A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 13

The cold determination in Shirwynk’s eyes told Bartholomew and Michael that he meant to kill them where they stood. Peyn knew it, too, and his face was hard with savage glee as he drew the long knife he carried at his side, aiming to lend a hand.

Bartholomew pulled a pair of heavy childbirth forceps from his medical bag. They were not much of a weapon, but they did serve to deflect Shirwynk’s first blow, although he knew it was only a matter of time before the hook found its mark.

‘I know why you hate the University,’ the monk said, wholly unfazed by the danger. ‘Peyn made such a point about not wanting to be a scholar that I looked in our records. And what did I find? That he did apply, but was soundly rejected. You are both bitter–’

Bartholomew only just managed to counter the furious swipe that Peyn aimed at the monk’s vitals, although Michael did not flinch, perhaps because there had been no time. The resulting clash made Peyn yelp in pain and he fell back, nursing a wrenched elbow.

‘King’s Hall,’ he hissed between gritted teeth, flexing his damaged joint. ‘How dare they refuse me! And they were followed by Gonville, Peterhouse and all the hostels.’

‘Even Zachary!’ said Michael tauntingly. ‘A place with no academic standards whatsoever. You must have cut a miserable figure indeed for them to turn you down.’

Bartholomew was hard-pressed to fend off Shirwynk’s indignant assault, and was aware that if father and son attacked together, he and Michael would be dead. Shirwynk fell back eventually, circling as he considered his next move. Peyn had recovered sufficiently to try a jab or two, but he was tentative, unwilling to risk further injury.

‘If you must antagonise them, Brother, then at least grab a weapon,’ hissed Bartholomew urgently. ‘I cannot defend you indefinitely.’

Michael picked up a ladle from the floor and feinted at Peyn, who staggered backwards with an alarmed squeak.

‘You should have accepted my son,’ said Shirwynk coldly. ‘He would have been an asset to you, and I had set my heart on him becoming a lawyer. But his talent is such that he does not need your paltry degrees anyway. Not now he has won his post in Westminster.’

Confident in his father’s devotion, Peyn began to gloat. ‘It was so easy to fool you! I read how to make lead salts when I was preparing my application for King’s Hall – Stephen let me use his library. No one guessed it was me making and selling the sucura.’

‘Peyn!’ barked Shirwynk, horrified. ‘Say no more.’

‘Why?’ shrugged Peyn. ‘They will never repeat this conversation to anyone else, and they should know that their stupid University made a mistake by declining to take me.’

‘So I am beginning to understand,’ murmured Michael, ‘given that you promptly turned around and started to poison everyone.’

‘I have been making sucura for months,’ said Peyn tauntingly. ‘At first, I only sold it in Barnwell, thinking to keep the venture modest, but it was so successful that I could not resist expanding into Cambridge. People want it so badly that they pay stupidly high prices, and it has made me rich. How do you think I got my post at Westminster?’

Shirwynk blinked. ‘Because the Treasury heard about your remarkable abilities and invited you to join them, just as I have been telling everyone.’

Peyn laughed, although it was a bitter sound. ‘Nothing is free in this world, Father. I bought the position – with money from my sucura.’

‘But if the stuff has been causing the debilitas, as these scholars say, then it means you killed Letia,’ breathed Shirwynk, shocked. ‘Your mother.’

‘She was dying anyway,’ shrugged Peyn. ‘Or so she claimed. Personally, I thought it was just an excuse to lie around in bed eating cakes.’

‘You did not know your sucura might be dangerous,’ said Shirwynk. It was a statement, not a question, and there was a pathetic desperation in his eyes. ‘You sold it in all innocence.’

Peyn grinned malevolently, a response that made his sire’s face crumple in dismay. ‘I had my suspicions, which is why I never touch it myself. Not the sucura or the apple wine.’

‘But you let me drink it.’ Shirwynk’s voice was low and strained.

Knowing where his best interests lay, Peyn abandoned his air of gloating insouciance and became ingratiating. ‘I would not have let you come to harm. And I am not responsible for the deaths anyway. All the victims were old, ill or overly greedy.’

