.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘But I never saw her. I meant to go, but …’

‘She was tended by Meryfeld in her final hours,’ said Yolande. ‘I am sure she would have preferred you, but she was too ill to argue, and Vine did not want to send for a physician who has ties to us.’

‘But she had this debilitas, which only affects the wealthy,’ added Edith stiffly. ‘And as I said earlier, the waste from our dyes cannot distinguish between rich and poor, so I suggest you find something else to blame.’

And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

‘Come with me to talk to Shirwynk, Matt,’ said Michael when Bartholomew emerged despondently from the dyeworks. ‘I want to know why he is so violently opposed to our University. We have had our detractors in the past, but none as vehement as him.’

‘Will you talk to Anne first?’ asked Bartholomew, hopeful that trouble might yet be averted. ‘She did not seem particularly upset by what happened – until Robert mentioned compensation.’

‘I will visit her later, but the prospect of “free” money is attractive, and nothing I say will make any difference now.’ Michael rubbed a hand wearily across his face. ‘That stupid incident will do much harm. The town will be offended on her behalf, and scholars will rally to Segeforde, especially when he claims it was an accident.’

‘Perhaps it was. I did not see what happened.’

‘He did make a grab for her, although I doubt he intended to tear off her clothes. However, it is clear that she has a certain history with him.’

‘She has a “certain history” with Stephen, Frenge and Wayt, too. Indeed, I wonder whether you and I are the only two men in Cambridge she does not count among her conquests.’

Michael made no reply as he hammered on the brewery door, although there was a distinct pink flush to the plump cheeks. He continued to pound, loudly enough to prevent Bartholomew from asking questions, until Peyn came to answer it.

‘Have you come for a drink?’ Peyn asked insolently, staggering as Michael shoved past him. ‘What will you sup? Apple wine or ale?’

‘Neither – not with you,’ retorted Michael. ‘Latet anguis in herba, to quote Virgil.’

Peyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘He said that about me? Perhaps I should sue him.’

‘You could try,’ said Michael caustically. ‘But he has been dead fourteen hundred years, so I doubt even Stephen will recommend it.’ He saw Peyn’s blank look and became impatient. ‘He was a Roman poet. Do you have no education? I doubt the clerks at Westminster will be impressed.’

‘Of course I know the poet Virgin,’ declared Peyn. ‘I read his verses when I am here at night, guarding the brewery against marauding scholars. He just slipped my mind.’

‘Then maybe you should drink less apple wine,’ said Michael, regarding him with dislike.

‘I never drink any apple wine,’ said Peyn sullenly. ‘I dislike sweet things.’

‘You prefer mud, which you enjoy lobbing at scholars. It was fortunate you missed Wayt yesterday, or you would have spent the night in my cells.’

‘Fortunate for you,’ sneered Peyn. ‘Because if you had laid so much as a finger on me, my new employers at the Treasury would have come here and crushed you like a worm. So perhaps you had better take your nasty University to the Fens, Brother – it is a place where you cannot get yourself into so much trouble.’

‘Was it you who started that ridiculous rumour?’ asked Michael in disgust. ‘I imagine it came from the town, because no scholar is foolish enough to have invented such a tale.’

‘I had nothing to do with it, but it is true. If you will not go of your own accord, then you will have to leave once these lawsuits begin in earnest – King’s Hall prosecuting us, us hitting back, and Anne suing Zachary. And if they do not force you out, the people suffering from the debilitas will do it – folk who are sick because his sister opened a dyeworks.’

Peyn jabbed an accusing finger at Bartholomew and stalked out, slamming the door behind him with a noisy crack. Thinking they had been left unattended, Michael was about to indulge in a prowl when Shirwynk emerged from the shadows.

‘My son makes very good points, Brother,’ the brewer said smugly.

‘Your son is a fool,’ retorted Michael. ‘As are you, spreading lies about the dyeworks and encouraging Anne to sue Zachary. Do you want the town ablaze? What is wrong with you?’

‘Nothing is wrong with me,’ replied Shirwynk coolly. ‘I just do not appreciate having my town infested with scholars. I want you gone.’

‘Then you are going to be disappointed, because we are here to stay. But you have done business with us for years, so what has turned you against us all of a sudden?’

