A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 8

The Zachary men did not stay long in St Bene’t’s. They deposited Segeforde and left – all except one: Kellawe had announced in a fiercely ringing voice that he would remain there to pray by his three dead colleagues’ sides.

‘Now what?’ whispered Bartholomew, as the Franciscan dropped to his knees and began to intone a psalm in a loud, important bray that seemed to suggest the Almighty had better forget what else He was doing and listen.

‘Leave it to me,’ Wauter whispered back, and made a show of ‘arriving’ in the church to keep a vigil of his own.

‘You are not needed,’ Kellawe informed him curtly. ‘My petitions will be more effective than yours, because I am a Franciscan.’

‘Very well,’ said Wauter, displaying admirable restraint in the face of such hubris. ‘But come outside and share a flask of wine with me. The night will be long and cold, and you will need something decent inside you if you are to give of your best.’

Kellawe allowed himself to be escorted away, and the moment the door closed behind them, Bartholomew darted towards the bodies, sensing he would not have much time before the opinionated friar declared himself suitably fortified and returned to his self-imposed duties.

It was an unpleasant business, not only rushed and fraught with the fear that Kellawe might decide his devotions were more important than chatting to Wauter, but because of what he was obliged to do for answers: when an external examination of Lenne revealed nothing amiss, Bartholomew embarked on a more invasive one using knives and forceps. What he discovered prompted him to look inside Irby, Yerland and Segeforde as well.

‘Keep your sucura to hand,’ Cynric advised, glancing down as he passed by on one of his prowls, although his eyes did not linger on the body for long. ‘Irby’s spirit will not like you doing that to its mortal coil, so you will need the powder’s protection for sure.’

The remark unsettled Bartholomew even more. He had no idea why, when he had long been of the belief that much could be learned from the dead and that anatomy was a valuable tool for helping the living, but it was a feeling he could not shake. He finished quickly, put all to rights, and left the church with relief. It was not long before Michael, Cynric and Wauter joined him in the graveyard, the latter pale and agitated.

‘Kellawe has some very nasty opinions,’ the Austin said, indicating that Cynric should lead the way home. ‘He will have the entire town in flames before long. Perhaps that alone is reason enough for moving to the Fens – it will spare the town his vitriol.’

By the time they returned to the College, it was almost too late to go to bed. Bartholomew tried to sleep anyway, and passed two very restless hours before the bell rang to wake everyone for church. It was his turn to assist at the altar, and a cold chill ran down his spine when Clippesby passed him the Host and the candles guttered. The rational part of his mind reminded him that it happened all the time – St Michael’s was full of unaccountable draughts – but it did make him wonder anew whether people were right to object to dissection.

‘Tell me again what you discovered,’ instructed Michael, when they were back in the hall, eating a plentiful but slightly peculiar breakfast of barley bread, carrots and nuts.

‘Inflammation of the stomach membranes and damaged livers,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘On all four bodies.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘Meaning that something is wrong, but I cannot tell you what.’

‘But it might indicate that they were poisoned?’

‘It might. All had been ill, but with different ailments: Lenne had lung-rot, Irby complained of loss of appetite, Yerland had head pains and Segeforde had some undefined malaise – the debilitas, for want of a better diagnosis.’

‘I can accept Lenne dying of natural causes, but not the other three. I think Nigellus killed them. And the logical extension of that conclusion is that he poisoned Letia, Arnold and the folk from Barnwell, too.’

‘And Frenge – perhaps in revenge for selling sour ale to Zachary.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael grimly. ‘So I rose before dawn and arrested him. His colleagues are furious, of course, and so is he. He thinks you put me up to it.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘If he is innocent, he will never forgive me.’

‘He is not innocent, and I wish to God that I had acted the moment we found Irby’s note. If I had, Yerland and Segeforde would still be alive. Similia similibus curantur – “like cures like”. Irby knew he had been poisoned, but was too frightened to tell his colleagues lest they ran straight to Nigellus, so he wrote to you instead. It was a subtle yet clear plea for you to find an antidote.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Is that what you think it means?’

‘I am sure of it, and I am only sorry that I did not understand it sooner. Twelve of Nigellus’s patients are dead – thirteen, if you count Frenge – while Trinity Hall has suffered two bouts of serious sickness. This is what happens when medici think they are God, with the power to kill or cure.’

‘He does seem to believe he is infallible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But–’

‘Incidentally, I have issued a statement saying that the corpses of Lenne, Irby, Yerland and Segeforde are exuding deadly miasmas. In the interests of public health, they have been sealed inside their coffins, which is the best way to ensure that no one ever sees what you did to them. It was grisly, even by your standards.’

‘Thank you, Brother. The town and the University would have plenty to say if it became known that I invade churches at night to dissect the dead.’

‘Then perhaps I should tell them,’ said Michael wryly. ‘It is something on which the two sides will agree, and common ground is in desperately short supply at the moment.’

When the meal was over, Langelee came to demand an update on their investigations, and the other Fellows clustered around to listen. After Michael had obliged, the conversation turned to the rumours that were circulating.

‘I do not want to go to the Fens,’ the Master grumbled. ‘There will be no taverns, no women and no wealthy benefactors. How can we enlarge our endowment if we are not here to impress the people who matter?’ He gestured to the mural. ‘And this will have been wasted.’

‘It might have been wasted anyway,’ said William glumly. ‘Folk are not exactly lining up to shower money on us.’

‘I am not ready to concede defeat just yet,’ said Langelee. ‘Suttone, Clippesby and I will visit a few burgesses today, and tell them that they might be slaughtered in their beds if the town explodes into violence, so they should consider their immortal souls. And what better way than a benefaction to a College that will pray for them in perpetuity?’