‘Was Frenge overly greedy?’ asked Michael. ‘I assume you poisoned him as well?’

Peyn shook his head. ‘His death was a nuisance, actually, because he was the one who took the sucura out to sell.’

‘No!’ snapped Michael. ‘I questioned any number of people who bought the stuff – Agatha, Cynric, Mistress Tulyet, Dodenho, Chancellor Tynkell – and none of them got it from Frenge.’

‘Stephen did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me so a few months ago.’

Peyn shot them both a pitying glance. ‘Frenge did not deal with the bulk of our customers himself, stupid! He hired petty criminals to do it – men who are used to hawking goods of dubious origin around the town’s taverns.’

‘Then it was all Frenge’s idea,’ said Shirwynk, still unwilling to see his beloved son in the role of arch villain. ‘He was a thief … there was a rumour that he stole cattle–’

‘He did not have the wits to devise a scheme of this audacity and cunning,’ interrupted Peyn. ‘Only I did.’ He smirked challengingly at Michael. ‘And incidentally, he never delivered ale to King’s Hall on the day he died. I made that up to confuse you.’

‘But you told me that tale as well,’ said Shirwynk hoarsely. ‘And I repeated it to others …’

‘Just as I intended,’ said Peyn, all smug triumph. ‘It put suspicion on King’s Hall, which serves them right for suing us.’

There was a moment when Bartholomew thought Shirwynk would be so stunned by his son’s nasty revelations that he would lay down his hook and surrender, but only a fleeting one. Peyn also sensed his sire’s weakening resolve, so took steps to remedy the situation. He put a loving arm around his father’s shoulders, and murmured in his ear. Whatever he said caused Shirwynk to take a deep breath and become businesslike.

‘Go and wait outside. I do not want your last memories of Cambridge tainted by murder.’

‘No, we shall dispatch them together,’ said Peyn, obviously not trusting him to go through with it. He gripped his blade purposefully. ‘Ready?’

Shirwynk nodded, his expression grim, and they advanced side by side. Bartholomew held his forceps in one hand and let his medical bag slide into the other, aiming to swing it in the hope of entangling one of their weapons.

‘Stop!’ ordered Michael, raising the ladle. ‘Desist immediately, or I will–’

‘Will what?’ sneered Peyn. ‘Arrest us? How? We are the ones with the pointed implements.’

‘By summoning HELP!’ Michael bawled the last word at the top of his voice, and the brewery door flew open to reveal Tulyet and several soldiers. Dickon was there, too, his face still scarlet, although his teeth were back to their normal yellowish white.

Shirwynk and Peyn whipped around in horror. In a frantic but ill-advised effort to save the day, Shirwynk went on a wild offensive, but a hook, however sharp, was no match for broadswords, and Tulyet disarmed him with ease. When he saw his father defeated, Peyn dropped his knife and held his hands in front of him, to show he was unarmed. They shook with fear.

‘I assume you heard everything, Dick?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew leaned against the wall and wished he had known that the Sheriff had been poised for rescue. No wonder Michael had been all cool composure in the face of death!

‘I did,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Every word.’

‘It was all Frenge’s idea,’ bleated Peyn. ‘I swear! He forced me to help him and–’

‘How?’ asked Tulyet mildly. ‘You just said he did not have the wits.’

‘No, but he does,’ said Peyn, pointing at his father. ‘I did learn about lead salts in Stephen’s books, but when I told him about them, he devised a way to make himself rich and to rid himself of an unwanted wife into the bargain. I did nothing wrong. It was all him.’

The blood drained from Shirwynk’s face, but even this final evidence of his son’s perfidy did not dent his devotion. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘The scheme was all mine. Peyn knew nothing about any of it. He is innocent of any wrongdoing.’

There was a flicker of something in Peyn’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly to say whether it was remorse. ‘So release me,’ the boy said. ‘I shall go to Westminster and our paths will never cross again. Unless you ever need a favour, of course, in which case I shall be delighted to oblige.’

‘Take them away,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him with disgust. ‘Thank God I have an upright, noble son, because I think I should die of shame if I had one like you.’

