A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 3

‘Lord, I feel sick,’ muttered Michael, as the Fellows took their places at the high table the following morning. Meals in College were meant to be taken in silence, so that everyone could listen to the Bible Scholar chanting the scriptures, but it was a rule they rarely followed, and the hapless reader invariably struggled to make himself heard over the buzz of conversation. ‘I think I ate something that was past its best last night.’

The Benedictine was not the only one to be fragile. The feast had been glorious, reminiscent of the splendid affairs they had enjoyed a decade earlier, when the College had been flush with funds. There had been mountains of meat and fish, wine in abundance, bread made with white flour rather than the usual barley-and-sawdust combination, and enough cakes to feed an army. Bartholomew had stayed sober, lest he was called out on a medical emergency, but no one else had demonstrated such restraint, and now there were sore heads aplenty.

Langelee was pale, and kept both hands pressed to his temples as he mumbled a grace that comprised a string of half-remembered Latin quotations, including part of a recipe for horse-liniment. No one but Bartholomew seemed to notice. Wauter had dark circles under his eyes and winced when Langelee raised his voice for a final amen, while William’s habit was not only splattered with a quantity of grease and custard that was remarkable even for that foul garment, but it was rumpled, suggesting he had slept in it.

The remaining Fellows were Suttone and Clippesby, both swaying in a way that suggested they might still be drunk. Clippesby was a Dominican who talked to animals and claimed they spoke back, so was generally deemed to be insane. He had no beasts about his person that day, however, and when the College cat rubbed around his ankles, it was ignored. Suttone was a portly Carmelite famous for his conviction that the plague was poised to return at any moment.

The students were also unusually subdued, and as breakfast comprised a bizarre and unsuitable combination of leftovers, it seemed that the servants had also availed themselves of the opportunity to enjoy the festivities the previous night.

‘Is it my imagination, or do our pupils get younger every year?’ asked Langelee, as food worked its magic on roiling stomachs and the students began to chat amongst themselves, throwing off their malaise with the enviable resilience of youth.

‘They must lie about their age,’ said Michael sourly. ‘That puny boy in Matt’s class – Bell, is it? He cannot be more than nine.’

‘Eighteen,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They seem younger because you are growing old.’

‘That is a wicked thing to say!’ cried Michael. ‘I am in my prime. However, there are a few grey hairs on your head that were not present a decade ago.’

‘Those came because he let women make him unhappy,’ stated William, referring to Matilde, who had left Cambridge because Bartholomew had been too slow to ask her to marry him; and Julitta, who had transpired to be a rather different lady from the one they all thought they knew. ‘Painful affairs of the heart always age a man, which is why he should give up his various amours and become a Franciscan. Like me.’

‘Or better yet, find a few more,’ said Langelee. Relations with women were forbidden by the University, but many scholars – he and Bartholomew among them – opted to ignore this particular stricture. ‘What about that widow you were seeing earlier this year? Is she still available?’

Bartholomew was aware that the students were listening, no doubt delighted to learn that the Fellows strayed from the straight and narrow – and his colleagues’ remarks, taken out of context, made him sound like an incurable philanderer. Moreover, he did not want to be reminded of the confusion and hurt he had suffered that summer. He changed the subject with an abruptness that made everyone automatically conclude that he had intriguing secrets to hide.

‘The mural is looking nice,’ he declared. ‘The Austins are talented artists.’

‘They are,’ agreed Wauter, prodding suspiciously at the plate of marchpanes and cabbage that had been set in front of him. ‘It is why I suggested we hire them. You should see their chapel – it is a delight.’

They were silent for a while, studying the painting. It ran the full length of one wall, and was nearing completion. There had been some debate as to what it should depict, but in the end they had settled for Aristotle, Galen, Aquinas and Plato teaching rows of enrapt scholars. The faces of many College members were among them: Bartholomew sitting near Plato but straining to hear Galen; Clippesby with the College cat; Wauter raising a finger as he prepared to tackle Aristotle; and William scowling at Aquinas’s Dominican habit – he hated his rival Order with a passion that verged on the fanatical.

‘I do hope our plan works,’ said Suttone worriedly, lowering his voice so that the students would not hear. ‘We have spent such a lot of money on it, and if we fail to win benefactors …’

‘I know it is a risk,’ whispered Langelee. ‘But we have no choice. We will not survive another year if we do not replenish our endowment, and drastic situations call for drastic solutions.’

‘Then we must remain aloof from this burgeoning spat between town and University,’ said Wauter. ‘No secular will give us money if we support King’s Hall against Frenge.’

‘Hopefully, we will not have to be diplomatic for long,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall put on such a grand display at the disceptatio tomorrow that donors will race to be associated with us.’

‘They will race even faster if we win,’ said William, treating Bartholomew and Wauter to a pointed look. ‘Which may not happen unless our representatives on the consilium agree to be reasonable and tell us which question they have chosen.’

‘We cannot,’ said Wauter shortly. ‘We have not yet made our final decision.’

‘Then you had better hurry up,’ said the Franciscan disagreeably. ‘Or do you expect us to stand around in St Mary the Great tomorrow, waiting while you debate the matter?’