‘Do not phrase it in quite those words,’ begged Michael. ‘They may interpret them as a threat.’

Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘Leave it to me, Brother – I know what I am doing. You concentrate on restoring the peace. Bartholomew will help.’

‘But I have not given a lecture in days,’ objected Bartholomew, ‘and my students are–’

‘The Austins are coming to tell my lads about the nominalism-realism debate today,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Yours can join them, which means you are not needed here.’

‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael. ‘That debate is central to all current scholarly thinking, and Prior Joliet is sure to have new insights. Your students will learn a great deal, Matt.’

‘Only if they listen,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Which they will not do unless someone is here to keep them in line – and most of the Fellows plan to be out.’

‘Not William and Wauter,’ said Langelee. ‘They will prevent mischief.’

A flash of irritation crossed Wauter’s face. Bartholomew did not blame him: it would not be easy to convince a lot of lively lads to listen to a multi-hour lecture on metaphysics, and Wauter would not be able to relax for an instant.

‘I have other plans, Master,’ said the Austin irritably.

‘Cancel them,’ ordered Langelee peremptorily.

‘I cannot – they are important.’

Langelee’s eyes narrowed. ‘More than the well-being of your College? What are they then?’

Wauter’s face became closed and a little sullen, an expression none of them had seen before. ‘I would rather not say. They are private.’

‘Then you will stay in the hall with William,’ decreed Langelee with finality.

When Bartholomew had delivered his students a stern warning that any mischief would result in them cleaning the latrines for a month, he climbed the stairs to Michael’s room. When he arrived, the monk began planning their day.

‘First, we must visit Zachary, to ask what happened to Yerland and Segeforde. Hopefully, Nigellus’s colleagues will have come to their senses now that the enormity of his crimes has been exposed, and will tell us the truth. Then we shall speak to Nigellus in the gaol.’

‘I will come with you to Zachary, but not the prison. Nigellus will think I am there to gloat.’

‘I do not care what he thinks and we need answers – there is no time for foolish sensitivities. Are you ready? Then let us be on our way.’

It was early, but the streets were busy, and the atmosphere was tense and dangerous. Townsmen glared at scholars, who responded in kind, and Bartholomew was shocked when some of his patients, people who had accepted his charity and professed themselves to be grateful, included him in their scowls. Perhaps more surprising was that several members of the Michaelhouse Choir hissed abuse at Michael – the man who provided them with free bread and ale. The monk did not react, but Bartholomew suspected they would be told to leave if they turned up for the next practice. Isnard was his usual friendly self, though.

‘They are angry that a scholar ripped the clothes from a townswoman,’ he explained. ‘And they wish the University would leave Cambridge instead of just talking about it.’

‘Are you among them?’ asked Michael coolly, hurt by his singers’ disloyalty.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Isnard indignantly. ‘It would mean the end of the best choir in the country. And who would tend me when I am ill? I do not let any old medicus near me, you know – I have standards. No, Brother. You cannot let the scholars leave.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael, mollified by the warmth of the response. ‘But you can help by telling folk that there will be no lawsuit between Segeforde and Anne, because Segeforde is dead. He passed away last night.’

‘Yes, of the debilitas,’ nodded Isnard. ‘I heard. But it makes no difference. King’s Hall is still suing Frenge’s estate, even though he is dead, so Anne will still sue Segeforde’s.’

‘Stephen!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That will have been his idea.’

‘He is skilled with the law,’ agreed Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Have you seen your sister today? She had some trouble before dawn this morning.’

‘Trouble?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

‘Someone broke into the dyeworks and– Wait! I have not finished!’

Bartholomew sped along Milne Street, dodging carts, horses and pedestrians. He almost fell when he took the corner into Water Lane too fast, but regained his balance and raced on. As usual, there were knots of protesters in the square at the end, some led by Kellawe and others in a cluster around Hakeney and Vine the potter. The dyeworks door was open, so Bartholomew tore through it, barely aware that the stench was so bad that day that most of the women wore scarves around their mouths and noses. Edith was on her knees with a brush and pan.

‘What happened?’ he demanded breathlessly.

‘Matt,’ said Edith, climbing to her feet. ‘Do not worry. We drove him off before he could do too much harm.’

‘We? You were here at the time?’

‘Yes, with Yolande. We came to … to stir the woad.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew drew his own conclusions when she would not look him in the eye.

‘The rogue had the fright of his life when he saw us,’ Edith went on, then gave a sudden impish grin. ‘I have never seen anyone run so fast in all my life.’

‘Who was it?’

‘He wore a mask, so we could not tell. Segeforde maybe, irked because Anne intends to sue.’

‘Not if it happened just before dawn – he was dead by then. I suppose it might have been one of his Zachary cronies though.’

‘Dead?’ asked Edith, shocked. ‘How? I hope it was not the debilitas, because we shall be blamed if so. Zachary already thinks we caused the deaths of Letia, Lenne, Irby and Yerland, just because they lived nearby.’

Bartholomew glanced around, aware of the reek now that he was no longer worried for her safety. In the annexe, Yolande was using a ladle to remove some foul residue from the bottom of a vat, while another woman was pouring buckets of urine over the fermenting balls of woad. Then he saw that a window had been forced, showing where the invader had broken in.

‘He was unlucky to find you here,’ he said. ‘He probably expected the place to be empty.’

‘We did not hear him at first, because we were out on the pier, getting rid of the alum-lye mix that …’ Edith trailed off in guiltily.