Once Shirwynk and Peyn had been marched to the castle, Bartholomew examined the metal vats, to assure himself that his conclusions were right. He was, and Michael and Tulyet listened aghast as he explained in more detail how Peyn had made ‘sucura’, both appalled by the lad’s brazen disregard for the people who had sickened or died.

‘So it and the apple wine are insidious poisons,’ said Tulyet when Bartholomew had finished. ‘Ones that work gradually. Once they are unavailable, will the debilitas disappear?’

‘There should be no further cases, and I hope the symptoms of those already affected will be eased by certain treatments.’ Bartholomew glanced at Michael. ‘Lead poisoning explains the damage I saw in the stomachs and livers of Lenne, Yerland, Segeforde and Irby.’

‘We shall have to apologise to Nigellus,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Damn! It is certain to cost an absolute fortune – one he will doubtless use to fund his new studium generale in the Fens.’

‘You will have to apologise to Edith as well,’ added Bartholomew. ‘She said from the start that her dyeworks were innocent, and she was right.’

‘What about Frenge?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Can we attribute his death to sucura or apple wine?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He was fed an acidic substance that killed him quickly, one quite different from lead salts.’

‘Yes – we still have a killer at large,’ agreed Michael. ‘A person who stabbed Hamo and strangled Kellawe as well. Unfortunately, we are running out of suspects. Or do you think Shirwynk and Peyn are responsible?’

‘Not Shirwynk,’ said Tulyet. ‘He was too shocked by his son’s admissions to be a seasoned murderer himself. And to be frank, I do not think Peyn is brave enough to claim his victims face to face. What about Cew? His madness has always seemed rather convenient to me. After all, who will suspect a lunatic?’

‘I am fairly sure his affliction is genuine,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps so, but that does not preclude him from being the strategist,’ said Michael, and explained his theory about the criminal mastermind to the Sheriff. ‘After all, it requires a certain type of insanity to bring all this about – one that entails a good deal of ruthless cunning.’

‘Then perhaps the strategist is Stephen,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘He is ruthlessly cunning.’

‘He is currently suffering from a weakness in his wrists,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One that would make strangling anyone impossible.’

‘Who, then?’ demanded Tulyet, beginning to be exasperated. ‘Wauter, who rode away into the Fens, where he is welcoming scholars with open arms?’

‘We cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for his disappearance.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I appreciate that you do not want this strategist to be from Michaelhouse. I have a fondness for your College myself, and would far rather the culprit came from somewhere else – such as King’s Hall or Zachary.’

‘Not King’s Hall,’ said Michael. ‘They are determined to keep the University in Cambridge, no matter what they have to do to achieve it. The best suspects are Nigellus and Morys, who are leading proponents for the studium generale in the Fens.’

‘If it is Nigellus, you will not have to apologise for arresting him on suspicion of killing his patients,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘And I admit that it would give me pleasure to see such an arrogant devil behind bars.’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am with you there, Dick, so Matt and I will speak to him and Morys as soon as I have had something to eat. It is not something to be attempted on an empty stomach, and the confrontation with Shirwynk and Peyn has quite sapped my energy.’

‘There is no time for gorging,’ said Tulyet. ‘I should have told you at once: trouble is brewing between King’s Hall and some of the scholars who want to leave. I tried to quell it, but they took exception to my interference. You are the only one who can prevent a pitched battle.’

‘I am sure there are townsmen to hand, though,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Ready to join in. We must stand together if we are to keep the peace, so come with me.’

They secured the brewery and hurried to the High Street, where raised voices could be heard. Afternoon was fading to evening, and it would not be long before it was dark, at which point it was obvious from the tense atmosphere that fights would break out.

‘How long have you known that the University rejected Peyn?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Ever since he admitted it just now.’ Michael shrugged at the physician’s astonishment. ‘It was a guess, Matt. We do not keep records of failed applications.’

The quarrel was centred on the Trumpington Gate, where scholars from King’s Hall, along with students from several other Colleges, had taken up station, all armed to the teeth. Facing them was a horde from the hostels, many wearing religious habits and carrying bundles of belongings. Crowds of townsfolk had gathered to watch, clearly intending to weigh in should there be a brawl.