‘Perhaps we should listen to them instead of the students,’ sniggered Suttone. ‘It will almost certainly be more entertaining.’

‘Regardless of what happens in the debate,’ said Michael, tactfully changing the subject, ‘when they see the lavish style in which we honour the memory of our founder, every wealthy family in the town will want us to do the same for them.’

‘But if not, there is always Wauter’s Martilogium,’ said Suttone. ‘He confided last night that all the monies from its publication will come to Michaelhouse.’

‘You mean that list of martyrs that you have been compiling for the last twenty years?’ asked Langelee eagerly. ‘That is generous, man!’

Wauter shot Suttone a weary glance. ‘Yes, I confided my intentions to you. That means you were meant to keep them secret until I was ready to make a general announcement.’

‘Oh,’ mumbled Suttone guiltily. Then his expression became pained. ‘Lord! I remember why you told me now! To cheer me up after what Stephen the lawyer said – that he plans to leave his collection of tomes on architecture to Gonville Hall instead of us.’

‘Does he?’ cried Langelee, dismayed. ‘I thought I had persuaded him that they would be more appreciated here.’

‘You did,’ said Suttone. ‘But he changed his mind. Personally, I suspect it was Zachary’s doing – to disconcert us before the disceptatio.’

‘It will have been Kellawe,’ said William viciously. ‘I cannot abide him – he is a fanatic.’

‘But he is a Franciscan,’ Suttone pointed out, while the others supposed that the Zachary man must be zealous indeed to have drawn such condemnation from William, who was no moderate himself. ‘A member of your own Order.’

‘He should never have been allowed to join,’ declared William hotly. ‘He should have gone to the Dominicans instead. They are the ones who love heretics.’

There followed a lengthy diatribe, during which William listed all Kellawe’s failings. His colleagues were wryly amused to note that every one of them was echoed in himself – arrogance, inflexibility, dogmatism and stupidity.

‘What will the Saturday Sermon be about today, Suttone?’ asked Langelee, eventually tiring of the tirade and so changing the subject. ‘It is your turn to preach.’

Suttone’s regarded him in horror. ‘Is it? Lord, I forgot, and I have nothing prepared! Perhaps we all can listen to the mock disputation that Matthew has organised instead. I know it will be about medicine, but that cannot be helped.’

‘Very well,’ said Langelee. ‘What is the subject, Bartholomew? And do not worry about what Nigellus and Rougham will think when informed that their audience will be ten times the size of the one they are expecting – they will be delighted, as both love being the centre of attention.’

Bartholomew hoped he was right. ‘Whether scrofulous sores in the throat can–’

‘Oh, no,’ gulped Langelee with a shudder. ‘I do not want to listen to that sort of thing today, thank you very much. We shall change it to something less grisly.’

‘What about one of Aristotle’s medical questions?’ suggested Suttone. ‘Such as my personal favourite: why do women have softer bodies than men?’

‘I hardly think our theologians will want to hear the answer to that, Father,’ said Wauter primly. ‘Moreover, our seculars will become inflamed with lust, and we shall have trouble.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘Medical debates necessarily involve mention of human parts, and I am sure we can trust Rougham and Nigellus to be genteel. Besides, our clerics can always stuff their fingers in their ears if anything too shocking is aired.’

He rubbed his hands together gleefully, although Bartholomew thought that if he was expecting anything enjoyably lewd from those particular medici, then he was going to be sorely disappointed.

When the meal was over, the servants began to remove dirty dishes and fold away tables, turning the hall from refectory to auditorium. Bartholomew went to wait by the gate, aiming to warn Rougham and Nigellus about the revised itinerary, so they could escape if they wanted. The rest of Michaelhouse might not care about offending their sensibilities, but Bartholomew was obliged to work with them, and did not want them irked.

‘I have not attended a good debate in ages,’ came a cheerful voice. It was Rob Deynman, who had been a medical student himself before Langelee had ‘promoted’ him to the post of Librarian. He had been accepted to study because his father was rich, but the unfortunate truth was that he had no academic talent whatsoever and everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had agreed to care for books rather than people. ‘Now we shall have two in as many days.’

‘Do you plan to take part tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew, a little uneasily. Michaelhouse would be unlikely to impress potential donors if he did.

‘No, because Brother Michael says it would be beneath a Librarian’s dignity,’ replied Deynman. ‘So I shall just listen, and nod sagely in all the right places.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, supposing he would have to be placed where no one could see him.

‘I am sorry that Stephen is giving his architecture books to Gonville,’ Deynman went on, his amiable face creasing into a scowl. ‘He promised them to us, and I built special shelves to house them. I imagine Rougham did something sly to make him change his mind.’

‘I do not think–’ began Bartholomew, but Deynman was already stamping away, having thoroughly outraged himself with the notion.

‘Ah, Matt,’ said Wauter, emerging from his room. ‘I keep meaning to ask you about your sister’s dyeworks. Are you sure they are safe? My former colleagues at Zachary are extremely worried by the stench. As am I.’

Bartholomew was in a quandary. He did not want to betray Edith by voicing his concerns about the venture, but nor could he bring himself to issue false assurances.

