A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 10

Bartholomew was out of Zachary before Cynric had finished speaking, deftly jigging away when the book-bearer tried to grab his arm to explain further. However, Cynric had dealt with far more awkward customers than agitated physicians, and Bartholomew had not gone far down Water Lane before he found himself jerked roughly to a standstill. He tried in vain to struggle free.

‘Mistress Stanmore is safely inside with the door locked,’ Cynric said briskly, ‘as are her ladies and their guards. They are in no danger, but you will be if you race up to the protesters alone. Everyone knows she is your sister, and they will consider you a target. Now wait for Brother Michael and his men.’

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but the monk was puffing towards them anyway, a dozen beadles at his heels. Gripping the physician’s sleeve to ensure he did not outrun them, Cynric fell in behind. They arrived to find thirty or so scholars in a howling throng in front of the dyeworks. All had demonstrated there before, but never at the same time.

Bartholomew felt the cold hand of fear grip him. Was it coincidence that they should all decide to come at once, or had someone whispered in suggestible ears?

‘Here comes Zachary to swell their number,’ muttered Michael. ‘Damn it, Cynric! I wish you had taken us outside before announcing what was happening.’

It was not just scholars who were massing in the square. So were a number of townsmen, led by Hakeney, who brazenly sported Robert’s cross around his neck. As it would be like a red flag to a bull if the demonstrating scholars saw it, Bartholomew went to suggest that he tuck it inside his tunic. Only when the townsmen surrounded him menacingly did it occur to him that it had been stupid to move away from the beadles.

‘No, I will not hide it,’ snarled Hakeney indignantly. ‘I want everyone to know that I retrieved it from that thieving Robert.’

The townsmen closed in even tighter, and Bartholomew braced himself for a trouncing, but suddenly Cynric was among them, hand on the sword at his side.

‘We were just talking,’ said Hakeney quickly, evidently aware of the Welshman’s military prowess. ‘No harm has been done, eh, Bartholomew? But you had better go and defend Brother Michael – those scholars look ready to attack him.’

He was right: tempers were running high in the University faction. The situation was aggravated by Kellawe, who directed a stream of invective not only against the dyeworks, but also against some of his fellow protesters. Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan would be quite so vociferous if someone took a swipe at his pugnacious jaw and broke it.

‘We want those whores out!’ he screeched. ‘They are not welcome near Zachary. Put them by White Hostel instead – their members are not fussy about the company they keep.’

‘Now just a moment,’ objected the dim-witted but vocal priest named Gilby, who happened to be a member of that particular foundation. ‘We are not–’

‘Do not call us names,’ bellowed Yolande from inside the besieged building. ‘Especially as most of you have been our customers for years – from Zachary and from White.’

‘We can prove it, too,’ called another woman. ‘We know all your little foibles. Go on, Brother. Ask us a question about any of this rabble, and we will tell you exactly what he likes to do behind closed doors. You will be entertained royally, I promise.’

‘Lies,’ cried Morys, although his flaming cheeks and uneasy eyes suggested otherwise.

‘The debilitas is in Physwick Hostel now,’ raged Kellawe, not about to be sidetracked. ‘And these whores put it there. They are as base and corrupt as the filth they hurl in the river.’

Bartholomew’s heart lurched as the dyeworks door opened and Edith strode out. She was not particularly tall, but she was like a giant when she was angry, and the power of her personality had been known to cow even Dickon. Everyone fell silent as her eyes raked across them.

‘My workers are good women,’ she said frostily, once the protesters had gone so quiet that a pin could have been heard dropping, ‘who are doing their best for their families. Now, I suggest we dispense with this unseemly hollering and resolve our differences with proper decorum. I shall listen to your complaints, and you will listen to my replies.’

‘Listen to you?’ spluttered Kellawe. ‘I do not think so! Decent men are dying all over the University, thanks to you and your trollops.’

Morys and a few Zachary men cheered, but support from the other foundations was suddenly half-hearted – Edith’s quiet dignity had unnerved them. She waited for the clamour to die away before speaking again.

‘First, they are not trollops, they are women who have fallen on hard times. We have rectified the matter, and they are now gainfully employed. And second, we accept your objection about the river. In future, we shall ensure that all our waste is transported to the Fens.’

‘To the Fens?’ cried Morys. ‘But that is where we plan to move our University.’

‘Then you cannot complain about us poisoning the town,’ called Yolande provocatively. ‘Not if you do not intend to live here.’

Edith shot her a warning scowl, then turned back to the scholars. ‘It is a large area, Principal Morys. You cannot occupy it all.’

‘But even if you do cart your rubbish away, there will still be a smell.’ Kellawe appealed to his students. ‘Will we listen to her? She is a strumpet, just like her women!’

Bartholomew took a furious step forward, but Cynric was there to stop him from taking another. Unfortunately, the movement had attracted attention.