‘It is not all of a sudden,’ snarled Shirwynk. ‘I have always disliked you, and the whole town feels the same. Now get off my property before my apprentices remove you forcibly.’

‘I have questions,’ said Michael, not moving. ‘And if you will not answer me, the Sheriff will put them to you instead. He will arrest you and keep you in a cell until he is ready, but he is a busy man, and it might be days before he finds the time. Will Peyn delay his journey to Westminster, to make ale and apple wine while you are indisposed?’

Shirwynk scowled, trapped. ‘Questions about what?’

‘About your wife. I find it odd that she and Frenge died on the same day.’

‘It was a nuisance. Do you have any idea how much burials cost? And I had to fund two – no joke, when I have Stephen’s bills to pay as well. But all will be well when I win my case against King’s Hall, because then I shall have more money than I can count.’

‘Frenge was frightened of you,’ said Michael, when he saw the brewer was not going to tell him anything useful about Letia. ‘He–’

Shirwynk interrupted him with a braying laugh. ‘Rubbish! We were the best of friends.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is not what you said when we first discussed your relationship with him. Then you gave the impression that you were no more than working colleagues – men who endured each other’s company for the sake of the business.’

‘You misunderstood,’ said Shirwynk sullenly. ‘We were fond of each other.’

‘Then why did you encourage him to invade King’s Hall?’

‘Not this again,’ groaned Shirwynk. ‘I would not have done it had I known those humourless rogues would respond by killing him. It is them you should be persecuting, not me. They are probably the ones stealing our apple wine, too. Some disappears almost every night, despite the precautions we take to repel burglars.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael. ‘Your precautions. They involve Peyn standing guard, which suggests one of two things: either he quaffs the stuff himself and lies when he says it is stolen; or he abandons his post to go carousing with his friends.’

Shirwynk regarded him with dislike. ‘He does not drink wine, and of course he is obliged to slip away on occasion – to visit the latrine or to patrol our yard at the back. The villains wait for him to leave and then they strike.’

Michael snorted his scepticism. ‘Perhaps you should consider using your apprentices instead. Or do you not trust them?’

‘I trust my son,’ snarled Shirwynk. ‘And if he says scholars are stealing our wine, then scholars are stealing our wine.’

‘It is more likely to be a villain from the town,’ countered Michael. ‘There are far more seculars who know about theft than academics, and if you do not believe me, look in the castle prison. It is stuffed full of them.’

It was drizzling as Michael stalked towards St Mary the Great to berate Tynkell for requesting a licence to absolve scholars from acts of violence. The Chancellor was in his office, so pale and wan that Bartholomew was concerned.

‘I have the debilitas,’ Tynkell whispered plaintively. ‘And Stephen will be here in a moment, to tie me in logical knots. Please do not leave me alone with him, Brother.’

Michael’s ire evaporated at such a piteous appeal, and he flopped wearily on to a bench, which groaned under his weight. Bartholomew was about to dispense the mixture for distressed stomachs that he often gave to Tynkell, when he noticed a tremor in the man’s hands.

‘I have had it ever since Morys and I became kin by marriage,’ the Chancellor explained tearfully. ‘But it is worse today, because I have just had a letter from my mother, saying she is coming to visit. If she does, it will be the end for me.’

‘The end in what way?’ asked Bartholomew kindly.

‘In every way,’ replied Tynkell miserably. ‘Indeed, I might have to ask your book-bearer for a charm against evil spirits. She is a dragon, you see.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what might be made of the fact that the head of the University consulted a Michaelhouse servant on matters of superstition. ‘I am sure she cannot be as dreadful as you think.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Tynkell disconsolately. ‘You have never met her.’

‘While we are on the subject of outrageous missives,’ said Michael, ‘perhaps you will explain why you applied to the Bishop for a certain licence.’

‘Oh,’ gulped Tynkell guiltily. ‘You have heard about that, have you? It was not my idea. Morys said that in any battle with the town, we would be hobbled by the fact some scholars will refuse to fight lest bloodshed stains their souls. Then he recommended Kellawe as a good man to dispense absolutions. It seemed like a good idea …’

‘It is not a good idea at all!’ exploded Michael. ‘It will make the town think we are planning an attack.’