‘I will try to monitor what they do,’ he hedged, although he was aware that Edith would not take kindly to such interference.

‘Good,’ said Wauter, smiling. ‘But here comes Rougham, so I shall make myself scarce. I cannot see him being very pleased to learn that his opinion on scrofulous sores is no longer required, but that Michaelhouse is instead eager to hear what he thinks about the softness of women’s bodies.’

Rougham was effectively Master of Gonville Hall, because the real one had gone to see the Pope in Avignon some years before and had not bothered to come back. He was a plump, smug man who hated anything that smacked of innovation, even if it worked. Bartholomew went to greet him, but Nigellus arrived before he could speak, glorious in a green gown and scarlet cloak that were certainly not part of Zachary’s sober uniform of grey and cream.

‘I am a few moments late because I was with a dying patient,’ Nigellus declared importantly. ‘I felt obliged to linger a while, lest he asked for another horoscope, but I think he is past caring about his stars now.’

‘A wealthy patient?’ queried Rougham, ready to be sympathetic to an inconvenient loss.

‘Naturally, or I would not have answered his summons.’

Bartholomew tried to mask his distaste by informing them of the change of plan. He was surprised when Rougham clapped his hands together in delight and Nigellus actually smiled.

‘Do not be sorry, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham, eyes gleaming. ‘It will be a lot more enjoyable than scrofulous sores, which I have never found particularly interesting anyway. I shall go first, naturally. After all, Nigellus is the Junior Physician, and so must take second place.’

Nigellus scowled. ‘Call me that once more and I shall savage you in this debate. And do not think I cannot do it – I know a great deal about women’s bodies, despite the fact that I have never had the opportunity to couple with one.’

Bartholomew blinked, astonished by the bald confidence, but Rougham, who had a long-standing arrangement with one of the town’s most popular prostitutes, smirked superiorly. ‘Then let the most experienced man win.’

‘So this is your home,’ said Nigellus, shoving past Bartholomew to stand in the yard and gaze around disdainfully. ‘It is much smaller than I expected, and you must be terribly crowded. Thank God I chose Zachary instead.’

Resisting the urge to point out that Nigellus had never been offered a place at Michaelhouse, Bartholomew led the way towards the hall. For the first time, he saw the College through the eyes of an outsider. Algae ran in streaks down the walls, while the steps were worn and narrow. The hall was pleasant, but too small for the number of students currently enrolled, and it suffered from having no glass in its windows. The rushes on the floor needed changing after what had been dropped or spilled in them the previous night, and someone had lobbed a dish of brawn at the founder’s coat-of-arms above the dais, where it had lodged.

He introduced the speakers, noting that the eyes of students and Fellows alike were bright with the prospect of vulgar entertainment, while the servants loitered behind the serving screen, pretending to work but clearly hoping to hear something rude.

‘No,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly, when Bartholomew announced his intention to preside. ‘Your non-medical members will not want three physicians holding forth, so we shall have someone else instead. Father William, perhaps. He accused my colleague Kellawe of being a narrow-minded fool, so let us see his intellect in action.’

William surged to his feet. ‘Very well. And then you can tell that stupid oaf how a real scholar performs in the debating chamber.’

Presented with a fait accompli, Bartholomew had no choice but to yield, although he did so with considerable reluctance, loath for members of rival foundations to witness the friar in action. The students were sniggering helplessly, while Langelee, Michael, Suttone and Wauter looked pained, and Clippesby, unable to witness what was about to transpire, simply stood and left.

It was the president’s duty to introduce the subject, and William launched into a detailed account of the differences between the sexes that had everyone gaping their amazement at the depth and breadth of his knowledge. It wiped the smirk from Nigellus’s face, and his own opening statement was repetitive and uninspired. Rougham was not much better, and it was only when the Franciscan stood to summarise their preliminary arguments that matters became lively again.

‘I never said that large women find it easier to grow moustaches,’ objected Nigellus in dismay. ‘You have misquoted me, and make me sound like an idiot.’

‘You have done that all by yourself,’ retorted William. ‘And you did say it – everyone heard you.’ He addressed his audience. ‘Am I right?’

There was a resounding chorus that he was, and Nigellus fell silent, folding his arms with a petulant pout. His sulk lasted until William paraphrased what Rougham was alleged to have said about big hips, at which point he released an involuntary snort of laughter.

‘I can stand it no longer,’ muttered Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and pulling him away. ‘And we should not be listening to this nonsense when there is a killer at large anyway.’

Bartholomew was sorry to go. No one would learn anything of medical use from the occasion, but it had certainly been entertaining, and he had been maliciously gratified to see the pompous Nigellus put in his place.

The two scholars had not taken many steps across the yard before they were hailed. Langelee had followed them out. The Master jerked his head towards the hall, from which angrily raised voices could be heard. They were loud enough that the servants were no longer obliged to lurk behind the serving screen to listen, and were going about their work outside, grinning as the combatants began to make some very outlandish claims.

‘We shall have to do this again,’ he said. ‘It is very amusing.’

‘My novices do not think so,’ said Michael prudishly. ‘They are mortified.’