‘There is her brother,’ shrieked Kellawe, stabbing a vengeful finger. ‘A member of the University, but not really one of us because of his ties to her. We should eject him, because we do not want scholars who are tainted with links to the town. All townsfolk are scum, after all.’

There was an indignant roar from Hakeney and his followers, whose numbers had increased as the argument had unfolded. They now outnumbered the scholars by a considerable margin.

‘There is no point discussing this further now,’ said Morys, alarmed by the fury his colleague’s words had elicited, and so beginning to ease towards the safety of his hostel. ‘We are wasting our time. However, we shall return later to–’

‘No, you will not,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. Anyone who is still here by the time I count to five will be fined sixpence. One. Two–’

‘Ours is a legitimate protest, and we shall do it where we please,’ screeched Kellawe. ‘Is that not so, Morys? Morys? Morys!’

An expression of alarm filled his face when he saw his supporters had disappeared. There was a cheer from the townsfolk when he turned and fled, although it petered out when Michael whipped around to glare at them.

‘You cannot fine me sixpence,’ said Hakeney challengingly. ‘I do not have any money.’

‘Then you can join Nigellus in my gaol,’ retorted Michael. ‘And that goes for you, too, Isnard. I see you hiding behind Vine. You should know better than to take sides against the University – you, a member of the Michaelhouse Choir.’

The bargeman was not the only singer in the horde, and afraid their free bread and ale might be at risk, many slunk away, heads down against recognition. The remainder hesitated uncertainly, but it took only one more imperious glare from Michael to send them on their way, too. Soon, only he, Bartholomew and the beadles were left.

‘Thank you, Brother,’ said Edith. ‘And now, if you will excuse us, we have work to do.’

‘We had better visit the Austins next,’ said Michael, glancing up at the sky as he and Bartholomew left Water Lane. The light was beginning to fade, and it would be dark soon. ‘Robert offered to ask the other friars if they know where Wauter might have gone, and we are in desperate need of answers – I sense time fast running out for us.’

They began to hurry towards the friary, using lanes rather than the main streets, to reduce the possibility of running into trouble. Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were everywhere, faces strained as they struggled to prevent skirmishes from breaking out. It was time for vespers, which meant scholar-priests were obliged to go to church. They assembled in large groups to walk there, and Bartholomew despaired when he saw how many were armed. He had no doubt that word was out that Kellawe would absolve anyone obliged to use weapons, and was glad that Cynric had agreed not to leave Edith’s side until the crisis was over.

‘There will be trouble before the night is out,’ predicted Michael. ‘I can sense it building. It is an unpleasant feeling, being pulled this way and that like a puppet – one no Senior Proctor should experience. Yet I do not know how to stop it.’

‘Yes, we are puppets,’ agreed Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because I think you are right to see a connection between the murders, the lawsuits and the aggravation at the dyeworks – everything is designed to exacerbate the tension between University and town. Whoever is behind it is very clever – more than us, I fear.’

‘Not more than me,’ declared Michael indignantly. He took a deep breath, and Bartholomew saw his resolve strengthen. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, and no one – whether it is Wauter or anyone else – is going to harm my University.’

Filled with new determination, he strode the rest of the way to the convent, this time not bothering to slink along alleys. He walked openly and confidently, and those whose hearts quickened at the prospect of catching him while he was virtually alone and unprotected quickly melted away when they read what was in his face.

The priory was locked when he and Bartholomew arrived, and it was some time before his knock was answered. Then the door swung open to reveal the friars standing in an uncertain semicircle beyond, wielding an eclectic array of ‘weapons’. Most were wildly impractical, and included a ladle, a trumpet and part of a spinning wheel. Hamo, whose bulk might have been a deterrent in itself, was not among them.

‘We do not feel safe here any longer,’ said Joliet, who gripped a chair leg in his good hand; the other was still cradled in the orange sling. ‘Folk are angry that a townsman was murdered in our grounds, and we have been discussing an escape to the Fens – while we still can.’

‘There is no need,’ said Michael briskly. ‘The tension will ease. It always does.’

‘Until the next time,’ said Robert bitterly. He alone of the friars was not brandishing something with which to hit someone. ‘When it will start all over again. We are tired of it, Brother. We have done our best with alms and charity, even when it has meant personal hardship, yet still the town turns against us.’

‘Because you are suing Hakeney,’ said Michael curtly. ‘A poor man who will never be able to pay whatever the courts decide.’

‘I would withdraw the suit,’ said Joliet. ‘But the other Orders say that if I do, everyone will think that priests are fair game for robbers. They threatened to denounce us if we weakened.’

‘So?’ shrugged Michael. ‘You are an independent house. You do not need their blessing.’

‘But we do, Brother,’ whispered Joliet. ‘We would be sacked for certain if word leaked out that the other convents will not come to our aid in the event of trouble.’