‘I suppose it might,’ conceded Tynkell weakly, ‘but Morys gave me no choice. Then he went and summoned my mother anyway – he reneged on the agreement he made, the sly rogue!’

Footsteps outside heralded the arrival of Stephen. He still looked unwell, but was clad in clothes of exceptional quality: clearly, the law was a lucrative business when clients like Edith and Shirwynk were willing to pay handsomely for sharp minds to find ways around it.

‘I have just been to King’s Hall to assess Cew,’ he began without preamble. ‘He is only pretending to be insane, purely to strengthen his College’s claim against the brewery. Thus the so-called assault on him will be excluded when we go to court.’

‘He is not pretending,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He is genuinely disturbed – and that is my professional medical opinion.’

In truth, he was not sure what to think about Cew, but the lawyer’s presumption in making a diagnosis he was not qualified to give had annoyed him.

Stephen considered for a moment. ‘Then he was already a lunatic, and King’s Hall aim to blame his illness on Frenge. Regardless, it will not form part of the case.’

‘I wish you could find a way to persuade both parties not to proceed,’ said Michael irritably. ‘The situation is causing untold harm to University-town relations.’

‘It will make no difference now whether they proceed or not,’ replied Stephen. ‘Because there is yet another suit – the assault on Anne by Segeforde. She was shamed in front of her friends and neighbours, and she is demanding substantial compensation for her anguish.’

‘How much of it will you receive?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘Twenty per cent? Thirty?’

Stephen regarded him coolly. ‘That is my business.’

‘If you do not answer, I shall tell my mother.’ The gleam in Tynkell’s eyes showed the pleasure he took from being on the giving end of threats for a change. ‘And you have met her …’

‘Fifty per cent,’ replied Stephen quickly. He raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Anne could have found a lawyer who charges less, but not one who will win. Quality costs.’

Michael sent a beadle to bring Segeforde to St Mary the Great when Stephen had gone. However, it was not the purple-lipped scholar who arrived, but Morys and Kellawe. Their gloating expressions turned wary when they realised it was not the malleable Tynkell who had summoned them, but the considerably less pliable Senior Proctor.

‘Anne de Rumburgh intends to sue Segeforde for assault,’ said Michael. ‘Where is he? We need to establish some facts if we are to defend him against Stephen.’

‘Bartholomew’s remedy wore off, and he is ill again,’ said Morys, equally cool. ‘But we are not worried about that money-grabbing whore. She has no case against Segeforde.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Oh, yes, she does, especially with Stephen representing her. A lot of witnesses saw what happened, including myself.’

‘Town louts, who will claim that Segeforde yanked at her bodice,’ said Kellawe, eyes blazing with righteous indignation. His northern accent was more pronounced when he was angry, and his lower jaw thrust forward aggressively. ‘But twice as many scholars, who are decent men, will say she did it herself. I am one of them. The harlot exposed herself deliberately.’

‘That is a lie,’ said Michael. ‘She did nothing of the sort.’

‘Does this mean you will side with the town against a scholar?’ asked Morys slyly. ‘I would not advise it, Brother – not if you want to be Chancellor when Tynkell resigns.’

‘Tynkell will be in post for a while yet,’ said Michael. ‘And people have short memories.’

‘He will go when I tell him or suffer his mother’s wrath,’ said Morys, grinning when he saw Tynkell’s alarm. ‘I have the power to force an election whenever I choose, so you had better do what I say, Brother, or you will lose everything you have built these last few years.’

‘Then so be it,’ said Michael with cool dignity. ‘Because I will not lie under oath.’

‘And you, Bartholomew?’ Kellawe turned to the physician. ‘What tale will you tell?’

‘The truth, of course,’ said Bartholomew haughtily, not bothering to mention that his testimony would be that he had not actually seen what had happened.

Morys’s expression hardened and he turned to Tynkell. ‘You had better find a way to remind them of their loyalties, or your mother is going to blame you for the University’s troubles.’

Before anyone could argue, he had turned and strutted away, Kellawe at his heels.

Tynkell was so distressed by what might be said to his dam that Bartholomew was obliged to give him a syrup of camomile and wild lettuce to soothe his nerves, then escort him to his hostel to rest. Michael was waiting as the physician walked back past St Mary the Great.