Langelee laughed. ‘Nonsense! They are relishing every moment. But tell me about Frenge and the rumour that King’s Hall murdered him. Is it true?’

‘He was poisoned, certainly,’ replied Michael. ‘But we do not know by whom – yet. We are about to visit Shirwynk again. He might have more to say now that he has had a chance to digest the news of his friend’s death.’

‘And his wife’s,’ add Bartholomew. ‘I found no evidence of foul play, but it is odd that she and Frenge should die within hours of each other.’

‘King’s Hall would not have dispatched Letia,’ averred Langelee. ‘So if it transpires that she has been poisoned, you can eliminate them as suspects – which would be good, as it might calm the bubbling unease between University and town.’

‘We need to know for sure, so will you open her up, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘As you did with those murder victims last summer? Your findings then allowed us to bring a killer to justice, and I should not like to think of Letia dispatched with no one any the wiser.’

Bartholomew winced. He had advocated for years that dissection was the best way to learn about the mysteries of the human body, but when the opportunity had finally arisen to put theory into practice, he had found himself unsettled by the whole business and had no wish to do it again.

‘With them, I was fairly sure I would find distinctive lesions,’ he hedged. ‘That is not the case with Letia. Besides, Shirwynk would never allow it.’

‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘And I would rather you did not ask. He is a burgess, and we cannot have him carrying tales of your ghoulish habits to men who may give us money. There must be another way to unearth the truth.’

‘We shall have to rely on our interrogative skills, then,’ sighed Michael. ‘And afterwards, I shall inform Chancellor Tynkell that if he cannot bring Zachary Hostel to heel because he is afraid of what Morys might say to his mother, then he should resign now, not next term.’

‘Quite right, Brother,’ nodded Langelee. ‘That place’s unscholarly antics will put benefactors off the whole University. Go with him, Bartholomew. He will need help if he is to catch a killer and restore peace between us and the town. Do not worry about your classes – I will take them.’

‘No, thank you,’ gulped Bartholomew, knowing that the Master would not read the set texts, but would hold forth about camp-ball, his favourite sport. And what lively young man would not rather discuss fixtures and ratings than learning lists of herbs and their virtues?

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Do not fret. Being a scholar is not all about reading books, hearing lectures and learning how to argue, you know.’

‘No?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘What else is it, then?’

Langelee smiled enigmatically and ignored the question. ‘You have my permission to miss meals and church until Frenge’s killer is caught – except for this evening and tomorrow, when you will be needed to help with the preparations for the disceptatio.’

He strode away, leaving Bartholomew staring after him unhappily, hating the loss of valuable teaching time. There was so much he wanted his students to know, and he was struggling to cram it all in already. Michael tugged on his sleeve, murmuring that the quicker they started, the sooner they would finish.

They walked through the gate and on to Milne Street, along which was evidence that the previous night’s festivities had been wild. Pie crusts, apple cores and other half-eaten foods were strewn everywhere, along with discarded clothing and smashed pottery. Principal Irby from Zachary was picking his way through it. As usual, he was wearing his uniform grey and cream cloak, the colours of which matched his pale face and the bags under his eyes. He was drinking from a flask, and the smile he gave was wan.

‘What a night! I swear people were still carousing until an hour ago – and that includes Michaelhouse. I could hear your celebrations from my bedchamber.’

‘We did do ourselves proud,’ said Michael, smiling at the memory. ‘But you must have enjoyed yourself, too: you look decidedly delicate this morning.’

‘Because I am ill,’ said Irby coolly. He brandished his flask so vigorously that some splashed on Bartholomew, who tasted its cloying sweetness as he wiped it off his face. ‘But a sip of this will put me right. It is Shirwynk’s apple wine.’

‘Is there sucura in it?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering why it was so sickly.

‘Certainly not! The Sheriff has deemed that illegal, and I would never break the law.’

‘It is a pity your students and masters do not think as you do,’ retorted Michael sourly. ‘Not one of them sees fit to wear his uniform these days.’

Irby suddenly looked very old and tired. ‘I know, Brother, but Morys says his kinship with the Chancellor exempts him from the rules. And where he goes, the others follow.’

‘He most certainly is not exempt,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘And you had better find a way to claw back control or he will be Principal and you will be ousted.’ Irby nodded miserably, so the monk changed the subject. ‘When will the consilium decide the topic for tomorrow’s debate?’

Irby turned to Bartholomew. ‘Nigellus is wrong to insist on nemo dat – it will be tedious, and there are far more interesting issues to debate. A medical question, for example.’

‘We had better not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what was currently happening in Michaelhouse. ‘Besides, the last time I discussed medicine with a layman, I was accused of heresy.’

‘By Kellawe, I suppose,’ sighed Irby. ‘Who believes that the soul resides in a pouch in the heart. He is wrong, of course. It is much more likely to be a pouch in the head. But a debate with a medical theme will be best, and I shall continue to ponder until the right subject comes to mind.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Although you might want to run it past your Senior Proctor first. These occasions can be contentious, and we do not want trouble.’

