A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 1

Cambridge, All Hallows’ Eve 1358

Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the University in Cambridge, had never liked the three-day festival of Hallow-tide. To him, it was a reminder that the warm reds and ambers of autumn were about to fade to the cold grey fogs of November, and that the days would soon grow depressingly short.

No one else at the College of Michaelhouse shared this opinion, however, and an atmosphere of happy expectation blossomed as the Master dismissed his scholars from the breakfast table. There would be a feast that night, and as such extravagance was rare, students, Fellows and servants alike could hardly contain their excitement. All Hallows’ Eve would be followed by All Saints’ Day and then All Souls, the latter of which was particularly important to Michaelhouse, as it was the anniversary of their founder’s death. Usually, they spent the day on their knees, saying masses for his soul, but things were going to be different that year.

‘I am not sure whether to be pleased or worried,’ said Brother Michael to the other Fellows as they repaired to the conclave – the comfortable chamber adjoining the hall that was off-limits to students. Michael was a portly Benedictine who taught theology, and was Bartholomew’s closest friend. ‘On one hand, I am delighted that we won the honour of hosting the reception after the All Souls’ debate this year, but on the other, it will cost a lot of money – money we do not have.’

‘It is an investment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, the Master. He had been chief henchman for an archbishop before deciding that life as a scholar would be more interesting, and still looked more like a warrior than an academic. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was fair and level-headed, and his Fellows had no complaints about his rule. ‘When the town’s wealthy elite see the princely show we put on, they will fall over themselves to give us money.’

‘Will they?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. He had never understood economics. ‘What if our ostentatious display makes them think we have too much already?’

‘It is a matter of confidence,’ explained Langelee. ‘No one wants to fund a venture that is on the brink of collapse – which describes us at the moment, unfortunately – but they will certainly want to be associated with one they think is flourishing.’

‘Because of their sin-steeped souls,’ elaborated Father William, a grubby Franciscan whose oily hair sprouted untidily around a tonsure that was never the same shape two days in a row. ‘Which need prayers if they are to escape Purgatory. The rich are eager to support foundations that will still be saying Masses for them in a thousand years, and our ruse will convince them that we are such a place. Our gamble will pay off, you can be sure of that.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew, less sanguine about the risks they were taking. If they failed, Michaelhouse would never repay the debts that were accumulating, and the College would be dissolved.

Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘I have invited a whole host of prosperous merchants to our feast tonight, in the hope that they will brag to their cronies about the lavish way in which they were entertained. And more of them will experience our generosity at the student debate–’

‘At the disceptatio, Master,’ corrected William. ‘It sounds more illustrious, and we should do all we can to stress the grandeur of the occasion.’ He grinned impishly. ‘Even if it is only one where a lot of youths pontificate on matters they do not understand.’

‘–when we shall provide refreshments fit for a king,’ finished Langelee. ‘Of course, we have other irons in the fire, too. Namely Prior Joliet and his fellow Austins.’

The Austin friars, unlike their monastic counterparts the Augustinian canons, lived in the town among the people to whom they ministered. The Order had arrived in Cambridge almost seventy years ago, and occupied a tract of land between the King’s Ditch and the Market Square.

‘They will give us money?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Priories did not usually extend their largesse to Colleges – they had their own communities to fund.

‘Not money,’ explained Langelee. ‘Labour. First, they have agreed to teach all the new theologians we enrolled last year–’

‘The ones we took to get the fees,’ put in William, lest the physician should have forgotten.

‘–and second, they are painting that lovely mural for us in the hall,’ finished Langelee.

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘They have not donated this labour – they expect to be paid! Prior Joliet was telling me only yesterday how he plans to spend what they earn. They give more alms than all the other convents combined, and if we default, it will be the poor who suffer.’

‘We will not default,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘We will pay the Austins the moment the benefactions start flowing in.’

‘Which they will,’ avowed William. ‘Thanks to the mural.’

Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How will the mural help?’

‘In two ways,’ replied Langelee. ‘By showing prospective patrons that our finances are healthy enough to afford such a luxury; and by demonstrating that we are men of great piety – it depicts St Thomas Aquinas, you see. The rich will certainly want prayers from our priests when they see that fresco.’

‘But what if this scheme fails?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

‘It will not fail,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘It cannot.’

