A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 5

The College bell ensured that everyone at Michaelhouse was awake long before dawn the following morning. All Souls fell on Sunday that year, which made it especially holy, and Langelee did not want their founder forgotten in the excitement surrounding the disceptatio.

‘We need him watching over us today,’ he informed his scholars, as they lined up to process to the church. ‘We cannot have him vexed, lest he hardens the hearts of potential benefactors, so I want you all to pray for his soul as fervently as you can. Is that understood?’

There was a murmur of assent, even from the servants who were waiting for Agatha to arrive so they could start preparing the expensive treats that would be served to the guests when the debate was over. Bartholomew’s book-bearer was among them, touching an amulet pinned to his hat. Cynric was the most superstitious man in Cambridge, and would certainly believe that the success of the day depended on the calibre of the rituals performed that morning.

Those Fellows in religious Orders – everyone except Bartholomew and Langelee – had risen even earlier, to prepare the church for the special ceremony. Suttone had decked it out in white flowers, and the sweet scent of them filled the whole building. Michael and Clippesby had dressed the altar in its best cloth, and William had laid out the ceremonial vestments, although he had managed to spill something down the embroidered chasuble he was wearing. It was not clear what Wauter had done, although he was slightly breathless and certainly gave the impression of a spell of hard work.

Unwilling for the occasion to be ruined by a contribution from the Michaelhouse Choir, Langelee had ‘forgotten’ to tell them that the rite was to begin early. Its members comprised people who joined solely for the free bread and ale, and few could sing. They made up for their lack of talent with volume, and prided themselves on the great distances over which they could make themselves heard. The Master was not alone in thinking that the founder’s soul might not like his Mass punctuated by off-key bellowing, and there were relieved glances among Fellows and students alike when the choristers shuffled in too late to participate.

Unfortunately, the choir was not easily discouraged, and began to warble anyway, so the scholars left the church to a resounding Gloria from the basses, and an Easter anthem from the tenors and altos. A good-natured competition followed, as each group tried to drown out the other, and as the music was in different keys, the din was far from pleasant. Langelee increased the pace, but the racket was still deafening in St Michael’s Lane.

Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he walked, savouring the fresh scent of early morning. Then there was a waft of something vile, accompanied by a plume of oily smoke.

‘The dyeworks,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘My beadles reported that a pile of waste had been assembled ready to incinerate. No doubt Edith and her lasses hope their neighbours will not notice if they burn it when most people are still in bed.’

Wauter pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘You really should encourage her to move away from the town, Matt. You must see that such a reek is deleterious to health.’

‘I will speak to her today,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Again.’

‘Good,’ said Wauter. ‘Because our University has no future in a town that chokes us with poisonous gases. If she does not leave, then we shall have to go instead.’

‘We are not going anywhere,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We may not like our secular neighbours, but we need the goods and services they provide – food, fuel, shoes, candles, pots, cloth, beds–’

‘Many great abbeys and priories are self-sufficient,’ argued Wauter. ‘We can be, too.’

‘It takes years – decades, even – to develop that sort of community,’ said Michael testily. ‘What would we do in the interim? Live in tents?’

‘You are clever, with a keen eye to the University’s interests. I am sure you could find a solution. And then your name would be remembered for all eternity. Masses like the one we have just said for our founder will be sung for you long after your soul is released from Purgatory.’

‘That will happen anyway,’ said Michael loftily. ‘Because I have already done much to put us on an equal footing with Oxford. However, I certainly do not intend to be remembered as the man who took our University from a perfectly good town to a bog.’

Wauter nodded to where a handful of students from Zachary were reeling along with three Frail Sisters. The lads made themselves scarce when they saw the Senior Proctor, so the women turned their lewd attentions to the Michaelhouse men instead, some of whom looked sorely tempted by the activities that were listed as on offer.

‘You would not have to worry about that happening in the Fens,’ said the Austin. ‘Lads in holy orders know how to resist such invitations, but the same cannot be said for our seculars. Your students would be over there in a trice, Matt, and so, I am sorry to say, would Langelee.’

He stepped forward to distract the Master with a discussion about the disceptatio. It was a prudent decision, as Langelee’s lustfully gleaming eyes had been noted by several undergraduates, and it was hardly a good example.