‘You want to know so that Michaelhouse’s students will have time to prepare,’ said Irby, wagging an admonishing finger. ‘But I am afraid you will have to hear it at the same time as everyone else, because no one on the committee will break his silence.’

‘He will not,’ murmured Michael resentfully, watching him go. ‘Nor will you, Prior Joliet or Wauter. But Nigellus will cheat for certain. He is that kind of man.’

As they continued along Milne Street, they met the Austins from the convent. Almoner Robert was struggling to carry the large and very heavy book that he needed for a lecture on Augustine’s Sermones, long white hair undulating in the breeze, while hulking Hamo toted pigments, brushes and boards as though they were made of feathers. Prior Joliet was empty-handed and sombre.

‘I cannot stop, Brother,’ he said, as Michael made to intercept him. ‘I am summoned to Will Lenne’s deathbed, so I dare not linger.’

‘The furrier?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Lenne had hacked horribly the previous evening, but he had not appeared to be on his deathbed.

Joliet nodded. ‘He is Nigellus’s patient – his ailment has something to do with metal, apparently, although I am not sure what. Nigellus’s message said that death was imminent, so you must excuse me – I promised to be with Lenne at the end, and I have a feeling that the lad Nigellus hired was not the quickest. I may already be too late.’

He hurried away, while Bartholomew recalled Nigellus claiming that his failure to arrive on time at Michaelhouse was due to a dying patient. Bartholomew was unimpressed: Lenne should not have been abandoned by his medicus at such a time. It was unprofessional.

‘Did your novices read that extract I set them yesterday, Brother?’ asked Robert, grimacing when his pectoral cross caught on a corner of the book, pulling it tight around his neck. He nodded his thanks when Michael pulled it free for him. ‘Or shall I give my lecture tomorrow instead? I imagine you were all busy preparing for the feast.’

‘We were,’ nodded Michael. ‘However, you cannot teach at Michaelhouse today – or paint, for that matter – because the University’s medici are in our hall, showing everyone how to conduct a disputation.’

Robert regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean Rougham and Nigellus? You let them loose on your students? Heavens! You are brave.’

Michael laughed. ‘It will keep them occupied while we try to find out what happened to Frenge. And speaking of Frenge, we should inspect the place where he died in daylight. May we visit you later?’

‘Of course,’ replied Robert. ‘Come at noon and share our dinner. It is nothing like the sumptuous fare at Michaelhouse, of course, but it is wholesome and plentiful.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, never one to refuse free victuals. Then he scowled. ‘Here come those Zachary men, and not one is wearing his academic tabard. It seems my threats of further fines have gone unheeded.’

Robert regarded them unhappily. ‘The town resents the way they flaunt their wealth with these ostentatious clothes. If our University were out in the Fens, Zachary would not feel the need to bother, as there would be no women to impress.’

‘Lust,’ growled Hamo, the master of the one-word sentence.

‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘Lust would not be a problem in the marshes, and Zachary would be more inclined to concentrate on their studies.’

The Zachary scholars were an imposing sight in their finery, and anyone might have been forgiven for thinking that they were burgesses. They were led by Morys, who wore a different set of clothes that day, but ones that were still reminiscent of an angry insect. Purple-lipped Segeforde was on one side of him, while the fanatical Kellawe was on the other. Their students strutted behind, defiant and gleeful – an attitude that suggested they were out without their Principal’s permission. Michael had been right to warn Irby that Morys aimed to usurp his power.

‘It is a holiday,’ declared Morys insolently, as Michael draw breath for a reprimand. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell says we can suspend our membership of the University for Hallow-tide, so do not think of fining us again. We are no longer under your jurisdiction.’

‘You cannot opt in and out as the whim takes you,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if Tynkell told you otherwise, then he is sadly mistaken.’

‘Well, he issued a writ that entitles us to do as we please anyway,’ said Kellawe smugly. He spoke with a thick northern accent that was difficult to penetrate, and had a habit of jutting out his lower jaw belligerently when he spoke. ‘You may contest it if you like, but by the time lawyers have debated the matter, Hallow-tide will be over, so you may as well not bother.’

‘I threatened to write to Tynkell’s mother if he refused my request,’ smirked Morys, ‘so he is unlikely to retract what he has granted. Besides, wearing secular clothes is nothing compared to the harm his sister is doing.’ He stabbed a finger at Bartholomew.

‘She has hired whores,’ elaborated Kellawe, his eyes blazing rather wildly. ‘Those dyeworks are nothing but a brothel.’

He turned and stalked away before Bartholomew could defend her. The others followed, clearly of the belief that they had won the confrontation. Bartholomew started after them – no one abused his beloved Edith – but Michael stopped him.

‘Ignore them: they are not worth a quarrel. Unlike Tynkell. What was he thinking to issue such a document? He cannot be permitted to make these decisions without consulting me. Does he want the town to attack us?’

He released Bartholomew and stamped towards St Mary the Great, Shirwynk temporarily forgotten. Bartholomew stared at the retreating figure of Kellawe for a moment, tempted to go after him anyway, but Michael was right – the Franciscan was not worth the trouble. He followed Michael instead, catching up just as the monk marched into Tynkell’s office.