‘I am looking forward to the disceptatio this year,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could argue. ‘It is a great honour for Michaelhouse to be one of the two foundations chosen to take part.’ He shot the physician a grin. ‘As you and Wauter are on the committee that selects the topic, you can tell our lads what it is in advance. Then they can prepare, so will defeat Zachary with ease.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘How many more times must I say it? The subject will be announced on the day. No one will prepare, which is the point – to test the participants’ mental agility when dealing with an entirely new thesis.’

‘But Principal Irby has already told his scholars,’ said William crossly, ‘which means that Zachary will emerge victorious, while our boys end up looking like fools.’

‘No, he has not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He cannot – we have not chosen the question yet.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, frowning. ‘But the disceptatio is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Are you not leaving it a little late?’

‘A little,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot agree on a topic. But we are meeting again this morning, and I hope it will be decided then.’

‘Do not fret,’ said Langelee to William, who was red-faced and indignant. ‘If Bartholomew will not tell us, we shall have it out of Wauter. He will not be hobbled by foolish principles.’

He turned to where Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, John Wauter, was reading in the window. Wauter was an Austin and a geometrician, and it had been his idea to hire priests from his own Order to help teach Michaelhouse’s overly abundant theologians. He had cropped black hair and a ready smile. He became aware that he was the subject of discussion and looked up.

‘I was just telling William that you will not let us down,’ said Langelee. ‘You will tell our students what they will be discussing at the disceptatio, so they can practise.’

Wauter blinked his surprise. ‘You mean cheat? Really, Master!’

Langelee regarded him frostily. ‘You were a member of Zachary Hostel before accepting a Fellowship here. I hope you know where your loyalties lie.’

It was a nasty remark and Wauter would have been within his rights to object to the slur on his integrity, but he merely closed his book and stood up.

‘With Michaelhouse – a College that will win honourably or not at all.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘The committee is due to convene soon. Shall we walk there together?’

‘Walk where, exactly?’ asked William casually.

‘To a place where you cannot eavesdrop,’ replied Bartholomew curtly.

Hallow-tide was popular in the town as well as in Michaelhouse. It meant time away from work, so folk could visit friends and neighbours, where soul-cakes – sweet spiced biscuits with a cross cut into the top – would be given in exchange for prayers for the dead, and there would be both laughter and sadness as lost loved ones were remembered. That evening, bonfires would be lit on street corners, and there would be a torchlit procession led by the parish priests.

‘Half the town is drunk already,’ muttered Wauter disapprovingly, as Bartholomew pulled him out of the path of an erratically steered handcart bearing a barrel of ale.

‘My remedies for sore heads will be in demand tomorrow,’ agreed the physician.

‘Good! The College needs every penny it can get. How much will you charge?’

Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘Nothing, because most of those who summon me will be unable to pay. Any spare funds they did have will have been spent on Hallow-tide treats, and who can blame them? This is the last fun they will have until Christmas.’

Wauter opened the door to St Mary the Great, where the meeting was to be held. The other committee members were already there, standing in a huddle in the centre of the nave, a place chosen specifically to thwart spies – the disceptatio always brought out the worst in its participants. Bartholomew and Wauter exchanged a wry glance when they spotted a Zachary Hostel lad lurking behind a pillar.

‘Can he read lips?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, quite possibly.’ Wauter raised his voice. ‘Do not think you are hidden there, Yerland, because I can see you. Now go home before I tell the Senior Proctor that Zachary is resorting to unscrupulous tactics.’

‘And that goes for you, too, Melton,’ called Bartholomew, aware that one of his medical students had been trailing him ever since he had left the College.

Scowling, both youths slouched away, fortunately towards different doors. Although the disceptatio had originally been established to pit two randomly selected foundations in an innocent and enjoyable battle of wits, it was being taken more seriously that year, because one contestant was a College and the other was a hostel. Colleges were larger, richer and more secure – by virtue of their endowments, a perpetual source of money that hostels did not have – while hostels tended to be smaller and much less stable. Rivalry between the two had always been intense.

However, in a curious inversion of the usual state of affairs, Michaelhouse was on the brink of fiscal ruin – although only its Fellows knew the true extent of its problems – while Zachary was noted for its affluence. Zachary liked to gloat about its wealth, which Michaelhouse resented, so spats nearly always followed when their students met.

The debate committee, or consilium, comprised five members: two from Michaelhouse, two from Zachary and a chairman. Zachary was represented by Principal Irby and Nigellus de Thornton, while the chairman was Prior Joliet of the Austins.