‘Wauter is an excellent teacher, a gifted geometrician and good company in the conclave,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But he is also a liar. I am unconvinced by his claim that he did not know Frenge. Moreover, he disappeared this morning while we were preparing the church, and arrived back hot, dishevelled and unwilling to say where he had been.’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘He said he had been removing debris from the churchyard, so that we would be “perceived as having an unstained soul despite our many blemishes”. Now what is that supposed to mean?’

Bartholomew had no idea, but agreed that it was an odd remark to have made.

The procession arrived back at College to find that the servants had only just started their own breakfast, as Agatha had anticipated that the scholars would be longer at their devotions. They started to rise, but she waved them back down with an authoritative hand, muttering that they would need their strength if they were going to give of their best that day.

‘But I am hungry,’ objected Langelee plaintively.

‘So are we,’ retorted Agatha, and the Master, veteran of battles and performer of unsavoury acts of violence for powerful churchmen, backed away at the belligerence in her voice. ‘We have been working hard this morning, and we need our sustenance. We will attend you as soon as we have eaten.’

Unwilling to waste time, Langelee led the way to the hall, where he and the students set out the tables and benches themselves.

‘If any one of you drops so much as a crumb on the floor this morning, he will answer to me,’ he growled. ‘And wipe the tables with your sleeves when you have finished, because we cannot have greasy fingermarks all over them. Wauter? Go and fetch your Martilogium. Deynman tells me that you still have not brought it to the library.’

‘I have explained why, Master: it is incomplete,’ replied Wauter shortly. ‘We do not want people thinking that we foist unfinished manuscripts on our students.’

‘And I have told you that no one will read it,’ argued Langelee. ‘My own contribution is next year’s camp-ball fixtures, which I would never risk being looked at, because they are confidential. But they add to the bulk, and it is the impression that is important here.’

‘I will make sure no one touches anything,’ promised Deynman. ‘Books are far too valuable to be pawed by laymen anyway, no matter how much money they want to give us. Your list of martyrs will be safe with me.’

The hall smelled strongly of polish and the caustic substances that had been used to scour stains from the floor, so Bartholomew opened the shutters to let in some fresh air. It was a pretty morning, with the sun burning away the fog that had dampened the streets earlier. A blackbird sang in the orchard and hens clucked in the yard below. Then the porter’s peacock issued a shrill scream.

‘I want that thing gagged,’ said Langelee. ‘Who will tell Walter?’

As the porter was fond of his pet, and was inclined to be vindictive to anyone who took against it, there were no volunteers.

‘Actually, Master,’ said Wauter, ‘the creature may serve to our advantage. Peacocks are expensive, and there are not many Colleges that can afford to give one to a servant.’

‘Go and inform Walter that his bird is to have its tail on display when our guests arrive,’ instructed Langelee, capitulating abruptly. ‘And it is to screech and attract the attention of anyone who does not notice it.’ He turned to Clippesby. ‘You will repeat my orders to the peacock.’

The two Fellows nodded acquiescence and sped away. There was no more to be done until breakfast arrived, so Bartholomew leaned on the windowsill and gazed absently across the yard. He was not alone with his thoughts for long: his students came to give a report on the mock disputation with Rougham and Nigellus the previous day.

‘It was great fun,’ enthused young Bell. ‘Father William threw open the floor for questions after you left, and I have not laughed so much in all my life.’

‘It was not meant to be amusing,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether he had been wise to disappear. ‘It was supposed to be an exercise in logical analysis and contradiction.’

‘Oh, it was,’ said Melton, the eldest, with a wicked grin. ‘Rougham and Nigellus were excellent examples of how not to argue a case. Even Bell won points, and he has never taken part in a disputation before. You would have been proud of him, sir.’

Bartholomew groaned, not liking to imagine the intellectual carnage that had taken place. ‘You did not offend them?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Not deliberately,’ hedged Melton.

Bartholomew supposed he would have to apologise on their behalf. Rougham and Nigellus were colleagues, after all, and he did not want to be ostracised by men he might need in the future. He turned when Agatha announced that breakfast was ready, and there was the usual scramble as everyone dashed for their places. As it was a special day, Langelee was obliged to read a set grace from a book, which started well, but took a downward plunge when he turned the page and saw how much more was still to come.

‘… pacem et concordiam … burble, burble,’ he intoned, rifling through to hunt for the end, ‘defunctis requiem … more burble, et nobis peccatoribus vitam aeternam. Amen. Oh, and we had better observe the rule of silence today, given that chatting might bring us bad luck.’