‘And besides,’ added Robert, ‘Hakeney ripped the cross from my neck with considerable force. It would be cowardly to pretend it did not happen. Yet there might be a way …’

‘Yes?’ asked Michael sharply.

‘We could put the matter in the Bishop’s hands and let him decide the outcome. He is neither scholar nor townsman, and thus the perfect arbiter.’

‘What an excellent notion!’ cried Joliet. ‘I shall write first thing in the morning, with your permission, Brother.’

‘Granted,’ said Michael in relief, a sentiment that was echoed in the faces of all the Austins. ‘I shall tell Stephen to forget your case until we have the Bishop’s reply. It was criminally reckless of him to recommend this course of action.’

‘It was not just Stephen,’ said Robert. ‘There was also a letter …’

‘A letter?’

‘From someone who just signed himself as a well-wisher,’ explained the almoner. ‘Hamo found it shoved under our front gate.’

‘Prior Etone of the Carmelites had one as well,’ added Joliet. ‘It urged him to convince us to sue.’ He glanced at Robert. ‘Personally, I suspect both were from Stephen, touting for business, although he denies it, of course.’

‘Do you still have this missive?’ asked Michael urgently.

Joliet shook his head. ‘Parchment is expensive, so we scraped it clean and used it for something else. Why? Is it important?’

‘Possibly,’ sighed Michael. ‘But the reason we came was to ask after Wauter. Robert offered to find out if any of you know where he might have gone.’

‘Robert did question us,’ said a portly, balding Austin named Overe. ‘But all we could tell him is that Wauter likes the Fens. Perhaps he went there in search of serenity – something that is sadly lacking in Cambridge at the moment.’

‘Without telling anyone?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘That does not sound very likely.’

‘Then maybe he went to find a good place for the University to settle,’ suggested Robert. ‘He would not be the first. The Dominicans have sent out a party, and the Carmelites plan to do likewise.’

‘They are wise,’ said Joliet softly. ‘I sense that the town will soon make our position untenable, and we should have some idea of where to go when they drive us out.’

‘No one will drive us out,’ said Michael firmly, but his words carried little weight when they were followed by a sudden clash of arms from the High Street. The friars exchanged grim looks.

‘You look harried, Brother,’ said Joliet kindly, ‘and in need of the peace that only communion with God can bring. Will you join us for vespers? Hamo is already preparing the chapel, so we can start straight away.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, and began to walk there, although Bartholomew knew it was more for the opportunity to quiz Hamo about the anonymous letter than to pray.

Night was approaching fast, and the precinct was full of shadows. All the brothers were uneasy, and each time there was a yell or a clatter from outside, they jumped in alarm. Several stopped in the little cemetery that held Arnold, though, declining to let their nervousness interfere with their obligations to a colleague’s soul.

‘Do you really think Nigellus killed him?’ asked Joliet softly. ‘He was old and in poor health, and I cannot imagine why anyone would want to dispatch a man with so little time left.’

‘The ways of felonious minds are not for us to fathom,’ replied Michael, as a roundabout way of saying that he had no answer.

They entered the chapel, the Austins carefully stacking their ‘weapons’ in the porch first. It was very dark inside, the only light coming from a candle burning on the altar. Suddenly, a huge shadow loomed, causing Robert to squawk in shock and the others to scatter in alarm.

‘Hamo!’ exclaimed Joliet, hand to his chest. ‘You frightened the life out of us! Why have you not set the altar? What have you been doing all this time?’

Hamo made no reply, and simply stood with his huge hands dangling at his sides.

‘Hamo,’ said Robert sharply. ‘The Prior asked you a question.’

‘There is something wrong!’ Bartholomew darted forward, and just managed to catch the hulking friar before he fell. He staggered under the weight. ‘Bring a lamp, quickly!’

The feeble glow from the lantern that was produced showed Hamo’s face to be unnaturally pale. It also revealed a spreading stain on the floor. Hamo had been stabbed.

‘Save him!’ cried Joliet, while the other Austins clamoured their horror and disbelief. ‘You must save him!’

But the wound, although small, had sliced deeply into Hamo’s lung, and Bartholomew could hear that it had already filled with blood. There was nothing he or anyone else could do, and he read in Hamo’s eyes that he knew it.

‘He needs last rites,’ he said to Joliet, hating to see the Austins’ instant dismay.

Hamo took a handful of Bartholomew’s tunic and tugged, indicating that he wanted to speak. Bartholomew put his ear close to the dying man’s mouth, but what emerged was so low as to be virtually inaudible. When he sat back, the others clamoured to know what had been said.

‘I am not sure,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It sounded like “all”.’

‘All what?’ demanded Michael.

‘Perhaps he was beginning a prayer,’ suggested Robert, white-faced with shock. ‘Almighty God, have mercy upon me …’

‘Or he wanted to say aliteum,’ added Overe. ‘Meaning a crime – because one has certainly been committed here.’