‘You put lye in the river?’ cried Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that is caustic! It will hurt anyone who drinks it. And what about the fish? It will kill everything that–’

‘No one drinks from the river at that time of the day,’ interrupted Edith defensively. ‘Besides, the tide is going out, so it is all washed away now.’

Bartholomew smothered his exasperation. ‘The tide is on the turn, which means some will come back again. And what about the people downstream, not to mention their animals? Besides, you are meant to be transporting of that sort of thing to the Fens.’

‘We do, usually, but it is a long way on isolated tracks, and two or three buckets of sludge hardly warrant the trouble.’

‘Two or three buckets a day,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It adds up. You should store them until you have enough to make the journey worthwhile.’

‘We have tried that, but your colleagues will insist on moaning about the smell.’ Edith fixed him with a hard glare. ‘You criticise us, but what about all the Colleges, hostels and convents that throw sewage, kitchen waste and God knows what else into the water? And besides, a few pails in an entire river will do no harm. They will dilute.’

‘Will they?’ demanded Bartholomew. Lye could have caused the burns he had seen on Frenge – the King’s Ditch was not the river, but they were still connected. Could Frenge have been poisoned as he rowed to the Austin Priory, and the bruises on his face were not from someone forcing him to drink, but him clawing at himself in agony? ‘Are you sure? Because I am not.’

‘Our waste looks bad because it is brightly coloured,’ Edith went on, ‘whereas the stuff produced by everyone else just looks like dirty water. But theirs is just as dangerous.’

‘You cannot know that,’ Bartholomew said tiredly. ‘And what if the protestors are right – what if the spate of recent deaths is because of you?’

Edith scowled at him. ‘Use your wits, Matthew. Who drinks from the river and eats its fish? Paupers! And are paupers falling ill? No, the dead are all wealthy folk who go nowhere near the Cam for victuals. Besides, if you want a culprit, you should look to your own profession, as I have told you before. All the victims consulted a physician before they died.’

‘Yes – Nigellus mostly,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘So Michael arrested him last night.’

‘Good,’ said Edith harshly. ‘He is certainly the kind of man to let an innocent dyeworks take the blame for something he has done.’

‘He still might, so perhaps you should close until the situation is resolved.’

‘And what happens to my ladies in the interim? Do they go back on the streets until you give us permission to reopen? I am sorry, Matt, but I am proud of what we have achieved here, and I cannot abandon them. They need me.’

Bartholomew smiled despite his concern, touched by her dedication to a sector of the community that did not often win champions. ‘Then Cynric will stay with you until this is over.’

Edith smiled back, and Bartholomew was glad the quarrel was over, even if it was only a temporary truce. ‘Thank you. His presence will be greatly appreciated.’

The door opened then, and Anne sauntered in wearing a kirtle that was cut even more revealingly than the one that had caused all the trouble the previous day. It looked new, and he wondered if she was already spending the money she expected to win from her lawsuit.

‘I thought we had agreed that you would stay away until the matter with Segeforde is sorted out,’ said Edith coolly, eyeing the gown with open disapproval. ‘You being here is incendiary, especially with Kellawe outside.’

‘Why should he dictate what I do?’ pouted Anne. ‘I am a free woman.’

‘Very free – that is the problem,’ muttered Edith.

‘I have money invested in these dyeworks,’ Anne went on. ‘So I have a right to reassure myself that they are running smoothly. Besides, no one has my experience with the sales side of the business, so you need me here.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Edith. ‘We do. Very well, then, but stay in the back and keep a low profile. We do not want your presence to aggravate the University – our biggest customer.’

‘I know you are vexed with me for suing Segeforde,’ said Anne, coming to take her hand. ‘But he deserves it for what he did to me. Besides, I shall invest some of my compensation here, so the dyeworks will certainly benefit.’

‘Segeforde is dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will not be paying you anything.’

‘I heard,’ shrugged Anne. ‘But Stephen says we can just transfer our grievance to his estate. And better I get the money than Segeforde’s vile colleagues at Zachary Hostel. It would not surprise me if they dispatched him, in a desperate attempt to make me drop my complaint.’

Having had her say, she flounced off, all swinging hips and heaving bosom.

‘Do not let her beguile you, Matt,’ warned Edith, clearly of the opinion that no man would be able to resist such a tempting display. ‘Her husband might be impotent, but they are still married, and I doubt she would make you happy anyway.’

‘She hardly compares to Matilde and Julitta,’ said Bartholomew, offended that Edith should think he might allow himself to be enticed. He had standards and Anne was well below them.

‘No,’ agreed Edith softly. ‘She does not.’

Bartholomew left the dyeworks to find Michael and Kellawe outside, glaring furiously at each other, while Hakeney and his cronies watched intently from the other side of the road.

‘Here,’ said Kellawe, thrusting a flask at the physician. ‘Swallow this.’

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, declining to take it.

‘Water from the river. If your sister’s business is doing no harm, you will not mind downing it, to prove to everyone that it is safe.’

‘The river has never been safe,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And I have been advising people not to drink from it ever since I became a physician.’

‘You are refusing?’ pounced Kellawe triumphantly.

‘Yes. Not because of the dyeworks, but because of the sewage that is discharged into it from Trinity Hall, Clare College, the Carmelite Friary and every house and hostel in between.’

‘We know the truth,’ called a verbose but stupid priest named Gilby. ‘The Cam is poisoned, thanks to your sister and her whores. Her husband must be spinning in his grave.’

Oswald probably would have deplored Edith helping prostitutes, thought Bartholomew, but it was not for Gilby to say so. He reined in his temper with difficulty, ignoring the jeers that followed when Kellawe theatrically poured away the flask’s contents.