He sat, took his knife in one hand and his spoon in the other, and raised his eyebrows at the waiting servants. They hurried forward with their cauldrons, while the startled Bible Scholar, who had not anticipated that he would be needed quite so quickly, scrambled to take his place at the lectern. For several moments, all that could be heard was muted cursing and the agitated rustle of pages as he endeavoured to find the right reading for the day. He managed eventually, and soon the hall was filled with a monotonous drone that encouraged no one to listen.

‘Just a moment,’ cried Michael, his voice shockingly loud. ‘This is pottage! Where is all the lovely food left over from the feast? It is not good enough to serve to our guests this afternoon, obviously, but it will certainly suffice for us now.’

‘Gone,’ replied Agatha shortly. ‘Eaten.’

‘By her and the servants,’ muttered William, although not loud enough for Agatha to hear.

‘I was looking forward to a decent breakfast after all my labours in the church,’ whined Michael. ‘And pottage is hardly the thing.’

‘Well, I am sorry,’ said Agatha, although she did not sound it. ‘But Doctor Bartholomew says it is dangerous to keep leftover food too long, so we took it upon ourselves to dispose of it.’

All eyes turned accusingly on the physician, who marvelled that she had contrived to put the blame on him so adroitly. He started to explain that some foods were more susceptible to decay than others, but no one except his students were interested, and he did not try long to exonerate himself – and he was not so rash as to claim that Agatha had quoted him out of context.

‘What is happening with King’s Hall?’ asked Langelee, blithely forgetting his injunction against chatter that morning. Or perhaps he had simply decided that half a meal taken in silence was enough. ‘I hear they plan to sue the brewery now that Frenge is unavailable. Is it true?’

‘Shirwynk will not like that,’ averred Wauter. ‘He hates the University with a passion.’

‘But it is Shirwynk’s fault that Frenge invaded King’s Hall in the first place,’ said Clippesby, who sat with a hedgehog in his lap. ‘Him and his son Peyn. The water voles heard them egging Frenge on, even though Frenge thought it was a bad idea.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael keenly. He had learned that although Clippesby had peculiar ways of dispensing information, his habit of sitting still and unnoticed for hours at a time meant he often witnessed incidents that were relevant to the Senior Proctor’s enquiries. Moreover, Hakeney had also claimed that Frenge had been encouraged to invade King’s Hall by ‘false friends’, although he had not named the culprits.

The Dominican nodded. ‘As Wauter says, Shirwynk hates our studium generale, and the raid was his way of striking a blow with no risk to himself.’

‘But it saw his business partner dead,’ William pointed out. ‘So there was a risk, and it has left him running the brewery alone.’

‘Quite,’ said Clippesby. ‘He is now sole owner of a very lucrative concern, and he will be able to hire someone to do Frenge’s work at a fraction of the cost. At least, that is what this hedgehog told me. He lives in Stephen’s garden, you see, and Shirwynk went to consult him. To consult Stephen the lawyer, I mean, not the hedgehog.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘When did the hedgehog hear this? Before or after Frenge died?’

Clippesby bent towards the animal, as if soliciting its opinion, and Bartholomew saw Wauter look away uncomfortably, embarrassed by the Dominican’s eccentricity.

‘After,’ Clippesby replied. ‘While you were at the Austin Friary examining the body. However, he also says that the news of Frenge’s demise was out by that time, so it is not necessarily suspicious.’

‘I shall make up my own mind about that, thank you,’ said Michael, giving the animal a superior glance.

‘Be careful if you plan to challenge Shirwynk, Brother,’ advised Wauter. ‘He is not a nice man, and I should not like to accuse him of murder. Stephen is not very pleasant either. I saw him emerging from Anne de Rumburgh’s house very early one morning, when her husband was away.’

‘Well, well,’ murmured Michael. ‘Perhaps Stephen did not like the competition, so dispatched Frenge to rid himself of a rival. Our list of suspects is growing longer, Matt.’

Once breakfast was over, Bartholomew went to visit patients, leaving his colleagues to finish beautifying the hall. When he returned – sombre, because a burgess he had been treating for lung-rot had died in his arms – the students were standing in neat rows, clad in their best clothes, while Langelee inspected them. Several were ordered to shave again, while others were rebuked for dirty fingernails or muddy shoes. Suttone prowled with a pair of scissors, and anyone with overly long hair could expect an instant and not very expert trim.