‘The hostels are appalled that Shirwynk is prosecuting Morys for trespass,’ explained Beadle Meadowman worriedly. ‘And fear they will suffer similar charges if they inadvertently set foot in the wrong place. Thus the sanctuary of the Fens is attractive, but the wealthier foundations want to stop them from going.’

‘We have arrested Shirwynk,’ said Michael. ‘He cannot sue anyone.’

‘That news was broken a few moments ago, but it has made the situation worse,’ said Meadowman. ‘The hostels think it is a lie – a ruse to keep them here.’

‘We must put an end to this nonsense fast, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘Your University is tearing itself apart over this Fen business, and my town will certainly home in on any weakness.’

‘You have soldiers and Michael has beadles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Send both groups in to disperse this gathering.’

Michael and Tulyet shot him withering looks. ‘That would ignite a riot for certain,’ said Tulyet. ‘This is not a situation that will be resolved by brute force.’

While he and Michael discussed strategies, Bartholomew turned his attention to the mob. Not surprisingly, some voices were louder than others. Nigellus and Morys were in the vanguard of those who wanted to leave, although neither had a pack, suggesting that they did not intend to stay long in the marshes – they would return for more converts.

Meanwhile, Wayt led the faction that aimed to stop them. He was yelling that the hostels had a duty to stay, but was unable to explain why, and side-stepped the issue when his opponents claimed, not without cause, that King’s Hall was prepared to put comfortable buildings before a better atmosphere for teaching. Then Nigellus bawled that scholars would be able to devote themselves to the lofty goal of learning far more readily when away from the filthy habits of seculars, and Tulyet’s men were hard-pressed to prevent offended townsmen from responding to the insult with their fists.

The soldiers were heavily armed, but were under strict orders not to use their weapons. Dickon ignored the edict, and scampered around with a drawn sword. Townsmen and scholars alike fell back whenever he was near, all eyeing the red-faced figure uneasily. Bartholomew took the opportunity afforded by the distraction to approach Wayt and Dodenho.

‘Take your men home,’ he begged. ‘Without them, the other Colleges will give up and–’

‘And the hostel rabble will escape,’ snapped Wayt, eyeing the opposition with icy disdain. ‘Which I refuse to allow.’

‘You cannot keep them here against their will,’ argued Bartholomew.

‘Oh, yes, I can,’ averred Wayt. ‘Personally, I would just as soon be rid of the scum, but we cannot let them establish a rival studium generale elsewhere. It might grow bigger than our own, and we have carved a nice niche for ourselves in Cambridge.’

‘It is not just selfishness,’ added Dodenho hastily. ‘We may not survive if half of us defect, especially if Oxford takes advantage of our weakness and comes to poach our remaining best thinkers.’

‘These hostel men are fools,’ declared Wayt, ‘driven to recklessness by the mealy-mouthed nonsense spouted by Nigellus, Morys and the Austins. It is for their own good, as much as ours, that we intend to stop them from going.’

‘The Austins?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘They are no fanatics.’

‘They are less bombastic than the rest,’ conceded Wayt. ‘But they still think the University would be better off in the bogs. The damned imbeciles!’

It occurred to Bartholomew that King’s Hall’s arrogance might have done more to drive the hostel men away than anything the Austins had said. And when he glanced at the fleshy, dissipated faces around him, he wondered if the rebels were right to think the University would fare better away from the town and its worldly distractions.

‘Hamo getting himself killed did not help either,’ said Dodenho. ‘Prior Joliet should have done more to prevent another murder in his domain, especially given what happened to Frenge.’

‘Hamo probably poisoned Frenge,’ spat Wayt venomously. ‘Which is why a townsman invaded the convent and dispatched Hamo in his turn. It is a pity the man did not use his dying breath to identify his assailant. I heard all he did was blather about the Almighty.’

‘I suppose he was in pain,’ surmised Dodenho. ‘And did not know what he was saying.’

‘Nonsense – the killer would have used a sharp knife,’ argued Wayt, ‘which means that Hamo would have felt nothing at all. And it was remiss of him to go to his grave without sharing the name of his murderer.’