‘Fetch some water,’ ordered Joliet urgently. ‘It may unlock his throat. Hurry!’

‘Who did this to you, Hamo?’ asked Michael, ignoring the panicky confusion that ensued as the friars blundered around in a frantic attempt to locate a cup. ‘Did you see?’

He crouched next to Bartholomew, but this time the whispered word was even softer.

‘Where is the water?’ cried Joliet, his voice cracking with desperation. ‘Overe!’

Hamo fixed Bartholomew with a bright-eyed stare, and the physician was sure he was trying to convey a message. The dying man held his gaze a moment longer, before giving a brief, conspiratorial nod. Then he closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Joliet began to intone a final absolution in a voice that was unsteady with shock, and one by one, his priests joined in. Some looked around fearfully as they did so, afraid the killer might still lurk, ready to claim another victim.

‘There is no one else here,’ said Michael, the only one who had thought to check. ‘The culprit must have committed his vile deed and fled.’

Resolve filled Joliet’s round face. ‘Our prayers for Hamo’s soul can wait – God will understand. Search the grounds. We cannot let this villain escape. He may kill again!’

Bartholomew went to help, leaving Michael to question those friars who were too old or infirm to join in the hunt. The obvious place to start as far as the physician was concerned was the back gate – Overe assured him that the front one had been locked and guarded all day – so he grabbed a pitch torch and hurried there at once, Robert at his heels. It was ajar when they arrived. Robert tugged it open and pointed at the priory’s boat.

‘We got a better mooring rope after Frenge died,’ he said, and Bartholomew noted that the little craft was now secured to the pier with a serious tangle of knots. ‘The killer cannot have used our boat to cross the ditch this time, so he must have swum across.’

‘Not unless he is a lunatic,’ said Bartholomew eyeing the still, black, stinking waters in revulsion. ‘However, I noticed that the gate was open – I thought you were going to keep it locked after what happened to Frenge.’

‘We meant to mend it,’ said Robert sheepishly, ‘but then other concerns assailed us, and I am afraid and we made the foolish assumption that lightning would not strike twice …’

‘So this is definitely how the culprit came in, then,’ said Bartholomew, sure such an unforgiveable oversight would not have happened at Michaelhouse. ‘He must have taken a boat from somewhere else. It would not be difficult – there are dozens of them further downstream.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Robert miserably. ‘Poor Hamo. How could such a terrible thing happen?’

Easily, thought Bartholomew, when his brethren were so cavalier about security.

News of Hamo’s stabbing spread like wildfire, and the town was soon abuzz with rumours. Bartholomew volunteered to help keep the peace, but first a gaggle of lawyers from Gonville Hall howled insults at him for being kin to the woman who hired whores, then a band of townsmen accused him of encouraging Edith to poison people in order to drum up trade for himself.

‘You are more liability than help, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘But your offer is appreciated, as are the ones from Michaelhouse and the Austins. No one else has bothered, presumably because they would rather be fighting.’

‘Or because they are too frightened to venture out,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael snorted his disbelief at that notion. ‘But I am worried about Wauter. Has he gone to find a nice spot for the University in the Fens? Or is there another, darker reason for his absence?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think that he might have killed Hamo?’

‘Well, he is an Austin, who knows his way around their priory.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe that of him. The killer is more likely to be Hakeney, who has a grudge against the Order.’

‘Against Robert,’ corrected Michael.

‘He is a drunk and the chapel is poorly lit. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.’

‘I doubt that even the most pickled of minds could confuse Hamo with Robert, even in the dark.’ Michael turned when his favourite beadle approached. ‘Well, Meadowman? Will there be a battle between us and the townsfolk tonight?’

‘No, thank God,’ replied the beadle tiredly. ‘But there may be one tomorrow, when the troublemakers use Hamo’s murder to whip up more bad feeling. We are going to be busy if we want to avert a crisis, Brother.’

Bartholomew walked back to College, grateful when Meadowman offered to escort him. The beadle’s burly presence saved him both from a spat with Zachary and from trouble with Shirwynk’s apprentices. It was the role Cynric usually fulfilled, but Bartholomew was glad he had detailed the book-bearer to stand guard over Edith instead.

As it was late, his students were already in bed, but Bartholomew was too unsettled to sleep. He sat in the hall, reading works by Aretaeus of Cappadocia, aiming to learn whether Nigellus had misquoted him. A little after midnight, Michael came to report that the town was quiet – partly because it had started to rain, but mostly because Tulyet had given Dickon charge of a patrol.

‘Which did more to send would-be rioters home than all my beadles and the drizzle put together,’ said the monk. ‘The boy is a hellion. What are you reading?’

Bartholomew told him. ‘I have found nowhere yet that recommends quaffing urine to assess it for sweetness.’