Tynkell was a meek, timid man who had never wanted high office, and who had been as astonished as anyone when a technicality had seen him elected Chancellor. He was thin, wan, and had an unfortunate aversion to hygiene, which meant his chamber was rarely a pleasant place to be. He was sitting at a table that was piled high with documents representing the more tedious aspects of running a studium generale, work that had been delegated to him by Michael.

‘You have some explaining to do,’ the monk began without preamble. ‘Regarding Zachary Hostel’s– Oh, you have company.’

The ‘company’ was Stephen the lawyer, a fox-faced man with sly eyes. It was Stephen who had told Edith how to circumvent the laws regarding noisome industries, and who had disappointed Michaelhouse by electing to give his much-coveted collection of books to Gonville.

‘We were discussing architecture,’ said Stephen pleasantly, unperturbed by the monk’s whirlwind entry. ‘I should have liked to have been an architect, but my tutors thought my mind was better suited to law. However, I retain a deep interest in the subject.’

‘So do Michaelhouse’s students,’ retorted Michael pointedly. ‘And they had hoped to read some books about it.’

‘Then I am sorry, but Gonville is more likely to be here in ten years’ time than your College,’ explained Stephen. ‘It is nothing personal, and I must consider my own needs first.’

Michael blinked. ‘What are you talking about? We are by far the most secure College in the University. We own lands in Suffolk, Staffordshire and Norfolk, and we were granted a huge benefaction earlier this year from no less a person than the Archbishop of York.’

He was grossly exaggerating the value of the College’s holdings, but Stephen remained unconvinced even so. ‘I have made my decision and I will not change my mind. The matter is closed.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Michael, the curt tone of his voice suggesting that if Stephen had come to beg a favour, it would be refused.

‘To give you some friendly and well-intentioned advice – that King’s Hall should drop their case against Frenge’s estate.’

Tynkell frowned. ‘But it was you who told them that death is no excuse in the eyes of the law, and that Frenge’s brewery will still be liable to pay their claims for damages.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Stephen silkily. ‘But that was before Shirwynk hired me. Now I am recommending that King’s Hall settles the case out of court, before they lose a lot of money.’

‘Money is not the issue here,’ said Michael, making no attempt to hide his distaste for the lawyer’s duplicity. ‘Our relationship with the town is – so I shall speak to Wayt and ask him to withdraw in the interests of peace. None of us want a war. Well, some of us do not: I am not sure that is true of the man who allowed Edith to build her filthy dyeworks.’

Stephen shrugged. ‘It was all perfectly legal, I assure you. But to return to the matter in question, Shirwynk wants compensation for the distress he has endured. I am sure we can reach a mutually acceptable arrangement.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You want King’s Hall to pay Shirwynk? Have you lost your reason? He is lucky not to lose half his brewery – assuming I can convince King’s Hall to do as I suggest, of course. They may decline.’

‘Then on their head be it,’ said Stephen, standing and making a small bow before aiming for the door. ‘And yours.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Tynkell, when he had gone. ‘He changes sides like the wind. I never know whether he is for us or against us.’

‘Whichever will make him richer,’ said Michael sourly. Then he glared at the Chancellor. ‘But I did not come here to talk about him. I came to discuss Zachary.’

Tynkell grabbed a handful of parchments from the table, and clutched them to his thin chest, as if he imagined they might protect him. ‘My mother has recently married into Morys’s family, and she told me to accommodate him in any way I could, so I had to accede to his requests.’

‘How can you be frightened of your mother?’ asked Michael contemptuously. ‘She must be well into her seventh decade. Or even her eighth.’

Tynkell nodded miserably. ‘But age has rendered her fiercer than ever, and only a fool would cross her, believe me. Worse, she is a close friend of the Queen, so any infractions on my part will be reported to royal ears.’

‘Then send Morys to me when he comes with his bullying demands,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I do not care what your dam whispers at Court, and his behaviour is unacceptable.’

‘I will try,’ mumbled Tynkell. ‘But he is like you, Brother – he just bursts in and starts giving orders. I cannot say I am pleased to call him kin, and dealing with him plays havoc with my nerves. I do not suppose you have any of that soothing remedy to hand, do you, Bartholomew?’

It was mid-morning by the time Bartholomew and Michael emerged from St Mary the Great, but their journey to the brewery was interrupted yet again, this time by Acting Warden Wayt from King’s Hall who shoved his hairy face into the physician’s and spoke in a snarl.

‘Your sister’s whores have filled the river with blue dye, which has stained the wood on our pier. God only knows what toxins were in it. She poisoned Trinity Hall, after all, and it is probably her fault that Cew is so sick as well.’

‘You said it was Frenge’s antics that turned Cew’s wits,’ pounced Michael before Bartholomew could respond. ‘If it is the dyeworks, then you cannot sue the brewery.’

‘It was Frenge who sent Cew mad,’ Wayt snapped back. ‘But the dyeworks have given him stomach pains, nausea and vomiting.’

‘He is worse?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. ‘Would you like me to visit him again?’