‘I am glad you refused, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘They probably added something to make you ill regardless. They are so determined to see Edith fail that no sly tactic is beneath them.’

‘Now perhaps you will answer some questions.’ Bartholomew addressed Kellawe, pointing at the Franciscan’s boots as he did so: they were speckled with spots of red, yellow and blue. Clearly, the friar had not gone straight home after finishing his vigil for Segeforde, Irby and Yerland in St Bene’t’s Church, but had made a detour. ‘Such as how did that happen?’

Kellawe flushed scarlet. ‘Painting,’ he replied, chin jutting out defiantly. ‘Touching up the murals in our hall. And you cannot prove otherwise.’

Bartholomew felt his blood boil. What if the Franciscan’s felonious antics had put Edith and her women in danger? He was about to launch into an accusatory tirade when Michael grabbed his arm and pulled him away, much to Kellawe’s obvious relief.

‘Exposing him as a burglar here will do nothing for the cause of peace,’ he muttered. ‘I shall fine him later, in the privacy of his hostel, where there will be no witnesses to turn it into an excuse for a fight.’

Bartholomew was not sure he agreed, but allowed himself to be steered away. ‘I will go to Barnwell this afternoon,’ he said, wondering if the Franciscan and his followers would leave the dyeworks alone if Nigellus was proven guilty. ‘To ask about the six people who died there.’

‘Go now,’ instructed Michael. ‘We should have as many facts at our fingertips as possible when we interrogate Nigellus.’

He was about to add more when he noticed Shirwynk and Peyn outside their brewery. Peyn was slouched in an attitude of sullen indolence, and Bartholomew felt like remarking that the lad would have to make himself more amenable if he aimed to succeed at the Treasury.

‘If you want the villain who invaded the dyeworks,’ Peyn said as the two scholars approached, ‘you need look no further than there.’ He nodded to Kellawe and his supporters.

‘My son is right,’ said Shirwynk, and there was pride and love in the way he looked at the youth. ‘The culprit will not be a townsman.’

‘Moreover,’ Peyn went on, ‘the sudden outbreak of the debilitas is a sly plot by academics to kill all the burgesses, so there will be no one left to challenge the University’s authority.’

‘If that were true, the debilitas would only affect townsfolk,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But scholars are suffering, too.’

‘But not at Michaelhouse,’ Peyn flashed back. ‘Which is more affluent than all the other Colleges put together. You should be dying, too, yet you remain suspiciously healthy. You are sacrificing colleagues from other foundations to strike a blow at the town.’

Langelee would be pleased to hear that his scheme to conceal Michaelhouse’s poverty had been so successful, thought Bartholomew, amused by the irony. ‘No one is–’

‘You are ruthless and dangerous,’ interrupted Shirwynk. ‘And if we can do anything to oust your University from our town, we will not hesitate.’

Michael regarded them both thoughtfully. ‘I ask again: why have you taken so violently against us after years of peaceful coexistence?’

‘Because we have had enough of your arrogance, condescension and dishonesty,’ snapped Shirwynk. ‘More of my apple wine was stolen last night, and I know a scholar took it.’

‘How can that have happened?’ demanded Bartholomew archly. ‘I thought Peyn stayed here all night to guard it.’

He did not voice the thoughts that sprang instantly to mind – that Kellawe had gone to avail himself of a courage-generating tipple before turning his attention to the dyeworks next door. Or that Michael had hit the nail on the head when the matter had been raised before – that Peyn had either supped the stuff himself or he was not as assiduous with his duties as he would have his father believe.

Shirwynk glared at him. ‘The poor boy fell asleep for a few moments – protecting our property from thieving scholars is exhausting. The cunning bastards waited until he closed his eyes, and then they crept in.’

Unwilling to waste time arguing, Bartholomew and Michael went on their way, the physician wondering how Peyn had managed to persuade his father to be sympathetic to his napping on duty.

‘He adores the lad,’ said Michael. ‘God knows why. I should be ashamed if he were mine, and I cannot imagine the Treasury being very impressed when he appears on its doorstep, expecting access to the King’s money.’

The atmosphere was poisonous as Bartholomew and Michael walked up Water Lane – figuratively and literally. The dyeworks had started a process that involved a lot of foul-smelling ochre smoke, while it felt dangerous to be abroad in an academic tabard.

Bartholomew went directly to Michaelhouse, where Cynric was proud to learn that he was now responsible for Edith’s safety. Then, while Michael set about strengthening his case against Nigellus, Bartholomew aimed for the Barnwell road. He was relieved when it began to rain, giving him an excuse to raise his hood. It concealed his face, enabling him to walk without being subjected to a barrage of insults.

The Barnwell Causeway was a desolate place to be, even in good weather. It was elevated above the marshes through which it snaked, leaving its users cruelly exposed to the elements. That day, rain scudded across it in sheets and everything dripped. Bartholomew walked briskly, while wind hissed among the reeds and made his cloak billow around him. Eventually, he reached the huddle of buildings that comprised the Augustinian convent, and hammered on the door.

A lay-brother conducted him to the warm, cosy solar occupied by Prior Norton, a man who might have been nondescript were it not for a pair of unusually protuberant eyes. Bartholomew stated the purpose of his visit quickly, wanting to waste neither his time nor the Prior’s with aimless chatter. Norton listened carefully, then sent a canon to fetch Birton the reeve.