‘And nor will you, I warrant,’ said Michael. ‘But do not stay up too late. We shall have another busy day tomorrow if we are to catch a killer and avert a war.’

Bartholomew was soon absorbed in the book again and time ticked by. He closed his eyes when oily fumes and the flickering light from the lamp gave him a headache, aiming to rest them briefly, so was surprised when someone shook him awake several hours later.

‘You are not supposed to sleep in here,’ said Deynman accusingly. ‘It is a library. What will benefactors think? We shall be banished to the Fens for certain.’

Bartholomew sat up, hand to his stiff neck. ‘Is it time for church?’

‘Not yet, but I was restless, so I thought I would come here to think. It is a good place during the hours of darkness, when there is no one clamouring at me to borrow my treasures. Sometimes, I wish you would all go away and let me do my work in peace.’

‘But we are your work,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You are supposed to lend us books.’

‘Not the way I see it,’ retorted Deynman archly. ‘And there is a nasty tendency in this University to take me for granted – to use me for menial tasks. Well, I am not a messenger-boy – I am a librarian.’ He spoke the word grandly, still delighted by the way it sounded.

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Please do not say a patient asked you to tell me something and you refused. Or forgot.’

‘Not a patient. I would make an exception for those. It was Irby from Zachary – before he died, obviously. He shoved a note in my hand and ordered me to give it to you. I told him I was Michaelhouse’s inlitteratus, and thus above running errands, but he only laughed.’

Bartholomew regarded him wonderingly. ‘Inlitteratus?’

‘It is Latin for librarian,’ explained Deynman. ‘Thelnetham told me so.’

‘It means illiterate,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Deynman’s grasp of the language could remain so dismal when he spent his whole life among books written in it. ‘Thelnetham was being unkind, and Irby must have thought you were making a joke.’

Deynman’s face crumpled in dismay. ‘You mean I have been going around telling all and sundry that I am unlettered? No wonder people have looked at me so oddly! How could he?’

‘How indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Do you still have Irby’s letter?’

Deynman went to rummage in a pile of parchments, his expression sullen. ‘Thelnetham will not get away with this,’ he vowed. ‘I shall send him an anonymous gift of that apple wine he likes so much – in the hope that it will make him sick again.’

‘Apple wine? You mean the stuff Shirwynk makes?’

‘Thelnetham is a glutton for it, and is sure to drink it all without sharing with his brethren. He told me that the last barrel he purchased brought on a bout of the debilitas – it turned him silly and he had to spend a whole week in bed.’

‘Then why would he drink a second one?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the Librarian’s plans for sly revenge needed some serious revision.

‘Because he is a pig and will be unable to resist it,’ replied Deynman. ‘And I hope my gift makes him ill for a lot longer than a week. Hah! Here is Irby’s note.’

Bartholomew groaned when he read what was written. ‘Similia similibus curantur.’

‘Currants are similar to each other,’ translated Deynman liberally. ‘But why–’

‘No! It means like things are cured by like things.’ Bartholomew waved the letter at him. ‘And here he explains that it is his suggestion for the disceptatio. He and I were on the committee appointed to choose the topic, but he was ill for the final meeting. Morys took his place.’

‘And promptly picked a boring discussion about giving away property that one doesn’t own,’ recalled Deynman. He nodded to the letter. ‘Irby’s idea would have been much more entertaining.’

‘When did he give you this message?’

Deynman thought carefully. ‘Saturday – the day before his death. Why?’

‘Because when he received no reply, he started to write another – the one I found under a jug in his room. It is not a clue revealing the identity of the man who took his life: it is a piece of routine correspondence.’

Deynman regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you saying it was important?’

Bartholomew nodded unhappily. ‘We wasted valuable time trying to work out its significance. And worse yet, Michael arrested Nigellus on the strength of it.’

Deynman’s expression was scornful. ‘I am surprised he has lasted so long as Senior Proctor, because everyone knows that Nigellus never cures anything. He calculates horoscopes that prevent people from becoming ill, but once they have a disease, he does nothing at all.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew absently, his mind on Nigellus’s probable reaction when told his arrest had been a mistake. It would not be pleasant.

‘Because my brother got the debilitas, and Nigellus told him to abstain from food and drink for a day, but refused to prescribe a remedy. He also declined to give anything to Trinity Hall when they got the debilitas – twice – and the Gilbertine Priory.’

Bartholomew scrubbed hard at his face, wishing Deynman had acted like a responsible, rational being, and passed the letter on. He left the hall, and when he saw a lamp burning in Michael’s room, he climbed the stairs to tell him what had happened. The monk was horrified.

‘But that was our best piece of evidence against Nigellus!’

‘I did tell you it was unsafe,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘You will have to let him go.’

‘Let him go?’ cried Michael, loudly enough to wake the novices who shared his room. They sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. ‘Even if he did not dispatch Irby, his incompetence still made an end of Letia, Lenne, Arnold and God knows how many others.’