Irby was a dreamy grammarian who was far too gentle to rule a hostel, particularly one with a reputation for feistiness like Zachary. He was famous for always wearing a cloak – in his hostel’s colours of grey and cream – no matter what the weather, and never went out without a wineskin clipped to his waist, which he claimed was necessary for good health. The remedy was not working as far as Bartholomew was concerned, because Irby never looked well, and he was sure the man was suffering from some chronic and debilitating illness.

By contrast, Nigellus was squat, fierce-faced and aggressive. He was sensitive about the fact that his late entry into the University had brought him the title of Junior Physician, particularly as he was older than the other medici by a good twenty years. The Colleges, quick to sniff out a sore point, rarely missed the opportunity to jibe him about it.

‘We are all here at last,’ said Prior Joliet, who had a round little head perched atop a round little body. He had a reputation for piety, sincerity and generosity, and he and his flock had gone hungry the previous winter so that beggars might eat. He was also a talented artist, and it was he who was painting Michaelhouse’s mural. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Yes – and may I reiterate that we must make our decision today,’ said Nigellus, all brisk business. ‘I am tired of discussing it, to be frank. It is time we made up our minds.’

‘I say we gauge the mood of the audience on the day,’ countered Wauter. ‘We can determine then whether to pick a topic that will make them laugh, one that will provoke intelligent reflection, or one so tedious that it will quell any desire to engage in fisticuffs.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Irby, nodding approvingly. ‘We all want the occasion to pass off peacefully, and emotions do seem to be running unusually high this year.’

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘We should decide now, and I recommend nemo dat quod non habet – “what you do not own you cannot give”. It is high time we had a legal debate.’

‘You have been fighting for nemo dat ever since this committee was formed,’ said Wauter suspiciously. ‘Would there be a reason for that – such as that Zachary has been practising it?’

‘How dare you question my honour!’ cried Nigellus furiously. ‘It is not–’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ interrupted Joliet sharply. He waited until Nigellus spluttered into angry silence and then continued. ‘Even if we do make our final decision on the day, we should still have a shortlist of questions ready. We have not agreed on a single one so far.’

‘Then put nemo dat on it,’ ordered Nigellus stiffly. ‘It will be the one chosen, because it is the most suitable, and any fool should see it.’

With a pained smile, Joliet began to write, and while he did so, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study Nigellus. He had been delighted when he had first heard that another medicus was to enrol in the University – there had been a desperate shortage of them after the plague – but it had not taken him long to learn that Nigellus epitomised the very worst of the medical profession. The Junior Physician was brash, condescending, closed to new ideas and saw his patients purely in terms of their fees. His cosy practice at Barnwell had made him very rich, which was why he had been invited to join Zachary Hostel, a place where the size of a member’s purse was much more important than his academic credentials.

‘What else?’ asked Joliet, pen poised expectantly.

‘How about a medical question?’ suggested Irby. ‘I have always found the subject fascinating. Bartholomew, did you moot something to do with diet the last time we met?’

Bartholomew nodded, and was about to elaborate when Nigellus cut rudely across him. ‘I have never been convinced by all that rubbish. A man should eat what he feels like, on the grounds that the body knows best. The notion of good and bad foods is a nonsense.’

Bartholomew could not help himself. ‘So you think that a man who eats nothing but red meat or marchpanes will be healthy? Surely it is obvious that a balanced diet is extremely important.’

‘An excellent thesis,’ said Joliet, writing it down before Nigellus could object. ‘The students will have a lot of fun with that. Any more suggestions?’

There were, but none of them were suitable, and when he felt the discussion was starting to go around in circles, Joliet called the meeting to a close.

‘I recommend we go away and think very carefully,’ he said, folding the parchment and slipping it in his scrip. ‘Our shortlist needs to be longer than two.’

‘Yet more wasted time,’ grumbled Nigellus. ‘I would not have agreed to serve on this stupid committee if I had known how much indecision there would be. May I go now, Father Prior? I have patients waiting – paying patients.’

He gave a superior smile before turning to strut towards the door, his remarks designed to remind Bartholomew that he did not demean himself by tending paupers like his Michaelhouse colleague, and that all his clients were from the very highest echelons of society. Bartholomew watched him go, eyes narrowing when the ousted Zachary student and several cronies hurried to cluster around the Junior Physician the moment he stepped outside.

‘They just want to know when his next lecture will be,’ explained Irby quickly, seeing what Bartholomew was thinking. ‘I assure you, they are not asking the outcome of this meeting.’