‘I shall be glad when it is all over,’ said William, who wore a habit that, while not smart, at least did not look as though it could walk around the town on its own.

‘So will I,’ sighed Michael, watching Bartholomew emerge from his room in new ceremonial robes, a recent gift from his sister. They were in Michaelhouse’s livery of black, but with the red trim that denoted a doctor of the University, and his boots shone with the dull gleam of expensive leather. He had managed a closer shave than most, being in possession of sharp surgical knives, and one of his customers had offered to cut his hair in lieu of a fee. In short, he looked uncharacteristically elegant and a credit to his College.

‘Edith will have to buy you some more finery soon,’ said William, looking him up and down approvingly. ‘Langelee plans to change our uniform from black to green.’

‘Does he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because Edith told him it would make us stand out from the rabble,’ explained Wauter. ‘And because it will look as though we have money for such vanities.’

‘Regardless, I hope we win this disceptatio,’ said William worriedly, then glared at Bartholomew and Wauter. ‘But if we lose, it will be because you refused to tell our students what the topic will be.’

‘We refused because we have been sworn to secrecy,’ objected Wauter. ‘Or would you have Michaelhouse adopt a less than honourable approach?’

‘Of course, if it means us winning,’ retorted William. ‘But will you tell them now? Then at least they will be able to glance through the necessary books during Chancellor Tynkell’s introductory speech. It is not much of an advantage, but it is better than nothing.’

‘The committee has yet to make its decision,’ said Wauter coolly. ‘However, Principal Irby will not be joining us today, because he is ill. Nigellus told me earlier.’

‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if the Zachary Principal was one of Nigellus’s patients – and if so, whether he was in any danger.

‘Loss of appetite, apparently. I hope he recovers soon. Not only is he a friend, but he has promised to help me finish my Martilogium.’

‘Langelee says that we must clean the hall when the guests have gone,’ grumbled Suttone, slouching up and cutting into the discussion. ‘He wants to avoid paying the servants overtime. So no wandering off when the event is over, if you please.’

He looked hard at Bartholomew and Michael, the ones most likely to have business elsewhere, then went to take his place in the procession. The others followed in order of seniority – William directly behind Langelee, Bartholomew and Michael side by side, Suttone and Clippesby together, and Junior Fellow Wauter bringing up the rear.

‘We must interview all our suspects again as soon as we have a free moment,’ said Michael, while they waited for Langelee to set off. ‘I have little new to ask, but if they are guilty our questions may make them nervous – and nervous men make mistakes.’

Bartholomew listed them. ‘Rumburgh, Shirwynk, Peyn, Hakeney, Stephen, the three men from King’s Hall and Nigellus.’

‘And possibly Wauter,’ added Michael in a low voice. ‘But you should have put Nigellus first. Not only for his nine dead clients, but I learned last night that he was at Trinity Hall when everyone there was poisoned. He was not ill himself, and his advice to the sufferers was to stand on their heads to let the bad humours drain out. When that failed, they called you.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘His “remedies” beggar belief sometimes.’

‘You should be pleased by the news – if he is the culprit, your sister’s dyeworks will be exonerated. And there is another thing …’

‘Yes?’

‘The only people who have died of late have been wealthy: Letia, Lenne, the Barnwell folk, Arnold and now your burgess. There is not a pauper among them. Do you not find that odd?’

Bartholomew supposed that he did.

There was to be an academic parade through the town before the disceptatio, although many scholars thought it should have been cancelled, given the town’s current antipathy towards them. Luckily, it was only along a short section of the High Street, and the hope was that it would be over before any serious protest could be organised.

Unfortunately, the town was only part of the problem, and trouble broke out between rival factions within the University before anyone had taken so much as a step. Peterhouse thought they should lead the way, because they were the oldest foundation, but King’s Hall had been built by royalty, which they claimed made them more important. Their antagonism sparked quarrels between other Colleges and hostels, and it was not long before a dozen spats were in progress.

‘It is Tynkell’s fault,’ grumbled Michael, watching his beadles hurry to intervene. ‘He should have published the order of precedence in advance, so there would have been no surprises. I reminded him to do it, but he claims he forgot.’

‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would have given resentment longer to fester, and feelings would have been running even hotter.’

Michael sniffed, unwilling to admit that he might be right. ‘There is Peyn,’ he said, looking to where the brewer’s son was standing with his father. ‘Is he about to lob mud at King’s Hall?’