‘I can feel the tension building and I do not know how to stop it,’ the monk said unhappily. ‘We are at war with ourselves just when we need to present a united front.’

‘You mean all the ancient rivalries between Colleges and hostels?’

‘Yes, along with whether we should move to the Fens. There is a growing faction that thinks it is a good idea, while foundations like King’s Hall and Gonville are just as determined to stay.’

‘I am more concerned about Nigellus,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am not sure he should be let loose on patients, but how can we stop him without actual evidence of wrongdoing?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘You learned nothing from Letia and Irby, but what of the others?’

‘It is too late – they have been buried.’

‘Lenne has not – he is in St Bene’t’s Church, and will not go in the ground until tomorrow.’ Michael glanced up at the darkening sky. ‘It will not be long now before everyone is abed …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, we have no authority to examine him; and second, there is no reason to think he will provide answers, given that Letia and Irby did not.’

‘But Frenge did,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If Nigellus has been helping patients into the grave, we need to stop him – and if that means examining a corpse in the middle of the night, then so be it. Go home and try to sleep. I will wake you when the time is right.’

But Bartholomew reached Michaelhouse to find he was needed by several patients. He set off at once, and included Trinity Hall on his list, to see if he could ascertain why an entire College professed to feeling under the weather. He examined a wide range of their leftover food, paying particular attention to the syllabub, but found nothing amiss. He did, however, discover that Nigellus had been a guest of the Master on both occasions when its members had fallen ill.

It was late by the time he trudged home again. The conclave was in darkness, so he went to the kitchen, arriving at the same time as Michael, who had spent the first part of his evening in a futile attempt to persuade Anne to withdraw her complaint, and the second half with the University’s lawyers, discussing the cases Stephen intended to bring against them.

The monk disappeared into the pantries in search of food, but his foray was unsuccessful, and it fell to Cynric, who made them both jump by materialising suddenly out of the gloom, to reveal where Agatha had hidden the last remnants of the feast. There were sweet cakes, some dry-cured meat, bread that was beginning to turn mouldy, and some of Shirwynk’s apple wine.

Cynric was more friend than servant, and had been Bartholomew’s book-bearer for years, although as the physician was unable to pay him, the title was more honorary than a description of his duties. He divided his time between helping in Michaelhouse’s kitchens and working at Edith’s cloth business on Milne Street – he was married to one of the seamstresses there. Bartholomew was glad he was not involved with the dyeworks, although the Welshman was by far the most able warrior in the town, and well able to take care of himself.

When he heard what Michael and Bartholomew intended to do at the witching hour, he offered to accompany them, eyes agleam at the prospect of creeping undetected through dark streets and breaking into a locked building. They were discussing details of the plan when they became aware that someone was listening in the shadows by the door. It was Wauter, wearing not his Austin habit but secular attire.

‘I could not sleep,’ the friar explained. ‘I tried working on my Martilogium, but I cannot concentrate. I dressed – in clothes that will not expose me as a scholar, which would be reckless after nightfall – and was about to go for a walk when I saw lights in the kitchen.’

‘Why are you restless?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew wondered why Wauter should risk going out at all when a stroll could be taken in the safety of the College’s grounds.

‘I keep thinking about the University’s move to the Fens,’ replied the Austin. ‘It is a major decision, not one that should be taken lightly. However, the one thing that makes me feel we should go is the dyeworks. I am sure they are dangerous.’

‘The University has been in Cambridge for a hundred and fifty years,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We cannot abandon all we have built over a few bad smells. We will reach some accommodation with Edith, never fear. She is a reasonable lady.’

Wauter stared at him for a moment, then continued. ‘And while I hate to cast aspersions, I am worried about Nigellus. He lost six patients at Barnwell: two Augustinian canons, the reeve’s wife and uncle, and two priory servants. From what I understand, they died of the debilitas.’

‘The debilitas!’ spat Bartholomew. ‘There is no such disease. Nigellus only coined the term to make his wealthy clients feel special – to pander to their desire not to have the same ailments that afflict the poor. Moreover, the people who claim to be suffering from it display such a wide range of symptoms that they cannot possibly all have the same malady.’