‘Of course not,’ said Wauter, uncharacteristically acerbic. ‘After all, being mobbed by pupils clamouring to know our teaching plans is an occupational hazard, is it not? However, regardless of Nigellus’s popularity in the classroom, I should not like to be physicked by him. It is said that a lot of his Barnwell patients died before he took up his appointment here.’

‘Lies,’ said Irby firmly. ‘Put about by bitter people who cannot afford his horoscopes. He is very good at them, and no one who follows his advice ever becomes unwell. He is of the admirable opinion that it is better to prevent sickness than to cure it once it has arrived.’

‘Perhaps I shall commission one, then,’ said Joliet. ‘I dislike being ill. It is time-consuming, unpleasant and a nuisance. How expensive are his predictions?’

‘Very,’ replied Irby. ‘Although I shall have to invest in another soon, because my last one has expired and I have been feeling shabby of late. Will anyone join me for a drink at home? My brewer makes a lovely apple wine, and I broached a new cask last night.’

It was too early for wine, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, so he left Wauter and Joliet to accept the invitation while he set off for Michaelhouse, intending to put the rest of his free day to good use by preparing lectures for the following week.

He had not taken many steps before he heard his name called, and turned to see Michael waddling towards him. The monk had an office in St Mary the Great – besides being a member of Michaelhouse, he was also Senior Proctor, a post he had manipulated to the point where he ran the entire University. The Chancellor, who should have been in charge, was a mere figurehead, there to take the blame if things went wrong. Bartholomew had once asked the monk why he did not apply his skills to improving Michaelhouse’s precarious finances, and had received a rueful reply: Michael knew how to control people; he did not know how to generate vast sums of money.

‘I am on the run from Thelnetham,’ Michael explained, falling into step at Bartholomew’s side. ‘He wants me to persuade Langelee to take him back.’

He referred to William Thelnetham, a Gilbertine canon who had resigned his Michaelhouse Fellowship to take advantage of a better opportunity. Unfortunately, the new offer had fallen through, leaving Thelnetham in limbo. He was desperate to be reinstated.

‘It was his decision to go,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And he went eagerly, after calling us thieves, fools and lunatics. His spiteful tongue caused a lot of unhappiness, and the College is better off without him. Besides, Wauter has his post now and we cannot afford to fund another.’

‘I agree and so does Langelee, but that does not stop Thelnetham from pestering me at every turn. And it is not as if I have nothing else to worry about either. Hallow-tide, for example.’

‘Are you expecting trouble?’ Bartholomew stifled a yawn. He had been summoned by a patient in the small hours, and he was tired. Unfortunately, he would not be catching up on sleep that night because of the feast: even if he managed to escape early, there would be far too much noise for peaceful repose.

Michael shot him a sour glance. ‘How can you even ask such a question? The town is furious with the University over the business with King’s Hall, and there will certainly be skirmishes later, when too much wine and ale have been swallowed by both sides.’

‘What business with King’s Hall?’

Scholars and townsmen were always at loggerheads, and Bartholomew found it difficult to keep track of all their disagreements, especially during term time, when he was struggling to balance classes containing an impractical number of students with the demands of an enormous medical practice.

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘Have you listened to nothing I have told you this week? It is the latest crisis to assail our poor studium generale.’

Bartholomew racked his brain for answers. ‘Do you mean the case of trespass that King’s Hall has brought against some drunken brewer?’

‘That “drunken brewer” did a lot of damage. He let the pigs out, chased the geese, and terrified John Cew out of his wits by leaping out at him from behind a buttress. Indeed, Cew has still not recovered, and his colleagues want you to visit later, to see what can be done.’

Bartholomew nodded, but thought the antics of one silly townsman should not have been given so much attention. In his opinion, John Wayt, who was in charge of King’s Hall while its regular Warden hobnobbed with royalty in Winchester, should have ignored the matter in the interests of good relations.

‘Cambridge has never wanted us here,’ Michael went on bitterly. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether our ancestors should have chosen another town. Peterborough, for example. I liked what I saw when we were there last summer.’

‘It is a pretty place,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But I imagine its people would have objected just as vigorously to a lot of noisy and opinionated academics descending on them.’

‘I suppose so.’ Michael frowned worriedly. ‘I have had to order all my beadles to work tonight, because there is a rumour that Frenge – the marauding brewer – plans a repeat performance, and there are plenty of hotheads in the town who are eager to join him.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. Of all the Colleges, King’s Hall was best able to protect itself, not only because it boasted sturdy walls and a powerful gatehouse, but also because many of its scholars were the sons of noblemen, well-versed in the art of combat. Frenge and his supporters were likely to get themselves killed if they staged an invasion.