He was, and the missile sailed forth. Fortunately, Wayt chose that particular moment to adjust his shoe, so the clod sailed harmlessly over his head. Michael stalked towards Peyn, Bartholomew at his heels, but Shirwynk hastened to place himself between scholars and son.

‘You would be wise to take him home before he spends the rest of the week in the proctors’ gaol,’ growled Michael.

‘For what?’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘Accidentally flicking up a little dirt? You will have a riot on your hands if you try to arrest him for that.’

‘I am surprised to see you merrymaking when your wife is barely cold,’ said Michael, going on an offensive of his own. ‘Why are you not praying for her soul?’

‘My parish priest is doing that,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘A man with no connections to your University, because I would not want a scholar near her.’

He stared hard at Bartholomew, who wondered with a pang of alarm whether the brewer somehow knew that Letia had been examined without his consent. Or was it a guilty conscience that prompted another warning to stay away?

‘She and Frenge died on the same day,’ said Michael, apparently thinking likewise, and so launching into an interrogation. ‘That is an uncanny coincidence, do you not think?’

‘Not uncanny – cruel,’ said Shirwynk. ‘King’s Hall knew exactly how to inflict the maximum amount of distress on me. Thank you for the invitation to dine with you after this silly debate, by the way. However, I would sooner jump in the latrine than accept.’

‘You were asked?’ blurted Bartholomew.

‘By Wauter,’ replied Shirwynk coolly. ‘Many of my fellow burgesses will demean themselves by setting foot on University property, but I shall not be among them.’

‘My father sent me to ask if all is well,’ came a voice from behind them. It was Dickon, resplendent in new clothes, and carrying a sword that was larger than the one he usually toted. However, what really caught their attention was his scarlet face and the fact that he had contrived to shape his hair into two small points just above his temples.

Peyn promptly turned and fled. Shirwynk followed with more dignity, treating the scholars to a final sneer before he went, leaving Bartholomew astonished that a boy with a dyed face and hair-horns could achieve what the formidable figure of the Senior Proctor could not. Dickon set off in pursuit and Michael opened his mouth to call him back, but then had second thoughts.

‘Did you see Peyn blanch when he saw that little imp?’ he chuckled. ‘He doubtless thought it was the Devil come to snatch his soul.’

‘We should have asked Shirwynk why he encouraged Frenge to attack King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Dickon had kept his distance for a little longer. ‘And why he consulted Stephen so soon after Frenge’s death.’

Michael nodded to where the lawyer stood not far away. ‘Shall we ask him instead?’

Stephen was so adept at twisting the law to suit the highest bidder that he was used to angry people ambushing him in the street, and was not in the slightest bit discomfited when the Senior Proctor bore down on him, all powerful bulk and flowing black habit. He smiled with smug complacency, an expression that Michael quickly determined to wipe off his face.

‘I understand that you are one of Anne de Rumburgh’s lovers,’ he announced, loudly enough to be heard by several merchants who were chatting nearby.

Stephen’s smirk promptly became a gape. ‘Who … how …’ he stammered.

‘I have my sources. Well? Is it true that you seduced the wife of a fellow burgess?’

Stephen grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him to where they could talk without an audience. ‘It only happened once,’ he whispered. ‘An isolated incident.’

‘Frenge was also one of her conquests,’ said Michael, not believing a word of it. ‘Did he know you were enjoying her favours as well?’

‘He was not!’ exclaimed Stephen. ‘She would never have accepted a man like him. The brewery he shared with Shirwynk might have made him wealthy, but he was hardly genteel.’

‘So you know her well enough to guess her habits,’ pounced Michael. He raised his hand when Stephen started to argue. ‘Never mind. I would rather hear what transpired when Shirwynk visited you on the day that Frenge died.’

‘You already know what transpired,’ snapped the lawyer. ‘Because I told you the last time we met: he asked me to abandon King’s Hall and represent him instead.’

‘Why would he do such a thing? Frenge was the one being sued.’

‘Yes, but any compensation that King’s Hall won would have come out of the brewery – the business that he and Frenge shared. Of course, he requires good legal advice.’

‘You do not consider it unethical to advise one party, then slither away to act for the other?’

Stephen glared at him. ‘I dislike your attitude, Brother. I shall certainly not be giving anything to your College now. Nor Gonville – they are not having my architecture books either.’

He stalked away before either scholar could ask what Gonville had done to earn his ire. Michael watched him go thoughtfully.