Bartholomew started to tell Wayt that being fatally stabbed certainly would hurt, sharp blade or no, but the Acting Warden ignored him and began haranguing the hostel men again. Unwilling to stand next to him while he did it, Bartholomew slunk away.

Yet Wayt’s words sparked a sudden memory of Poitiers, when men with terrible injuries had still found the strength to fight on and even celebrate when the battle was over. In some cases, it had been hours before they had complained of pain, so perhaps Wayt was right to claim that Hamo had not felt much. A solution began to unfold in his mind, so he grabbed Michael’s sleeve and pulled the monk away from the howling mob, where he could make himself heard.

‘Hamo lived for some time after he was stabbed,’ he began. ‘Long enough to lurch from the chancel to the porch, and then to whisper his dying words. Or rather, word, in the singular.’

‘A word that made no sense,’ said Michael distractedly. He tried to pull away. ‘I cannot talk about this now, Matt. We are on the verge of a riot, in case you had not noticed.’

Bartholomew gripped his arm harder. ‘The other morning, Langelee jabbed my hand with his letter-opener, but I did not feel it bite because the blade was so sharp. The same thing happened to Hamo – I think there was no or little pain when he was first stabbed. He was weakened certainly, but still able to move about. It was only when we found him that the agony struck and he died.’

‘What are you talking about?’ cried Michael. ‘Please, Matt! We have more serious matters to consider right now – such as the survival of our University.’

‘I think Hamo did see his killer,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But the culprit did not care – he left him to die, confident that he would not live long enough to talk. He was the strategist, Michael – a man so sure of himself that he thinks he is infallible. He–’

Tulyet bustled up at that moment, to make a terse report. ‘The hostel men are retreating, thank God. Order King’s Hall to stand down, Brother, and I will deal with the townsfolk. However, it is only a temporary reprieve: the hostels will try to leave again, and the Colleges will attempt to stop them. Tonight, probably.’

Michael shoved Bartholomew aside and went to do as he was told. ‘You have won the confrontation,’ he said to Wayt, speaking softly so that no one from the hostels would hear and beg to differ. ‘Now go home before any of your lads are hurt. It is getting late anyway. You must be tired.’

‘Not at all,’ declared Wayt, although Dodenho began chivvying their students away. Few went willingly. Meanwhile, Peterhouse, Bene’t and the Hall of Valence Marie – the Colleges with buildings closest to the Trumpington Gate – offered hospitality to their supporters, which meant that most were not going very far at all.

‘Listen to me, Brother,’ Bartholomew said urgently, pulling the monk away from his duties a second time. ‘Hamo did tell us his killer’s identity. Or rather, he told us where he had left something that will give us the answer.’

Michael shook his head in incomprehension. ‘He said “all”. How can that–’

‘I think I only heard part of the word he was trying to say. He was preparing the chapel for vespers when he was attacked – his killer chose a time and a place when he knew his victim would be alone. Hamo was stabbed in the chancel – we know that because of the blood that spilled there. I think he was trying to say “altar”.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that he left something on or near the altar and he expected us to find it. He believed he had communicated something important with his dying breath, because I saw satisfaction and relief in his face.’

‘What manner of something?’ demanded Michael.

‘We must go to the Austins’ chapel and look. And hope that the strategist has not guessed what Hamo tried to do and has been there before us.’

Tulyet was irked when Michael told him that he was going the Austin Priory, feeling he was being left to handle a potentially explosive situation on his own. The monk promised to return as soon as possible, and left Meadowman in charge in his stead.

‘Then do not be long,’ ordered Tulyet curtly. ‘It will be dark soon, at which point the hostel men will try to slip away under cover of night – and the Colleges will be waiting.’

‘Hopefully, we will return with the news that the strategist is arrested,’ said Michael. ‘That might calm troubled waters.’

‘It is far too late for that,’ said Tulyet bleakly. ‘And while Meadowman is an admirable fellow, he is not the Senior Proctor. Come back as soon as you can.’