‘A massacre will do nothing to calm troubled waters,’ he said worriedly. ‘Let us hope your beadles can talk some sense into them.’

They reached Michaelhouse to hear a lot of noisy activity emanating from the kitchens. Agatha – technically the laundress but in reality head of the domestic staff – was in the midst of the maelstrom, screeching orders as she oversaw preparations for the festivities to come. Bartholomew smiled at the cacophony, and surveyed the College that was his home.

Its core was a fine hall with an oriel window, where the scholars took their lessons and meals. Adjacent to it was the conclave, while beneath were the kitchens and a range of pantries, butteries and storerooms. At right angles to them were the two accommodation wings, the older, smaller north wing more dilapidated than the newer southern one. A wall completed the square, against which had been built stables and a porters’ lodge. There were more outbuildings behind the hall, as well as a long garden that ran down to the river.

The Hallow-tide celebrations were to begin with a special Mass in church, and most scholars had already donned their finery, ready to go. Those in holy orders were bedecked in their best habits, while the seculars wore their College uniform of black, but with ceremonial fur trimmings to mark the special occasion. Langelee saw Bartholomew and Michael, and came to talk to them, William trailing at his heels.

‘Have you heard the rumours?’ the Master asked. ‘That Frenge the brewer will lead another assault on King’s Hall tonight?’

Michael nodded. ‘My beadles will stop him.’

‘They had better,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not like the mood that bubbles here at the moment, and another raid by Frenge will certainly ignite a spat.’

They all jumped when there was a sudden roar of delight from the High Street. Then smoke wafted into the sky above the rooftops, a few wisps at first, followed by bigger billows.

‘Will Lenne must have lit the bonfire that he and his apprentices built at the back of our church,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘I asked him to move it to a safe distance, but he refused, on the grounds that that particular plot is common land. I hope it does not do us any damage. We cannot afford repairs – at least, not until we have secured some wealthy benefactors.’

‘We should have dismantled it, as I suggested,’ growled William. ‘Because the town will not pay if anything goes wrong. And if you want an example, look at how Frenge is refusing to make good on the destruction he wreaked on King’s Hall.’

‘If we had destroyed Lenne’s handiwork, he would just have rebuilt it, and then there definitely would have been harm to our church,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been very crafty: the fire is as close to St Michael’s as it can be, without one twig over the boundary and–’

He broke off when there was an urgent hammering on the gate. Walter the surly porter emerged grumbling from his lodge with his pet peacock under his arm, a bird that possessed a temper every bit as irascible as his own. He listened to the message that was delivered, then hurried towards the little knot of Fellows.

‘Trouble,’ he reported grimly. ‘Frenge has been murdered in the Austin Priory, and the town is saying that King’s Hall did it.’

Besides being a physician and teacher of medicine, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his responsibility to declare an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for anyone who breathed his last on its property. He was paid threepence for every body he inspected, money he used to buy medicines for his poorest patients. As it had been a busy few weeks and his funds were low, he was grateful for the opportunity to replenish them, and fell into step at Michael’s side with something approaching enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, the post did nothing for his reputation among the wealthy, who disliked the notion of being treated by a man whose last client might have been a cadaver. The poor were not too happy about it either, but as no other physician was willing to treat them free of charge, they tended to keep their reservations to themselves.

Rumours about Frenge’s demise were already circulating, and the atmosphere was darker and more menacing than it had been earlier. Scholars no longer walked singly or in pairs, but formed larger groups for protection, while the town’s malcontents gathered in sullen gangs that loitered in doorways or under trees. Then Michael saw that a group of academics had cornered two bakers’ apprentices in St Michael’s churchyard, their antics partially concealed by the wafts of dense smoke that billowed from the bonfire at the back.

‘Stop,’ he commanded. The students turned in surprise. They were from Zachary, and their leader was Yerland, the lad who had tried to eavesdrop on the consilium. The bakers’ boys took the opportunity to flee.

‘We were only warning them to be mindful of the flames, Brother,’ said Yerland, all wounded innocence. ‘That fire might be on common land, but its sparks are flying towards University property. Look at them!’