‘Did it? I am no longer sure about that. The Prior of Barnwell told me that Nigellus recommended all manner of tonics, infusions, electuaries and decoctions to help the canons who were ill, but nothing worked. Then Nigellus came here, where his “cures” entail eating garlic, wearing certain clothes or standing in the moonlight.’

‘Meaning what?’ asked Michael impatiently. ‘Do not speak in riddles, Matt.’

‘Meaning that I think the Barnwell losses shook his confidence, so when he came here, he elected not to prescribe anything. His diagnoses are outlandish, and he almost certainly has never read Aretaeus of Cappadocia, but I have not encountered a single person who has said that Nigellus has given him medicine.’

‘You are right, sir,’ put in one of the students. ‘I have friends in Ovyng Hostel, and all he did when they had the debilitas was tell them to avoid being looked at by rabbits.’

‘Prior Norton probably contributed to Nigellus’s self-doubt,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘He confessed that he said some cruel things when his people failed to recover.’

Michael stared at him. ‘But Nigellus will sue me if I release him, and we cannot afford yet another source of discord. I will have to keep him until the current trouble is over.’

‘That might be some time,’ said the student. ‘Because the disturbances will not stop until the University has moved to the Fens – and that will not be organised overnight.’

‘We are not going,’ said Michael firmly.

‘That is not what the town thinks,’ said the student, ‘while half our scholars would go tomorrow if they could. Regardless, the trouble will not subside very quickly, if at all.’

Dawn was touching the eastern sky when Bartholomew and Michael left the College, but the streets were mercifully empty, and when they met Meadowman, the beadle reported that it had been a quiet night. The gaol was full, though, of those who had made a nuisance of themselves before the rain and Dickon had driven people home. All would be released later that morning on payment of a fine – or languish until their friends managed to raise the requisite amount.

As the prison was filled to capacity, Nigellus no longer had the luxury of a room to himself, but he had made the most of the situation, and when Bartholomew and Michael arrived he was delivering an acid-tongued sermon to his cellmates. It comprised a poisonous diatribe against everyone who annoyed him: the dyeworks; the folk at Barnwell, whom he claimed had spread lies about him; and medici jealous of his superior abilities.

‘Here comes the Devil Incarnate,’ he sneered when he saw Michael. His hateful gaze shifted to Bartholomew. ‘And his helpmeet. You will both go to Hell for what you have done to me, and I shall sue the University for every penny it has.’

‘Good,’ said a lad from Bene’t College. ‘Because I do not want to move to the Fens, and if you deprive the University of funds, its officers will not have the money to bring it about.’

‘I would not mind going,’ countered a Carmelite novice. ‘There are no Frail Sisters in the Fens, and I shall not find myself tempted by their invitations. I never think about them when they are not around, but when they appear in front of me …’

‘Stand up, Nigellus,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am letting you go.’

There was a resounding cheer and Nigellus smirked. It was an unpleasant expression, designed to annoy, and Bartholomew found himself wishing his colleague had been guilty.

‘I shall see Stephen the lawyer this morning,’ Nigellus declared. ‘My reputation has been severely damaged, and for that you must pay.’

‘On the contrary,’ said the Carmelite. ‘Your reputation is enhanced – you are a martyr for the cause and we all admire you. You will certainly find your practice swollen with new patients now.’

Nigellus shot him a foul look. ‘I do not want new patients. I want compensation.’

He stalked through the door, and made a show of brushing himself off once he was in the street, declaring in a ringing voice that the University had never had any real evidence against him. He had been arrested, he informed passers-by, purely to conceal the fact that Edith was poisoning the town with her dyeworks, aided and abetted by her brother.

‘Edith has harmed no one,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound as though he believed it.

‘You would say that,’ jeered Nigellus. ‘Michaelhouse has become fabulously rich of late – mostly because she is giving you half her profits.’

Bartholomew doubted even that would be enough to save the College from fiscal ruin. ‘No,’ he began. ‘She would never–’

But Nigellus was already stalking away.

It was Suttone’s turn to officiate at Mass, and as he was inclined to be wordy, it went on longer than usual. The scholars arrived home to see smoke billowing from the kitchen, and the breakfast pottage was full of crunchy black bits. Agatha had attempted to disguise the damage with an additional dose of salt and a generous sprinkling of parsley.

‘Perhaps we should go to the Fens,’ said Michael, poking at the mess without enthusiasm. ‘Living off the land cannot be worse than this. I am glad no benefactor is here to see what we really eat, or he might be forgiven for thinking we will not last the term.’

‘We won’t,’ said Langelee in a low, strained voice. ‘Our creditors are demanding payment, and our coffers are empty. Word will soon spread that we cannot pay our debts, and that will be the end of us. If we had secured even one donation, we might have weathered the storm, but we have won nothing.’