Michael and Bartholomew hurried to the convent. At a glance, the streets appeared to be deserted, folk obediently obeying the curfew that had been imposed by Senior Proctor and Sheriff, but there were flickers of movement in the smaller alleys, and doors were ajar in every house as people peered out. Bene’t College’s gates were closed, but a rumble of feisty voices from within indicated that its residents were busily inciting each other to mischief.

‘There is no point speaking to them,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Michael falter, torn between exploring the Austins’ chapel and issuing a warning to a College known for its fondness for brawls. ‘They will not listen, and you will have wasted valuable time.’

The monk knew he was right, and they resumed their journey without a word. It was not long before they arrived. The front gate was locked, and the Austins were evidently not expecting visitors, because no one was on duty to answer their knocks. Fraught with frustration, Bartholomew gave it a heavy thump with his shoulder, and was disconcerted to discover it so rotten that it almost gave way.

‘They spend all their money on alms,’ said Michael. ‘Unlike King’s Hall, or even Michaelhouse, where security is considered more important. Hit it again.’

‘But if I break it, they will have no way to keep marauders out,’ argued Bartholomew, disliking the notion of vandalising a religious house.

‘A rotten door will provide scant protection anyway,’ Michael pointed out, and when the physician still hesitated, he charged at it himself, causing it to fly to pieces under the onslaught.

‘God’s teeth, Brother!’ hissed Bartholomew, surveying the shattered remnants in dismay. ‘Now we cannot even begin to disguise the damage.’

‘It was more fragile than I anticipated,’ said Michael defensively. ‘And do not blaspheme.’

The priory grounds were empty, but a voice could be heard emanating from the refectory: the friars were eating, listening to their Bible Scholar read aloud as they did so. Rather than waste time in explanations, Michael trotted straight towards the chapel.

The building was shadowy and as silent as the grave, which Bartholomew found unnerving, especially when he remembered that it had been about the same time of day that Hamo had been killed. He glanced around anxiously, half expecting the strategist to leap out at them with his sharp little blade, but the place was deserted. He followed Michael to the altar.

‘There is nothing here,’ said Michael accusingly, whispering because it seemed wrong for loud voices to shatter the building’s peace. ‘You were wrong!’

Bartholomew dropped to his hands and knees, and pushed aside the cloth that covered the table to peer underneath. At first, he thought Michael was right, but then he saw dark smudges in the ancient dust of the floor. He stood, grabbed a candle, and crouched back down.

‘Writing,’ he said excitedly. ‘Or rather letters drawn in blood. Hamo must have put his hand beneath and–’

‘I understand what he did,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘What does it say?’

‘Robert,’ replied Bartholomew, staring up at him.

‘He cannot mean the almoner. He must mean Robert de Hakeney.’

‘Hakeney has an alibi for Hamo’s murder – he was in the King’s Head.’

‘Then perhaps he hired a crony to do it. God knows, there are dozens of men in that rough place who would oblige him.’

‘It costs money to rent a killer, and Hakeney does not have any. Moreover, his behaviour on the night of the murder was not commensurate with a man who had commissioned a crime. I think Hamo did mean his fellow Austin.’

Michael glanced around uncomfortably, although they were still alone. ‘Why?’

‘First, because he wrote this message in a place where it would not be seen by any of his brethren. And second, because he told us, rather than one of them, what he had done.’

Michael made an impatient movement with his hand. ‘You are reading too much into the unfathomable actions of a dying man.’

‘Think, Brother! Hamo was badly wounded, but did not try to summon help. Why? Because he knew his killer would be among those who came. And why did he not reveal the name of his assailant as he breathed his last? Because Robert was there, and would have found a way to dismiss or explain away whatever Hamo had managed to gasp.’

Michael started to argue, but then stopped and became thoughtful. ‘You said at the time that he was trying to communicate something. Failing that, the message would eventually have been found by whoever changes the altar cloth – the sacristan or his assistants, but definitely not the almoner. But why would Robert kill Hamo? He is a friar, and a good one. Such men do not usually dispatch their colleagues.’