‘We lost Cellarer Wrattlesworth and his friend Canterbury in quick succession,’ Norton said while they waited. ‘And our cook and gardener the week before. All four were tended by Nigellus – I would have summoned you, but you were away. He assured me that he could cure them by calculating their horoscopes and prescribing specific remedies.’

‘Medicines?’

Norton nodded. ‘Electuaries, infusions, tonics, decoctions. His last recommendation was Gilbert Water, which was very expensive, although it did scant good.’

‘Were you happy with his suggestions at the time?’

‘At first. However, I began to doubt his wisdom when he blamed our elderflower wine for the deaths. We have been drinking it for years with no ill effects, so his claims were a nonsense.’

Bartholomew had been provided with a cup of it when he had arrived, and although it was generally believed that the Augustinians’ devotion to their beverage was undeserved, he had to admit that the one he sipped now was sweeter than usual, and so almost palatable.

‘Of course, we did not part on the best of terms,’ confessed Norton sheepishly. ‘I was fond of Wrattlesworth, and was angry that Nigellus had failed to save him. I am afraid I said some rather cruel things about his competence – things of which I am now ashamed.’

‘Physicians understand grief,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘And we have learned not to take such remarks to heart. Nigellus will not have been offended.’

‘Actually, I think he was,’ said Norton ruefully. ‘Indeed, I believe he still is. I have tried to apologise several times, but he will not give me the time of day.’

The reeve arrived at that moment, a gruff, competent man in middle years with thick-fingered hands and skin that was reddened from time spent out of doors.

‘My wife died the same day as Wrattlesworth,’ he said, when he heard what Bartholomew wanted to know. ‘The day after my Uncle Egbert. Nigellus said it was my fault, because I refused to rub snail juice on Olma’s face, but she was a fastidious woman and would not have liked it. Of course, now I wish I had done as he ordered …’

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew. He did not usually gainsay his colleagues’ opinions, but he did not see why Birton should torture himself with needless guilt. ‘It might even have caused distress in her final hours. You were right to refuse.’

Birton’s eyes filled with tears, and he grasped Bartholomew’s hand gratefully before he took an abrupt leave. Norton watched him go unhappily.

‘Olma was never in good health, while Egbert, Wrattlesworth and Canterbury were elderly. However, the cook and the gardener were in their prime, and should not have been taken from us so soon. They did spend too much time in the kitchen eating – both were very fat – but they had never suffered a day’s illness in their lives until the debilitas struck them down.’

‘How do you know it was the debilitas?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because Nigellus told us,’ replied Norton. ‘Not at the time – he was always rather vague about what was wrong – but he said so a few weeks later.’

‘Did any of them drink from the river? Or eat fish caught in it?’

‘None of us would touch river water,’ said Norton with a moue of distaste. ‘We may live in the marshes, but we are not insane! However, we all eat fish, and Wrattlesworth and Canterbury liked it especially well, particularly when served with a cup of our elderflower wine.’

‘Did Olma and Egbert eat fish, too?’

‘Of course. Nigellus recommends it for anyone who is frail or elderly, because it is easy to digest. Do you think we should avoid it then? I know your sister puts unpleasant things in the Cam, but they will surely be diluted by the time it reaches us?’

‘It might be wise to avoid river-caught foods until we have identified the problem,’ replied Bartholomew, although he felt disloyal to Edith for saying so.

‘Then please do not take too long, Bartholomew. We rely on it in the winter when game is scarce. And our victuals are miserable enough as it is.’

‘Are they?’ Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, given that the priory was comfortably wealthy, and he had always been extremely well fed when he had been invited to dine there.

‘Mealtimes are no longer as enjoyable as they were,’ confided Norton with a sorrowful sigh. ‘You see, the elderflower wine we made this year was the best we have ever produced – pure nectar. You have the honour of drinking the very last cup. Is it not exquisite?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Bartholomew dutifully, although he would not have accepted a refill. Clearly, Norton’s definition of ‘exquisite’ was rather different from his own.

‘But now it is gone, and our older brews are rough by comparison. It was the sun, you see – it ripened the grapes at exactly the right time.’

There was something about the remark that made Bartholomew wonder if he was being told the whole truth, but the Prior asked him to tend two lay-brothers at that point – a sprain and a festering finger – obliging him to turn his mind to medicine. When he had finished, he walked home, thinking about what he had learned.

He had identified two common factors in the six deaths: Nigellus and fish from the river. He was inclined to dismiss the fish, because far more people would have died or become ill if those had been the culprit. Which left Nigellus.

When Bartholomew arrived home, Michael listened carefully to everything the physician had reasoned, then gave a brief account of his own discoveries.

‘Everyone who is ill or who has died of the debilitas was treated by a physician – most by Nigellus, but a few by you, Rougham and Meryfeld. Yet you say there is no such thing as the debilitas – it is a fiction invented by Nigellus.’

‘Not a fiction, but a grand term for a whole host of ailments, designed to make the wealthy think they have something more distinguished than stomach cramps, headaches, muscle weakness, constipation and so forth.’ Bartholomew’s expression was wry. ‘I imagine anyone with two pennies to rub together will be claiming to have it soon. It is fast becoming a status symbol.’

‘Then do not tell Langelee, or he will order everyone in Michaelhouse to acquire one.’

They walked to Water Lane, where Zachary’s door was answered by Morys, who was so angry that he seemed to have swollen in size – more hornet than wasp. Meanwhile, Kellawe had slunk home to change his shoes and glared challengingly as the visitors were shown into the hall. The students came to their feet as one, hands resting on the daggers they carried in their belts.

‘There is a statute forbidding the toting of arms,’ said Michael sharply.