He was right, and Bartholomew noted with alarm that bright cinders were not only dancing over the top of St Michael’s roof, but were flying towards Gonville Hall and Michaelhouse, too. Several townsmen, careful to stay on their own side of the invisible line that marked the boundary, made challenging gestures that turned into jeers when the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner declined to respond. Zachary’s lads bristled, though.

‘Ignore them,’ ordered Michael sternly. ‘Brawlers will be fined – as will anyone not wearing his prescribed uniform.’

The students had flouted the University’s ban on ostentatious displays of wealth, and had augmented their grey and cream livery with fashionably pointed shoes, feathered hats, a plethora of jewellery and multicoloured leggings.

‘It is Hallow-tide,’ explained Yerland petulently. ‘The townsmen are wearing their best clothes, so why should we not do the same?’

‘Because they are not scholars,’ retorted Michael. ‘Now go home, before your rule-breaking costs you a penny apiece.’

The lads slouched away, although not without muttering that it was a Michaelhouse ploy to unsettle their opponents before the disceptatio. Michael treated the remarks with the contempt they deserved by pretending he had not heard.

‘Perhaps I was wrong to coax Wauter from their fold to ours,’ he sighed. ‘Irby is too gentle to be effective, and struggles to keep order without Wauter’s support.’

‘You poached Wauter?’ Bartholomew was shocked: there was an unwritten law in the University that foundations did not steal each other’s members.

The monk shrugged. ‘We needed to fill the vacancy left by Thelnetham, and I adjudged him to be the best candidate. It was a good decision: he is a fine teacher, an excellent geometrician and his company is a pleasure. Besides, he was glad to escape – Zachary had offered Nigellus a place by then, and Wauter does not like him.’

Bartholomew hoped such underhand tactics would not cause trouble at the disceptatio. He changed the subject as they walked away, tuning out the taunts from the folk around the bonfire.

‘If someone from King’s Hall did murder Frenge, why did it happen in the Austin Friary?’

‘King’s Hall did not kill him,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘At least, I hope not, because it will create a rift that will not be easily mended. So bear that in mind when you make your report, please, Matt: accident or suicide, but definitely not murder. Is that clear?’

Bartholomew winced. He was not a good liar, and hoped such a deception would not be necessary. He walked faster, wanting the matter resolved as quickly as possible. Moreover, he disliked the uneasy mood in the streets. He was more popular than most members of the University, partly for his care of paupers, but also because he had kin in the town – a sister, who had recently assumed control of her late husband’s cloth business. But there was no point in courting trouble, and the wisest course of action was to go home as soon as possible and stay there.

They arrived at the Austin convent, which was shielded from the outside world by high walls and two gates: the main entrance on St Bene’t’s Street, and a smaller one at the back, although this opened on to the canal known as the King’s Ditch and could only be reached by boat. They knocked at the front gate, and were admitted by a burly friar named Hamo de Hythe, one of the two Austins who often accompanied Prior Joliet to Michaelhouse.

Like Joliet, Hamo was also a talented artist, although it seemed impossible that such huge fists could produce such beautifully delicate images. He rarely spoke in more than monosyllables, and was a great mountain of a man who could have done with a much larger habit.

Inside, the Austins’ domain was much like any other Cambridge convent. Its chapel formed the heart of the community, and huddled around it were dormitory, refectory, kitchen, stable, storehouses and sheds. Most were timber-built with thatched roofs, although the chapel was of stone, an intimate, pretty place pierced by lancet windows and famed for its fabulous murals. The sound of chanting emanated from within.

Hamo led the way inside, and the clanking of the door made two of the kneeling brethren break off their prayers to greet the visitors. One was Prior Joliet, and the other was his almoner Robert, a tall, rangy man with a shock of long white hair and the eccentric bearing of the dedicated academic. Robert was the other friar Joliet took to Michaelhouse, although to teach rather than paint. He was responsible for distributing alms, which he did with a quiet, kindly compassion that did much to make the Austins the most popular Order in the town.

‘We were praying for Frenge’s soul,’ Joliet explained. His round face was pale, and his hands shook as he plucked agitatedly at a loose thread on his sleeve. ‘It seemed the right thing to do, although we have no experience of violence committed on holy ground.’

‘The Dominicans, Franciscans and Carmelites are used to it,’ elaborated Robert. ‘But we have always managed to remain aloof from the spats between University and town.’

‘“Aloof” is the wrong word,’ said Joliet unhappily. ‘Apart might be better.’

‘What happened?’ asked Michael, unwilling to waste time on semantics.