‘Because Robert is the strategist.’ Bartholomew continued quickly when he saw Michael’s immediate disbelief. ‘He is one of those who thinks the University should decant to the Fens.’

‘So does half the University,’ Michael pointed out.

‘But it makes sense! Frenge also died here – in a place that Robert knows. But this is no time to speculate. Our best option now is to go to the refectory and see what Robert has to say about his name written in blood beneath the altar.’

He began to hurry there before Michael could object, arriving to find the friars concluding a modest repast of bread and ale. They were standing and Prior Joliet had just finished saying grace. They all looked up in astonishment when Bartholomew burst in. Robert was not there.

‘Where is your almoner?’ Bartholomew demanded.

Joliet blinked at the abrupt question. ‘He has gone to Michaelhouse. Why? And how did you get in? Our front gate is locked.’

‘Gone to Michaelhouse to do what?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

‘To deliver wine,’ said Joliet, regarding Bartholomew in bemusement. ‘It is a gift from your sister, but the mood of the town is such that she was too afraid to take it herself, so she asked Robert to oblige. I advised him to leave it until tomorrow, but he–’

‘Edith is not in the habit of sending us wine,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘And even if she were, she has a whole household to do her bidding and would not have asked Robert. Moreover, she would not think it necessary for the stuff to arrive tonight, when the town is alive with unrest.’

‘So what does it–’ began Michael.

Bartholomew cut across him. ‘Robert aims to do Michaelhouse harm, no doubt to cause further strife between University and town. Which is more evidence that he is the strategist!’

‘Now just a moment,’ objected Joliet indignantly. ‘Edith probably chose Robert to be her agent because he is an almoner, used to giving things away. He–’

‘How did she ask him?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Did she come here?’

‘No, she sent a message.’ It was Overe who replied. ‘I have it here.’ He reached into the scrip that hung from his belt and produced a folded piece of parchment.

‘I have seen this writing before,’ said Bartholomew, snatching it from him. ‘Or rather, I have seen letters penned with this nib – it has a nick, which makes all its upstrokes distinctive.’

‘Where have you seen it?’ asked Joliet warily.

‘On letters to Stephen. Two informed him that Michaelhouse and Gonville are on the brink of moving to the Fens, and a third told him to persuade Hakeney to steal Robert’s cross.’

‘Robert’s cross,’ pounced Michael. ‘He is unlikely to encourage a crime against himself. And why would he bother to forge a note from Edith? He could have just told everyone that she asked him to deliver the wine and no one would know any different. You are wrong, Matt.’

‘He would not have been allowed out without one,’ said Overe. ‘The rest of us would have refused to let him go – on account of the danger – but this letter is very persuasive …’

‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew, scanning it again. ‘It is also nothing Edith would have written. Ergo, Robert penned it himself, aiming to escape the convent and further his nasty plans.’

‘My almoner is a good man,’ said Joliet quietly. ‘Like all my brethren. Indeed, there is only one Austin whose character I would question – the one in your College.’

‘Wauter?’ asked Bartholomew, his stomach churning.

‘Well, he did charge off to the Fens without asking permission,’ Joliet went on. ‘And I am told he took his Martilogium with him, which means he is unlikely to return.’

‘Go to your chapel and lock the door,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am afraid your front gate will no longer protect you. Do not come out until I tell you it is safe to do so.’

‘And if you see Robert, toll the bell,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Michael will send help.’

‘But why?’ cried Joliet, distressed. ‘I thought we had just proved that you are wrong, and that Robert is innocent of … whatever it is you think he has done.’

‘There is no time to explain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will just have to trust us.’

Dusk had settled across Cambridge as Bartholomew and Michael ran along the High Street, and mischief was in the air. Lights blazed from Gonville Hall, and its gates were open to reveal scholars massing in its yard. Michael stopped to demand whether they had heard about the curfew.

‘Yes, but we shall have no University left if we do not stop the defectors from disappearing into the marshes,’ said an undergraduate, a burly youth whose missing front teeth suggested he was no stranger to brawls. ‘You should thank us for what we aim to do tonight.’

‘You will stay in and behave,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Where is Rougham?’