‘It is no longer safe to be without them,’ retorted Kellawe. ‘And I have a licence to absolve scholars from violent acts, so protecting ourselves is not a problem.’

‘Your licence might save you time in Purgatory, but it will not protect you from a fine,’ said Michael. ‘And your warlike attitude has just won you one, as has your invasion of the dyeworks.’

‘I never–’ began Kellawe furiously.

‘The drips on your spoiled boots do not match the colours of the murals here,’ snapped Michael. ‘Do not take me for a fool.’

‘I did it for everyone,’ snarled Kellawe, not bothering to deny it further. ‘University and town. The dyeworks are a filthy abomination, and if you will not take steps to close them down, what choice do I have other than to take matters into my own hands?’

‘Five shillings,’ said Michael. ‘That is the fine for burglary. And three more for bearing arms. You will pay by the end of today or you can all enjoy a spell in the proctors’ cells.’

‘Is that why you came, Brother?’ asked Morys icily. ‘To demand yet more money and issue threats? Was not arresting Nigellus enough?’

‘It is an outrage,’ put in Kellawe hotly. ‘You had no right to–’

‘I have every right,’ snarled Michael. ‘His patients are dying like flies, and I would be remiss to ignore it. Yerland, Segeforde and Irby–’

‘Nigellus did not harm them.’ Kellawe was almost screaming. ‘You are a fool to suggest it. And why have you sealed them in their coffins? When I went to pay my last respects, one of your beadles refused to remove the lids.’

‘Because they are expelling poisonous miasmas,’ snapped Michael, although Bartholomew hoped he would not be asked to elaborate, given that he was not very good at telling convincing lies. ‘It happens on occasion, when a person has been fed toxic substances shortly before death. Lenne is similarly affected – another of Nigellus’s clients.’

‘What toxic substances?’ asked Kellawe, his voice dripping disbelief.

‘Ones that are sold to physicians and no one else,’ lied Michael, watching intently for a reaction. The only one he saw was an abrupt shying away from Bartholomew. ‘No, not him! He no longer uses them, on account of them being so dangerous.’

‘Then search Nigellus’s room,’ sneered Kellawe. ‘You will find nothing untoward there.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, although Morys shot the Franciscan an irritable scowl. ‘I will.’

Nigellus’s chamber was luxurious, and every piece of furniture was of the very highest quality. It did not, however, contain much in the way of medical paraphernalia, other than a urine flask that was dusty with disuse, a pile of astrological tables and a jar of liquorice root. If Nigellus had been dosing his customers with something deadly, he did not keep it at Zachary.

‘Or his colleagues have been here before us,’ muttered Michael, finally conceding defeat. ‘They would certainly conceal evidence of a crime to protect their hostel’s reputation.’

‘Would they?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If Nigellus has killed three of their colleagues, they might be wondering who will be next.’

They returned to the hall, where Michael began to put questions to the entire hostel. The atmosphere was glacial – Kellawe had been preaching insurrection while Bartholomew and Michael had been upstairs.

‘Tell us what happened yesterday,’ ordered the monk. ‘Start with Yerland.’

There was a moment when it seemed they would refuse to cooperate, but then Morys spoke.

‘He slept peacefully after Bartholomew gave him that draught. A few hours later, he woke and asked for more. Nigellus thought it too soon and told him to wait. Segeforde reported that Yerland slipped into an uneasy sort of doze thereafter, and died without uttering another word.’

‘So obviously, it was your medicine that sent him to his grave,’ hissed Kellawe. ‘Not Nigellus, who gave him nothing.’

‘How do you know Nigellus gave him nothing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did someone stay with Yerland the whole time, and so can swear to it?’

‘Yes,’ said the Franciscan coldly. ‘Segeforde did.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘So tell us what happened to him.’

‘He shut himself in his room after Yerland breathed his last,’ replied Morys. ‘Nigellus became worried after a while, and found him dead when he went to check on his well-being.’

‘Nigellus did?’ pounced Michael. ‘Fascinating. And Segeforde sleeps alone?’

‘Yes.’ Morys glared at him. ‘But that does not mean Nigellus sneaked in and killed him.’

‘No,’ conceded Michael. ‘Yet it is suspicious that the sole witness to Yerland’s death is dead himself, and that the man we suspect of murder is the one to discover Segeforde’s body.’

‘It is not suspicious at all,’ snarled Kellawe. ‘Nigellus has done nothing wrong, and you know it. He will sue you for wrongful arrest when you release him.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Michael, ignoring the threat.

‘Kellawe suggested taking Segeforde to the church,’ replied Morys. ‘Which was fortunate, given that you say his corpse is leaking nasty vapours. Normally, we would have kept him here.’

‘God told me to remove him to St Bene’t’s,’ said Kellawe smugly. ‘I am one of His chosen, so clearly He wanted to protect me from harm.’

Bartholomew itched to retort that God obviously did not care that much, given that Kellawe had then spent much of the night on his knees next to the bodies, but was afraid that observation might make Kellawe question Michael’s claim. And the last thing he wanted was for the lids to be removed and the victims examined.

‘Are you sure it is not because Segeforde had a better room?’ Michael was asking acidly. ‘And you wanted it empty so you could move into it yourself?’

Kellawe’s face was as black as thunder, especially when several students exchanged amused glances. ‘Perhaps I did lay claim to it this morning, but–’

‘At least you had the decency to remove the body first,’ said Michael.

Morys had the grace to blush.

‘That was helpful,’ said Michael brightly, once they were out in the street. ‘Nigellus almost certainly did give Yerland medicine, and Segeforde was murdered because he witnessed it.’