Joliet rubbed his eyes with unsteady fingers. ‘The town feels oddly dangerous today, so just before sext, Hamo went to check that our back gate was shut and found …’ He trailed off.

‘Frenge,’ finished Hamo helpfully.

Robert hastened to supply a bit more detail. ‘The gate was open and Frenge was lying there, dead. The town is saying that he was murdered by King’s Hall, because of his vow that he would never pay for the damage he did there.’

Joliet looked as though he might be sick. ‘When we heard Hamo shout, we raced to see what was the matter. We did our best to revive Frenge, but he was well past any help we could give.’

‘When terrible things like this happen, it makes me wonder whether our predecessors might have been wiser to found our University out in the Fens,’ said Robert. He fingered the cross he wore around his neck; it had been carved of wood so dark that it appeared black.

‘It would certainly have made for a more peaceful life,’ agreed Michael.

Joliet led the way out of the chapel to the greasy grey snake of the King’s Ditch, an ancient waterway that had been built to defend the town from attacks from the east. It was as wide as the river but its flow was sluggish, which meant that anything tossed in it tended to stay. As a result, it comprised a reeking, sulphurous sludge of sewage, entrails from the slaughterhouses and miscellaneous rubbish.

As they approached, they saw they were not the first to arrive. Sheriff Tulyet was already there. Tulyet was slightly built with a boyish face, and more than one criminal had lived to regret making the assumption that youthful looks equalled weakness. He and Michael had worked hard to develop an efficient working relationship, one unblighted by the usual jurisdictional spats.

Puzzled, Bartholomew wondered why Joliet had not stayed with him – it was rude to leave a high-ranking official on his own – but the answer soon became clear: Tulyet had brought his son. Dickon was only ten years old, but was already taller than his father, and was a mean-spirited bully. Because he bore no resemblance to either of his parents, in looks or temperament, there was a rumour that he had been sired by the Devil. By rights, he should have been sent to another wealthy household to begin knightly training, but his reputation had gone before him and Tulyet had been unable to find one that would take him.

‘This is bad news,’ said Tulyet without preamble. ‘Even if Frenge’s death is natural, the town will assume the worst. Dickon! Do not prod the body with your sword. It is disrespectful.’

‘I hope people do not think that we had anything to do with the poor man’s demise,’ said Joliet unhappily, as Bartholomew, one wary eye on Dickon’s blade, knelt next to Frenge and began his examination.

‘They will certainly suspect a scholar,’ replied Tulyet. ‘If not an Austin, then someone from King’s Hall.’

‘They will deny it,’ said Michael.

‘They will,’ agreed Robert. ‘I have already heard several holler that Frenge broke in to make good on his threat to damage more University property, and was struck down for his temerity.’

‘The town will not appreciate that being said about one of its favourite brewers,’ said Tulyet. He scowled when Bartholomew jerked backwards suddenly. ‘Dickon! Step away from the corpse and let Matt work in peace. And sheathe your sword this instant!’

Bartholomew waited until Dickon had complied before resuming his inspection, much happier once there was no longer a sharp weapon waving about so close to his head.

‘So why was Frenge here?’ asked Michael of the Austins. ‘Was he visiting or was he intent on mischief?’

‘Mischief,’ replied Hamo tersely.

‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘As you know, there are only two ways into our grounds: the main gate and this one. Frenge did not come to the front, which means he must have crossed the ditch in a boat – slyly and secretly.’

‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Joliet tearfully. ‘We brew our own ale, so we are not among his customers. None of us know him other than by sight – and only then because his spat with King’s Hall earned him a certain notoriety.’

‘What about your servants?’ asked Tulyet.

‘We do not have any,’ replied Robert, slightly smug. ‘We prefer to channel our resources into alms, rather than catering to our own comforts.’

‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew stood. ‘What can you tell us?’

‘Frenge has not been dead long,’ replied the physician. ‘The damp mud on his boots indicates that he was walking around in them not long since, and there is a residual warmth in his body, despite the coolness of the day.’

‘More importantly, how did he die?’ asked Tulyet.

‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There are burns on his mouth and hands, and considerable damage to his throat. I have never seen a clearer case of murder.’

‘Damn it, Matt!’ muttered Michael. ‘I thought I told you to declare it accident or suicide.’