Some of the belligerent anger went out of Wayt, and he nodded, although Michael rolled his eyes. Muttering under his breath, the monk followed them to King’s Hall, where the College continued in a state of watchful vigilance – its gates were barred, armed students patrolled the tops of its walls, and barrels of water had been placed ready to extinguish fires.

‘This would not be necessary if you dropped the case against Frenge’s estate,’ said Michael, as Wayt led him and Bartholomew along the maze of corridors to Cew’s quarters.

‘Never,’ declared Wayt. ‘I want reparation for the terrible crimes committed against us. That snake Stephen might have defected to Shirwynk for the promise of a larger fee, but we have good lawyers of our own, so he is no loss.’

‘His recommendation to sue was seriously flawed,’ said Michael. ‘He was motivated by personal gain, and you cannot trust his advice.’

‘He always did have an eye to his own purse,’ Wayt conceded. ‘But–’

‘What he failed to tell you was that going ahead will cost you dear, even if you win. You will earn the town’s undying hostility, and will have to pay a fortune in increased defences. None of us want trouble, so abandon this foolery and–’

‘I shall not,’ declared Wayt. He glared at the monk. ‘And we are not moving to the Fens either. If the University leaves Cambridge, it will be without King’s Hall.’

‘There are no plans to relocate,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Who told you that there were?’

‘Weasenham the stationer.’ Wayt held up a hand when Michael started to object. ‘I know he is a gossip and his “facts” are often wrong, but my Fellows have heard the same tale from several other sources, too, so it must be true.’

‘Well, it is not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘How could we survive in the Fens without the services a town provides – bakeries, breweries, candle-makers, mills, potteries, clothiers, tanneries, saddlers? I know monasteries do it, but we are different: we would founder within a year.’

Wayt sniffed. ‘Then make sure you tell the Chancellor so, should he moot the idea.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed as a servant hurried past carrying a bowl. It was not a very big one, but he carried it with considerable care. It was full of grainy white crystals.

‘Sucura,’ he said accusingly. ‘The substance banned by the Sheriff, which you assured me that King’s Hall would never buy, despite the fact that I tasted it in your soul-cakes.’

Wayt’s expression turned shifty. ‘We did not buy it – it was donated by a benefactor, so it would have been rude to question its origins. Besides, it is for Cew. Soul-cakes are one of the two things he will eat, so we have no choice but to use sucura. Or do you suggest we let him starve?’

Cew’s peculiar diet had done nothing to help him regain his wits. He sat in his bed with the pewter bowl on his head, and swiped with the poker at anyone who came close. After suffering a nasty crack on the elbow, Bartholomew decided to question him from a distance.

‘You cannot ask the King of France about his bowel movements,’ declared Cew indignantly. ‘It is treason. Now go away – unless you can cure our terrible pains.’

‘I might, if you let me examine you,’ said Bartholomew crossly.

‘Very well,’ said Cew, capitulating abruptly. ‘But do not touch our crown. Now hurry, because we shall be sick soon.’

Unfortunately, even a lengthy examination did not tell Bartholomew what was wrong with Cew. He prescribed a mild anti-emetic of chalk and herbs, and recommended that the oysters and cakes were replaced with a simple barley broth.

‘We will try,’ said Wayt. ‘But he is shockingly mobile for an invalid, and will simply get what he wants from the kitchens himself if we do not oblige. I suppose we could lock him in …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘It would cause him distress and might hinder his recovery. Just watch him as often as you can.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Wayt, uncharacteristic tenderness suffusing his hirsute face. ‘He is one of our own, and we look after those. He shall have whatever he needs.’

Michael and Bartholomew reached the brewery eventually, where they found business in full swing, despite the deaths of Frenge and Letia. Apprentices moved among the great vats, stirring or adding ingredients, while Shirwynk sat at a table dictating letters to his son. A quick glance told them that the brewer was illiterate – if he had been able to read, he would have ordered Peyn to redo them, as the lad’s grammar left much to be desired, while his writing was all but illegible.

‘Why must we talk about Frenge again?’ demanded Shirwynk, when Michael told him what they wanted. ‘It is obvious what happened: King’s Hall poisoned him, and deposited his body in the Austin Priory to confuse you. Of course, they need not have bothered with such a complicated ruse – you will never find a scholar guilty, no matter how compelling the evidence.’

‘I have found scholars guilty in the past,’ said Michael icily. ‘I could cite a dozen examples.’

‘Then arrest Wayt and his cronies,’ snapped the brewer. ‘Frenge was perfectly healthy when he left here to take ale to King’s Hall yesterday.’

‘Was he?’ pounced Michael. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he was singing. People do not sing if they are ill. Is that not so, physician?’

‘I imagine it depends on the person,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously.

Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look and turned back to Michael. ‘He was warbling happily as he loaded the dray with ale and wine. Right, Peyn?’

‘Wine,’ mused Michael. ‘I have been meaning to ask you about that. You are a brewer, not a vintner, so you have no right to produce wine. How do the town’s vintners feel about you treading on their professional toes?’

‘There is only one vintner in Cambridge, and he is a sot who would rather drink his wares than sell them,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘Peyn suggested that we expand into wine earlier this year, and the venture has been very successful.’