‘Perhaps, but you cannot prove it,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘I can prove that both victims – and Lenne and Irby, too – consumed something that damaged their livers and stomachs. Or rather, you can.’

‘Yes, but not that Nigellus was responsible. It might have been someone else. Kellawe or Morys, for example.’

‘Kellawe and Morys would not have murdered Lenne,’ argued Michael. ‘Whereas Nigellus was his physician. Moreover, you are forgetting that crucial piece of evidence – the note Irby wrote to you, in which he virtually names Nigellus as his killer.’

‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that the monk was putting far too much store in a message that was ambiguous at best.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘Then we shall visit Lenne’s wife and see what she can tell us. She will not enjoy an invasion from scholars, but it cannot be helped.’

Bartholomew fell into step beside him. They met the Austin friars on Milne Street – they had finished teaching the nominalism-realism debate to Michaelhouse’s students, and were on their way home. Prior Joliet was clutching his elbow, his round face creased with pain, while Robert had a solicitous arm around his shoulders and the burly Hamo toted a thick staff. Wauter was with them, looking angrier than Bartholomew had ever seen him.

‘Someone threw a rock,’ he said tightly. ‘The whole town has gone insane, and not even priests are safe now.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Tell me, and I will arrest him.’

‘I was not there,’ replied Wauter bitterly. ‘I wish I had been, because I would have–’

‘No,’ interrupted Joliet, gently but firmly. ‘We will not sink to violent thoughts.’ He turned to Michael. ‘We did not see the culprit, Brother. I just felt the stone land.’

‘We do not know if the attack was because we are scholars,’ added Robert, ‘or because we were emerging from Michaelhouse, which is home to a physician.’

‘There is a rumour that medici are dispatching their patients, you see,’ explained Joliet, when Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement. ‘One has been arrested for it.’

‘Segeforde,’ grunted Hamo.

‘Yes, let us not forget that damned fool,’ spat Wauter. ‘He assaulted a popular lady in front of dozens of witnesses. And do not say it was an accident, because it was not.’

‘It certainly looked deliberate to me,’ said Joliet. He shook his head tearfully when Bartholomew offered to examine his arm. ‘It is just a bruise, and I would rather not stay out longer than necessary – I want to be safely inside my convent with the gate locked. I dislike the town when it takes against the University.’

‘Fens,’ growled Hamo, gripping the stave. ‘Good.’

‘You are right, Hamo,’ said Robert, wincing when a group of passing apprentices took the opportunity to howl abuse. ‘Because as soon as one problem is solved in this place, another raises its head. Like my cross – Hakeney stole it today.’

‘How do you know it was him?’ asked Michael tiredly.

‘Because he raced up to me, tore it from my person and danced away laughing,’ replied Robert sourly. He rubbed his neck. ‘And it hurt.’

‘When they heard, the head of every convent in Cambridge demanded an audience with me,’ added Joliet. ‘They all said the same: that attacks on priests cannot be tolerated and action must be taken. They ordered me to report Hakeney to the Sheriff immediately.’

‘Which he did, but Tulyet was reluctant to make an arrest, lest it ignited a riot,’ Robert went on bitterly. ‘He said that Hakeney is clearly not in his right wits, and it would be wiser to resolve the matter without recourse to a process that might see him hanged.’

‘So we decided to let the matter go,’ said Joliet, ‘but then my fellow priors descended on me again, this time with Stephen, who recommended a civil suit instead.’

‘No!’ cried Michael, horrified. ‘The University cannot sue another townsman. Dick Tulyet was right: it will cause no end of trouble. The priors should have minded their own business.’

‘I disagree,’ said Wauter stiffly. ‘If we ignore this vicious assault, what message will it send to those who wish us harm? A lawsuit is the only way to keep us all safe.’

‘Let me speak to Hakeney,’ said Michael wearily. ‘I will tell him to give back the cross and apologise. Then you can tell Stephen that his services will not be required, and the matter can be quietly forgotten.’

‘Very well,’ said Joliet, sadness etched into a face that was meant for laughter. ‘I should like to avoid bad feeling if possible, so please try your best.’

‘But if Hakeney refuses, we will have no choice but to proceed,’ warned Robert. ‘We cannot risk people thinking it is acceptable to assault clerics – which some may already believe, given that Prior Joliet has just been injured. It is–’

He was interrupted by another barrage of waved fists and combative yells, this time from a gaggle of bakers. Joliet whimpered his distress, Robert and Wauter flinched, and Hamo took a firmer grip on his staff. Michael saw the culprits on their way with a few sharp words, but Bartholomew was unnerved. The Austins were by far the most popular Order in the town, and if they were not safe, what hope did the rest of the University have?

Not many moments passed before Bartholomew and Michael were stopped again, this time by Wayt and Dodenho from King’s Hall. They were at the head of a phalange of students who wore leather jerkins under their tabards, and carried swords or bows. One even had a mace, a weapon rarely seen off the battlefield. Several were wan, and clearly not in the best of health. Bartholomew stared at a lad whose hand was to his stomach; the student saw him looking and sneered, which revealed a thin grey line around the tops of his incisors.

‘Are you aware that strutting around armed to the teeth is a finable offence?’ asked Michael.

‘We are,’ replied Wayt arrogantly. ‘But we do not care. We would rather lose a few shillings than our lives – and the town is not safe for scholars at the moment.’

‘It is safe if you stay indoors,’ retorted Michael. ‘You do not have to venture out.’

‘We do if we want to pray in St Mary the Great for Cew,’ Wayt flashed back. ‘Or do you suggest that we forget our religious obligations while the town is being difficult?’