‘It is your fault,’ said William sullenly to Michael. ‘The University has never been so unpopular, and as Senior Proctor, you should have taken steps to maintain good relations.’

‘The town does hate us,’ agreed Suttone unhappily. ‘Our College is usually exempt from animosity, because Matt tends the poor and Michael feeds the choir. But those vile dyeworks are owned by Matt’s sister, while Michael keeps arresting people for breaching the peace.’

‘At least we have a nice mural to look at in our final days as Fellows,’ said Clippesby, who was holding a pot on his lap, in which swam several fish. ‘Aristotle, Plato, Galen and Aquinas, all teaching eager students.’

‘It is a nice mural,’ said Suttone sadly. ‘And I like that oak tree – it reminds me of the one I used to scale when I was a boy.’

‘I wish we had commissioned a tapestry instead,’ said Langelee, after a brief silence during which they all tried to imagine the portly Suttone ever being lithe enough to climb anything. ‘We could have sold a tapestry, but we cannot sell a wall.’

‘The mural was Wauter’s idea,’ said William bitterly. ‘Perhaps he realises it was sheer folly, and that is why he has disappeared.’

‘I searched his room,’ said Langelee. ‘His Martilogium has gone, which makes me suspect that he plans to be away for some time – perhaps even permanently.’

When the meal was over, even the abstemious Bartholomew felt the need for something else to eat, so he went to see what Michael had in his private pantry. He tended not to buy spare food – called commons – himself because he either forgot it was there or his students got to it first. He was impressed when Michael produced smoked ham, an excellent cheese, several boiled eggs and half a loaf of bread. Obligingly, his students went to the hall to study, leaving the two Fellows alone to discuss their investigation. Michael began.

‘Our culprit – I shall call him the strategist, on account of the cunning way he manipulates us all – knows exactly how to stir up trouble between University and town, both with real events and with rumours.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘Our so-called removal to the Fens; what or who is causing the debilitas; the murder of Frenge. All have aggravated the situation, especially when combined with the ill-feeling about the various lawsuits and the dyeworks.’

‘I visited every convent in Cambridge last night, and all had received an anonymous letter urging them to persuade the Austins to sue Hakeney.’

‘Then our culprit is Stephen,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘He is the one who will profit from all this legal activity.’

‘I managed to catch him in a tavern last night, and he says he had a missive as well. I am inclined to believe him. However, even the Senior Proctor is fallible, so he had better remain on our list of suspects for now.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘These messages prove the strategist exists – that someone is prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve his ends.’

‘Even kill,’ said Michael sombrely.

‘I do not suppose Stephen or the priors showed you these letters, did they? In other words, could you match the writing to any of our suspects?’

‘None of the priors kept them, while Stephen was in the Cardinal’s Cap, and so not in a position to oblige. However, Hamo saw the one that was sent to Joliet, so perhaps he was killed because he recognised the hand.’ Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘He would have recognised Wauter’s – a fellow Austin.’

‘I suppose he would,’ acknowledged Bartholomew reluctantly.

‘So let us consider what happened in the chapel last night. Hamo went to prepare it for vespers. He was alone, and while he was there, someone slipped in and stabbed him. He was no weakling, so his attacker either approached very stealthily or it was someone Hamo did not perceive as a threat. Such as a colleague.’

‘But no one else saw Wauter in the convent last night.’

‘Because the culprit entered via the broken back gate, as you yourself discovered. Of course, it could just be a townsman, aiming to win justice for Frenge. Did Hamo’s body provide any clues?’

‘All I can say is that he lived for some time after he was attacked. He lay a while by the altar, but managed to rise and lurch to the door. I could tell by the way the blood had splattered.’

Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘What a ghoul you are!’

‘Most people in his position would have called for help or staggered out to find some, but he stayed in the chapel.’

‘He probably wanted to die in a holy place. He was a friar – these things are important.’

Bartholomew shook his head slowly. ‘Perhaps, but something is not right about the affair. He spoke one word – “all” – but what did it mean? He did not look as though he was praying to the Almighty.’

‘Then perhaps Overe was right, and he started to say aliteum – a crime.’

‘He would not have wasted his final breath stating the obvious,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘And why did he not just tell us who stabbed him?’

‘The chapel was dark and he was stabbed from behind. He may not have seen his attacker.’

But Bartholomew remained troubled. ‘I cannot shake the conviction that he was trying to convey a message in that final word – one he mistakenly thought I understood. I have the sense that I have failed him.’

‘Then let us return to the friary now. Perhaps he left a clue, and all will become clear in the full light of day.’

Bartholomew and Michael were about to leave Michaelhouse when the gate opened, and Joliet and Robert walked in. Both were pale, and Joliet’s red eyes suggested he had been crying.

‘You need not teach today,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘Not after the nasty shock you had last night. I know from experience what it is like to lose a colleague. Go home and pray for his soul.’