‘Which is why King’s Hall refuses to drop its case against Frenge,’ elaborated Peyn. ‘Our fine apple wine has made us rich, and they itch to relieve us of our profits.’

‘Do you keep toxic substances here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps for scouring–’

He stepped back quickly when Shirwynk rounded on him with a face as black as thunder, while Peyn fingered the knife he wore in his belt.

‘You think to accuse us of Frenge’s death,’ the brewer snarled. ‘Well, you can think again – we would never harm a friend. But look around, if you must. You will find no poisons here.’

Bartholomew took him at his word and began to explore. However, although he peered inside every vat, pot and cupboard, he saw nothing that could have caused the burns in Frenge’s mouth. Of course, that was not to say that Shirwynk and Peyn were innocent – wise killers would already have taken steps to dispose of incriminating evidence.

‘Your ale-making operation is impressively hygienic,’ he said when he had finished. ‘But where do you ferment the wine?’

Still scowling, Shirwynk led the way to the back of the brewery, where three large lead tanks had been placed in a line.

‘We bought these from the Austin Friary,’ explained Peyn, leaning against one and beginning to pare his nails with the dagger. ‘They needed money to buy bread for the poor, so we got them cheap. We fill them with the juice from crushed apples, add yeast, and nature does the rest. This batch is ready for decanting. You may taste it if you like.’

He filled a cup from a barrel. Bartholomew took a very small sip, but it was far too sweet for him, and he was glad to pass the rest to Michael. The monk sniffed it, carefully inspected its colour, then took a large gulp, which he swished noisily around his teeth.

‘It would slip down nicely with cheese,’ he declared eventually, while the others watched the performance with fascination. ‘And it has an agreeable punch.’

‘It does,’ agreed Shirwynk, pleased by the praise, although he tried to hide it. ‘It is popular with wealthy townsmen and scholars alike.’

‘Although we charge the University twice as much as we do the burgesses,’ added Peyn, then scowled defiantly when his father shot him a withering look – the Senior Proctor had the right to set prices for food and drink, so telling him his colleagues were being cheated was hardly wise.

‘It is so well liked that scholars break in here to steal it,’ said Shirwynk, going on an offensive in the hope that Michael would forget his son’s incautious remark. ‘Some disappears almost every night.’

‘How do you know an academic is responsible?’ asked Bartholomew, a little indignantly.

‘Because no townsman would raid me,’ replied Shirwynk, rather unconvincingly. ‘Peyn has taken to standing guard during the hours of darkness, but even he is obliged to slip away on occasion, and the villains always seem to know when the place is empty.’

‘Frenge,’ said Michael briskly, unwilling to waste time in idle chatter. ‘Did he have any friends who might be able to tell us about his final hours?’

‘Well, there is Robert de Hakeney,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘The drunken vintner. But he will say the same as us – that Frenge was murdered by King’s Hall.’

‘What did Frenge eat and drink yesterday morning?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Breakfast ale and sweet pottage,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘But you cannot blame those for making an end of him, because Peyn and I shared them with him and we are still alive.’

‘I did not have the pottage,’ put in Peyn. ‘I prefer salty foods. But I had the ale.’

‘Did your wife eat and drink with you as well?’

‘She did not.’ Shirwynk’s voice was cold. ‘She was too ill.’

‘What was wrong with her?’

‘Nigellus said it was a fatal dizziness, although he is a scholar, so I am not sure whether to believe him. I tried to get Meryfeld – the only physician who is not part of your damned University – but he decided to be mulish over an unpaid bill, and refused to come.’

‘Other than dizziness, what were Letia’s symptoms?’

‘Where to start?’ sighed Peyn. ‘Mother was ill for as long as I can remember. Indeed, we were surprised that she lasted as long as she did, given the number of ailments she claimed she had.’

‘Most recently, she suffered from pains in the stomach, headaches and weak limbs,’ said Shirwynk. ‘She insisted on hiring a physician, and wanted Nigellus because he is the most expensive and therefore the best. But she died anyway.’

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Michael automatically.

‘I am not,’ muttered Peyn. ‘Her constant moaning was a trial.’

There was no more to be said after such a remark, so Bartholomew and Michael left the brewery, waiting until they were well away before voicing their thoughts.

‘You found no poison on the premises, but that means nothing,’ said Michael. ‘And I can see Shirwynk and that nasty little Peyn committing murder to suit themselves. It is obvious that neither cared for Letia, and they do not seem unduly distressed by Frenge’s demise either. It would be a good outcome for us – townsmen dispatching each other.’

‘You may be right, but how will we prove it? They were both very confident that a search of their brewery would tell us nothing – either because they are innocent, or because they know they had covered their tracks.’

‘We must find answers,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Because if we do not identify the culprit, rumour and suspicion will bring us a riot. Of course, that may be exactly what Shirwynk intends.’

‘Why would he want something that would disrupt trade, including his own, and inflict misery and suffering on his town?’

‘Because he is a vicious malcontent with an irrational hatred of our University and an agenda I do not yet understand. We cannot afford to be lax about this, Matt. We both must do all in our power to solve Frenge’s murder before the whole of Cambridge erupts into flames.’