‘That does not excuse–’ began Michael.

‘Cew is worse,’ blurted Dodenho. His expression was so full of unhappy concern that Michael elected to overlook the interruption. ‘He has a weakness in his muscles now.’

‘And he still thinks he is the King of France,’ said the Acting Warden unpleasantly. ‘Your medicine did nothing to cure him of that delusion, Bartholomew.’

‘Meanwhile, three more of our lads have come down with the debilitas,’ added Dodenho. ‘Would you mind visiting them later, to see what might be done to ease their discomfort?’

‘No,’ said Wayt sharply. ‘What if the reason for their malaise is his sister’s dyeworks? He is not the man we should trust with our students’ welfare.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but Dodenho was wise enough to know that offending medici was not a good idea when the University was on the verge of a major brawl. After all, who else would sew up wounds and set broken bones?

‘Please come when you can, Bartholomew,’ he said quietly, shooting the Acting Warden a glance that warned him to hold his tongue. ‘We would be most grateful. Perhaps you will be able to persuade Cew to eat something other than oysters and soul-cakes as well.’

‘Now that would be useful,’ acknowledged Wayt. ‘Oysters are expensive, while soul-cakes should not be baked outside Hallow-tide.’

‘They also contain sucura, which is risky to buy with the Sheriff on the warpath about it,’ added Dodenho, then flushed sheepishly when he realised that he had just admitted to breaking the law. He changed the subject hastily. ‘I hear Nigellus has been arrested for killing Frenge. Pity. It would have been better for the University if the culprit had been a townsman.’

‘Fortunately, he has not been a scholar for very long,’ said Michael. ‘He was a resident of Barnwell until a couple of months ago – a fact we shall be sure to emphasise.’ He turned to Wayt. ‘Are you sure it was your relationship with Anne de Rumburgh that Frenge threatened to expose unless you dropped the lawsuit against him? Not something else?’

‘Of course,’ replied Wayt, curtly enough to be suspicious. ‘And now, if you will excuse us, we have business to attend.’

‘You are going the wrong way,’ said Michael, stepping in front of him. ‘St Mary the Great is in the opposite direction.’

‘We have another matter to attend first,’ explained Dodenho. ‘Namely asking if Stephen will change his mind about representing us. We have our own lawyers, of course, but none of them have his experience or cunning.’

Michael watched them go, then he and Bartholomew resumed their walk to the Lenne house.

‘King’s Hall has all manner of nasty secrets,’ he said, ‘illicit supplies of sucura among them. But we have no time to explore that now, so I shall leave it for later.’

‘Will you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was under the impression that you were willing to turn a blind eye to that particular crime.’

‘I turn a blind eye if the culprits are discreet, but Wayt is brazen and arrogant. Indeed, if I did not think it would cause more trouble than it was worth, I would tell Dick Tulyet about him.’

Bartholomew had expected a frosty reception from Isabel Lenne, so he was startled and wary when she smiled warmly at him. Her cordiality was quickly explained, though.

‘It was good of you to give Will a free coffin, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I always thought you did not like him, because of his sour temper and sharp tongue.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably, feeling the colour rise into his cheeks. Michael poked him hard, warning him against declaring that the ‘gift’ had had nothing to do with him.

‘It is not the fanciest of caskets,’ she went on, ‘but it would have suited Will’s simple tastes.’

‘It is our pleasure, Mistress Lenne,’ the monk said smoothly.

‘He went in the ground this afternoon,’ sighed Isabel. ‘Which you will know, of course. That is why you are here – to offer your condolences.’

‘Yes,’ lied Michael. ‘Nigellus tells us that your husband died of metal in the mouth.’

She nodded. ‘Which is a common symptom of the debilitas, apparently. Nigellus says it occurs most frequently in men who swear a lot, and Will did love to curse.’

‘Nigellus said that?’ Bartholomew could not keep the astonishment from his voice.

She nodded again. ‘But Will’s suffering did not last long. After the metal came a recurrence of his old apoplexy, which is what carried him off.’

‘So he died of an apoplexy?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Not the debilitas?’

She flushed. ‘It was the debilitas, but it manifested itself in apoplexy-like symptoms. I will not have it said that Will died of anything vulgar.’

‘What happened exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to comment.

Isabel’s voice grew unsteady as she described how Lenne had returned from the tavern feeling ill. He had mentioned an unpleasant taste that Nigellus had diagnosed as metal in the mouth, the remedy for which was to suck raw garlic. Not long after, Lenne had exhibited all the classic symptoms of a major apoplectic attack and had died an hour later. As far as Isabel knew, nothing other than garlic had been recommended, and Nigellus had been the only visitor.

‘Your anatomising should have told us that he died of natural causes,’ said Michael crossly, once they were outside. ‘We could have saved the cost of a coffin.’

‘It is not as simple as that. Perhaps Lenne did die of an apoplexy – Isabel’s testimony certainly suggests it – but what about the damage to his liver and stomach? Moreover, this metal in the mouth is peculiar. I have never heard of it before, and I am puzzled as to what caused it.’

‘So did Nigellus murder Lenne or not?’ asked Michael impatiently.

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, equally irritable. ‘There is no way to tell.’

‘You are no help,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘But you can make up for your inadequacy in the Corpse Examining department by accompanying me to interrogate Nigellus.’

‘No, Brother. I told you: he will think I am there to gloat.’

‘You must – he will try to confuse me with complex medical explanations, and I shall need you to tell me whether they are reasonable. Come on. The sooner we see him, the sooner we can go home. Even I feel vulnerable wandering about today.’