The reeking King’s Ditch was no place for a serious discussion, so once Frenge had been loaded on to a stretcher and taken to the nearest town church, Joliet invited everyone to his house, which transpired to be a modest cottage with spartan furnishings. It was spotlessly clean, though, and the only extravagance was a small collection of theological tomes.

‘I agree with Michael,’ said Tulyet, once they were settled with cups of watery ale. The convent did not run to cakes, so pieces of bread dusted with herbs were provided instead. Dickon took one bite, pulled a face and lobbed the rest out of the window, much to his father’s chagrin. ‘We cannot let this be murder: Frenge must have taken this toxin by mistake.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Finger-shaped bruises on his jaws suggest that he was forced to drink it. And even if I am wrong, and he did swallow it willingly, why would he kill himself here? It is not on the beaten track, so I sincerely doubt he just happened to be passing when he was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to commit suicide.’

‘He would not have killed himself here,’ stated Joliet firmly. ‘We have done nothing to earn his ire. If he had wanted to make that sort of point, he would have gone to King’s Hall.’

‘But security has been increased at King’s Hall,’ countered Michael. ‘He may have tried to break in, but failed, so came here instead.’

‘But why?’ pressed Joliet. ‘Why not another College? Or better yet, a hostel – few of them have walls or fortified gates.’

‘Perhaps he did break into King’s Hall,’ suggested Tulyet soberly, ‘but was caught. Then, keen to avoid trouble, the scholars brought his murdered corpse here.’

‘They are not stupid,’ said Michael bitingly. ‘They would have dumped him in the town, not in another part of the University.’

‘Assemble our brethren, Hamo,’ ordered Prior Joliet tiredly. ‘Perhaps one of them knows something that will allow us to solve this mystery. I am afraid I have nothing to report – as I said, I knew Frenge by sight and reputation, but I never met him.’

‘Nor had I,’ said Robert, watching Hamo shuffle from the room. ‘He never came here for alms. Well, why would he? Brewers are not poor.’

Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘Tell us about the poison. If we can identify it, perhaps it will lead us to the culprit.’

‘It will not,’ predicted the physician. ‘It was the kind of caustic substance that can be found in many homes and businesses – used for cleaning, scouring, killing fleas and dissolving residues. Some everyday solutions are extremely toxic.’

‘So it might have been something Frenge owned himself?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘All brewers like to sample their wares, so perhaps he gulped down a jug of this stuff before he knew what he was doing, and staggered here in search of help.’

‘Staggered across the town, into a boat and over the King’s Ditch?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That seems unlikely for a dying man.’

‘But we cannot allow a verdict of murder!’ said Tulyet irritably. ‘The town will blame scholars, regardless of who is the culprit, because of the bad blood between Frenge and King’s Hall. And then we shall have another of our interminable spats.’

‘So what do you suggest, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘That we lie?’

‘I have heard worse ideas. And in the interests of keeping the peace …’

Michael considered for a moment but then regretfully shook his head. ‘We would never succeed in keeping it quiet, not when a whole convent knows what really happened.’

‘My friars can be trusted,’ objected Joliet, offended.

‘Even so, the truth will out,’ said Michael. ‘It always does. The best we can do is stress that the Sheriff and Senior Proctor will leave no stone unturned in their pursuit of the truth.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet reluctantly. ‘Although the villain will not be a townsman. This crime has University written all over it.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘I beg to differ, but we shall see. Ah! Here is Hamo with the other Austins. Let us hope they know something useful, because the best way to avert trouble will be to arrest the culprit as quickly as possible.’

Unfortunately, none of the twenty or so friars could help. No one had been near the back gate that day, because they had either been beautifying the chapel for Hallow-tide, or helping to cook the huge vat of soup they planned to distribute to beggars as a special treat.

‘I am sorry,’ said Joliet gloomily, after the last one had gone. ‘Obviously, if we knew such a terrible thing was in the offing, we would have been more observant.’

‘We had better lock the back gate from now on, Father Prior,’ said Robert worriedly. ‘We do not want this happening again.’

‘No,’ agreed Joliet fervently, and then sighed. ‘Perhaps you are right to wish that our University had been founded in the Fens, Robert. I dislike living in a place that does not want me.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the town will accept us eventually.’

‘Will it?’ asked Joliet bleakly. ‘We have been here for a century and a half, and it shows no sign of welcoming us yet. I am beginning to think it never will.’

‘Look!’ cried Dickon with sudden glee, pointing a plump and grubby finger at the sky. ‘Sparks and flames! All coming from St Michael’s Church. It is on fire!’