Joliet looked away. ‘You are good, Master Langelee. However, we did not come to work, but to ask what Brother Michael plans to do about finding Hamo’s killer.’

‘All I can,’ replied Michael simply. ‘So perhaps we can walk to the friary now, to view the chapel in daylight.’

Joliet smiled wanly. ‘I hoped you would, so we shut it up after we took Hamo to the charnel house. No one has been in it since.’

They walked to the High Street, where they were hailed by Gilby, the dim-witted priest from White Hostel. He was riding on a cart that was piled high with his belongings. He was grey-faced, and one hand was clasped to his stomach.

‘I have the debilitas,’ he whimpered. ‘I do not want to die, so I have decided to leave Cambridge while I can. Three other scholars from White will follow me this afternoon, along with four from Trinity Hall and two from Peterhouse.’

‘We shall be sorry to lose you,’ lied Michael. ‘Where will you go?’

‘The Fens,’ replied Gilby with a vague flap of his hand. ‘We shall establish a new University where members can be free of poison – of the body and the mind. In time, this one will fade into oblivion, and we shall be regarded as the true studium generale.’

‘Are you sure it is wise to travel while you are ill?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course it is,’ said Michael quickly, scowling at him. He turned back to the priest with a bright smile. ‘Go and found your university, Gilby. I wish you every success.’

‘I do not want to leave,’ said Gilby, eyes narrowing when he saw the monk was glad to be rid of him. ‘But your ineptitude as Senior Proctor leaves me no choice. And do not come crying to me when the town destroys you, because you will not be welcome.’ He turned to the Austins. ‘But you will.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joliet. He glanced nervously around him. ‘If the town continues to descend into chaos, you might be seeing us sooner than you know.’

‘How can you think of going?’ asked Michael reproachfully. ‘What about the paupers who rely on you – the ones you starved yourselves to feed last winter, and who you will help with the money you have earned by teaching and painting at Michaelhouse?’

Joliet looked away. ‘I pity them, but I must consider the safety of my people. This week has proved beyond all doubt that the town loathes us, despite all our sacrifices.’

‘And one of them killed Hamo,’ added Robert. ‘We cannot fight such deeply held hatred.’

‘You are quite right,’ agreed Gilby. ‘So do not wait too long before joining us.’

He cracked the reins and the vehicle rumbled forward. Another followed, bearing two men from Gonville Hall, one of whom was the drunken Osborne. Both looked wan.

‘Where they will sleep?’ asked Bartholomew, watching the wagons clatter away. Joliet and Robert dropped behind to talk in low voices, obviously giving serious consideration to Gilby’s invitation. ‘All are used to comfort, and I doubt they will enjoy bedding down under a cart, especially if they are ill.’

‘They will not sleep under a cart,’ predicted Michael. ‘I suspect they will aim for a specific location – one the strategist has already chosen. A settlement left empty after the plague, perhaps.’

‘Then they will be disappointed. It has been a decade since those were abandoned, and few will be habitable now. However, I suspect the strategist wants our scholars to think as you have – that his new university has decent buildings free for the taking.’

‘Then his foundation will not survive long – his cronies will not stay if they are forced to live like peasants. And they cannot come back to us, because I will not allow it. They will have tasted independence, so will be a divisive force. Yet we will not survive either if we are stripped of too many members, but how can we stop them from trickling away?’

‘There is only one way: find the strategist.’

It was not an easy journey to the Austin friary. Townsmen hurled abuse at them, although none was quite brave enough to launch a physical attack on the princely bulk of the Senior Proctor, while students roamed in belligerent packs.

‘We should follow Gilby,’ gulped Robert. ‘We will be safe in the marshes.’

‘Safe, but not comfortable,’ said Michael. ‘Do not abandon your lovely convent just yet.’

‘I am not comfortable here,’ averred Joliet, waving a hand in front of his face as a particularly noxious waft blew from the dyeworks.

They reached the priory, where Bartholomew and Michael surveyed every inch of the chapel for clues, but found nothing useful. The blood that had been dripped and smeared on the floor confirmed what the physician had already surmised – that Hamo had been attacked near the altar, but had managed to stagger to the door where he had died.

‘There is no suggestion that the culprit broke into the church,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the lock. ‘He walked inside freely.’

‘Of course he did,’ said Robert bitterly. He and his brethren were standing in the porch, watching the search with troubled expressions. ‘The door was open, because we were about to say vespers – and Hamo was in here, preparing the altar.’

‘I have been wickedly remiss,’ said Joliet, tears rolling down his round cheeks. ‘I saw how easy it was to invade our holy grounds when Frenge died, but I never imagined the killer would strike again. I should have posted guards, or barricaded the gates. And Hamo paid the price for my complacency.’

‘We will find the culprit,’ promised Michael, as the friars hastened to comfort their leader. ‘And we shall start by questioning Hakeney.’