‘Which is why you plan to visit St Bene’t’s tonight,’ surmised Wauter. ‘To assess Lenne’s remains with a view to determining whether Nigellus has done anything untoward. I will come with you, if you do not mind. Another pair of eyes to keep watch will not go amiss.’

‘Good,’ said Cynric, pleased. ‘There are three doors, and I cannot guard them all. But before we go, you must secrete these about your persons.’ He handed each scholar a packet.

‘What is it?’ Bartholomew opened his, and a salt-like substance poured into his hand.

‘Powder,’ replied Cynric, unhelpfully. ‘To repel restless spirits.’

Bartholomew knew better than to argue, but Michael and Wauter were in holy orders.

‘No, thank you,’ said the monk, trying to pass it back. ‘We shall put our trust in God.’

‘A lot of prayers were said for the dead over Hallow-tide,’ said Cynric, managing to make it sound sinister. ‘And it has agitated their spirits, especially the ones who were murdered. Lenne’s ghost will be abroad, looking for someone to haunt, but the sucura will protect you.’

‘This is sucura?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘How did you come by it? It is expensive.’

‘Very,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because it comes all the way from a distant place called Tyre. But its spectre-repelling properties are well worth the cost.’

‘I thought it was a cooking ingredient.’ Wryly, Bartholomew noted that Cynric had cleverly managed to avoid saying how he had paid for it.

‘It is, but the dead cannot abide its sickliness. It will drive them away with no trouble at all, so put it in your scrips, and let us be on our way.’

‘Where did you buy it?’ Bartholomew persisted, staring down at the little packet in his hand. ‘Dick Tulyet would like to know.’

‘I am sure he would,’ retorted Cynric. ‘But I am not in the habit of betraying friends – who would not need to sell it in taverns if the King was not so greedy with his taxes. As things stand, he has forced the price so high that he is the only one who can afford it. Which is not right.’

He had a keen sense of social justice, and Bartholomew could tell from the jut of his chin that there was no point in reminding him that buying contraband was illegal. Moreover, Michael showed no inclination to pursue the matter, which told him yet again that the monk was unwilling to investigate a crime with which he felt some sympathy.

Bartholomew would have asked more anyway, but Cynric turned abruptly and led the way across the yard, blissfully unaware that Michael’s packet went down the first drain they passed. Bartholomew wondered if he should do the same, but the truth was that he was sometimes assailed with the sense that the dead did not like what he did to them in the name of justice, and so was inclined to accept any ‘protection’ on offer. It was rank superstition, and the rational side of his mind told him he was a fool as he slipped the sucura into his bag.

It was the darkest part of the night, and should have been the quietest, but the town was full of shadows and whispers. Bartholomew did not see anyone, but he knew they were there, and disliked the sensation that he was being watched by eyes that were almost certainly hostile.

When they reached St Bene’t’s, Cynric led them up the alley that ran along the side of the graveyard, and kept them waiting for an age until he was satisfied that no one had followed. Eventually, he aimed for the priest’s door, where Bartholomew – as always – was dismayed by the speed with which he picked the lock: it was hardly a talent a University servant should own. They entered a building that was pitch black and eerily silent after the rustles and murmurs in the streets.

Cynric deployed Michael and Wauter, then went with Bartholomew to the chancel, where the physician was disconcerted to see not one but three bodies. The first was Lenne, covered by a purple cloth. Irby was next to him, dressed in his Zachary uniform. The last was Yerland. Bartholomew started, shocked that the student should be dead.

‘The debilitas,’ whispered Cynric. ‘I heard it in the Cardinal’s Cap earlier. Will you look at him, too? You might as well, given that he is here.’

He handed Bartholomew the barest stub of a candle, and indicated that he was to make a start. The physician obliged, wanting to be finished as quickly as possible. He jumped violently when there was a crash, and waited, heart thumping until Cynric came to whisper that it was just drunks in the churchyard. Then Wauter appeared, running on silent feet.

‘Douse the light,’ he hissed urgently. ‘Someone is coming.’

He and Bartholomew had only just ducked behind a tomb when a lamp began to bob towards them. It was a procession. Morys and Nigellus were at its head, while four students walked behind, carrying a bier. Kellawe was last, murmuring prayers. The students set the bier down and removed the blanket that had covered the body.

‘Oh, no,’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘It is Segeforde!’