‘Out with a patient,’ replied the lad, ‘and the other Fellows have locked themselves in the conclave. Perhaps you should join them there, Brother. It will be safer for you.’

Michael struggled not to lose his temper. ‘Where are your academic tabards? You do know I can fine you for not wearing them?’

‘They make too obvious a target for our enemies, so we elected to don secular garb tonight,’ replied the lad. He flicked imaginary dust from his fur-trimmed gipon, a gesture that suggested vanity had played no small role in the decision to defy the University’s rules on what constituted suitable attire.

Michael was used to dealing with insolent youths, and his steely glance had caused many a knee to wobble, but Gonville’s boys had been drinking. It was also too dark for the full force of his proctorly glower to be felt, and Bartholomew knew that, although they meekly closed their gates as the Senior Proctor ordered, it would not be long before they marched out.

In St Michael’s Lane, a few scholars from Ovyng and Physwick hostels were slinking along in the shadows, cloaked and hooded against recognition, many with bundles over their shoulders. Others were calling them back, some issuing threats and ultimatums that were unlikely to encourage the renegades to stay.

‘It is like trying to stem the tide,’ said Michael in dismay, as he hammered on Michaelhouse’s sturdy gate. ‘The strategist has been clever indeed.’

The porter opened the door to reveal a scene of efficient activity. Some students had been set to patrol the walls, while others were filling butts with water should there be a fire. Langelee was in charge, standing serenely in the middle of the yard as he issued instructions to Fellows, students and staff alike. Even Agatha was scurrying to obey, and was in the process of putting all the College’s valuables in a box so it could be buried.

‘Buried?’ asked Michael in alarm.

‘It is the best way to keep it safe from looters,’ explained the Master. ‘I have been in enough dangerous situations to know that our very existence is in question tonight. Vengeful hostel men or townsfolk may batter their way in, but they will not get our precious treasures. Such as they are.’

‘Good.’ Michael cast a quick glance around. ‘Is everyone here?’

Langelee nodded. ‘Do not worry, Brother. The other Heads of Houses might have lost control of their lads, but I still command Michaelhouse.’

‘Robert,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Did he come to deliver wine?’

‘Yes – some of that nasty apple brew from Shirwynk, which he said was a gift from your sister, although I should be surprised if that were true. She knows I do not like it.’

‘Has anyone had any?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘Not yet. Robert said we should share it out tonight, to fortify ourselves for the coming battle, but Clippesby started clamouring some tale about pigeons and poison and he unsettled me, to be frank, so I put it in your storeroom. Why–’

Bartholomew shoved past him and ran to his quarters, where the cask was standing in the middle of the floor. He decanted some of its contents into a cup, and sniffed it before swirling it around to inspect its consistency. It looked and smelled innocuous enough. He stared at it. It was reckless to sip something he was sure was dangerous, but time was short and he needed answers. He put a drop on his tongue, and immediately tasted the sickly sweetness of the wine. It was followed by a slight burning sensation. He spat it out of the window.

‘He added a caustic substance to it,’ he told Langelee and Michael. ‘Not enough to kill instantly – like the stuff he forced Frenge to swallow – but enough to make us very ill. And all so that Edith would be blamed.’

‘Why would Robert want that?’ asked Langelee, startled.

‘To create another reason for the University to be angry with the town,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘And another reason for people to rail against the dyeworks. Robert is a clever man – the strategist is a good name for him.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Well? Is this evidence enough for you to accept that he is the mastermind behind all this mayhem?’

Michael nodded slowly.

‘Then go and stop him,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I will dispose of this “gift” and keep the College safe. Now hurry, before he destroys us all.’

‘Perhaps there are advantages to having a battle-honed Master,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael raced back towards to the Austin Priory in the hope that Robert had returned. ‘At least we know that Michaelhouse is safe in his hands.’

‘Nowhere is safe tonight,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And Langelee knows it. Why do you think he is burying our valuables? He has never done that before.’

Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think it is that bad?’

‘I would not be surprised if the whole town was in flames by tomorrow,’ came the sombre response. ‘Especially if we do not find Robert and prevent him from implementing more of his felonious plans.’