‘He said nothing to remove himself from my list of suspects, and neither did Shirwynk and Peyn. As far as I am concerned, any of them might have murdered Frenge.’

With every University scholar and most wealthy townsmen in attendance, St Mary the Great was packed to the gills. Everyone overheated in the thick robes that comprised their Sunday best, and tempers frayed, especially when rival hostels or Colleges found themselves crushed together. The beadles struggled to keep the peace.

Bartholomew and Wauter hurried to the chancel, to meet the other members of the consilium. Prior Joliet looked competent and statesmanlike in his best habit, while Nigellus wore robes that would not have looked out of place on a courtier. Irby was absent.

‘He is too ill to come,’ explained Nigellus. ‘He is suffering from a loss of appetite.’

‘So am I,’ remarked Prior Joliet wryly. ‘Nerves. There is enormous pressure on us to choose the right subject, and I am cognisant of the disappointment we will cause if we err. However, if I can endure it, so can he, so send a messenger to Zachary and tell him to come and do his duty.’

‘I am afraid his malady is more serious than yours, so I confined him to bed,’ said Nigellus pompously. ‘Morys will take his place instead.’

He beckoned his colleague forward. Fierce little Morys was as wasplike as ever in his trademark yellow and black; Bartholomew wondered if he and Nigellus even remembered that Zachary scholars were meant to wear grey and cream.

‘No, he will not!’ said Joliet crossly. ‘There are procedures that must be followed before a representative can be changed. It is–’

‘There is no time,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly. ‘Or do you suggest that we keep hundreds of people waiting while we go through a host of petty formalities? I am sure Michaelhouse will not object to the substitution, given the immediacy of the situation.’

‘Do you?’ asked Joliet of Bartholomew and Wauter. He grimaced. ‘I confess I am worried about the uneasy atmosphere in the church today, so the sooner we start, the less opportunity there will be for trouble. It would certainly make for a quieter life if you agree to Morys’s nomination.’

‘True,’ agreed Wauter. ‘I do not mind him in lieu of Irby.’

Bartholomew did, and wished Wauter had consulted with him before replying. Uncharitably, he wondered whether the geometrician’s loyalties still lay with the hostel that had housed him for a decade, rather than the College that had kept him for a few weeks. And was Irby really ill, or had Nigellus simply decided to exchange a moderate man for one with opinions akin to his own?

‘The motion is carried then,’ said Joliet, casting an apologetic glance at Bartholomew, whose opinion did not matter now the majority had spoken.

‘Good,’ said Nigellus smugly. ‘Then the subject of the debate will be nemo dat, as I have been suggesting for weeks. Are you in agreement, Morys?’

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Morys firmly. ‘It is by far the best idea.’

‘So there are two votes in its favour,’ said Joliet. ‘Wauter? What do you think?’

‘It would make for an interesting–’ began Wauter.

‘Three,’ pounced Morys. ‘Which means that the views of Bartholomew and Joliet are now immaterial. I shall inform the Chancellor at once.’

‘Now just a moment!’ Joliet put out a hand to stop him. ‘Wauter did not say he was voting for nemo dat – he merely said it was interesting. Besides, I am chairman, Morys, not you, so it is for me to speak to the Chancellor when we make our choice.’

Morys glared at him. ‘You want Michaelhouse to win because they hire you to teach and paint murals. You are unfairly biased, and should not have accepted a place on this committee.’

Joliet and Bartholomew gaped at him, astounded by such intemperate accusations.

‘Steady on, Morys,’ murmured Wauter. ‘And Joliet is right – I did not vote for nemo dat. I want to hear a few more suggestions before making my final decision.’

‘Why?’ demanded Nigellus. ‘Morys and I have made up our minds and we will not be swayed. Now, Joliet, will you tell Tynkell or shall I?’

‘I recommend that we select a theological or a musical–’ began Joliet, pointedly turning his back on the Zachary men.

‘No,’ snarled Nigellus. ‘It is nemo dat or nothing.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Morys.

‘Then Joliet, Wauter and I will choose the question,’ said Bartholomew, objecting to their bullying tactics. ‘If we can agree on a subject, you two are irrelevant.’

Nigellus addressed Joliet in a voice that held considerable menace. ‘Vote as I suggest or I will tell the Sheriff that you bought illegal sucura for Arnold in his final days. All the money you have hoarded to feed the poor this winter will be gone in a fine.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while the blood drained from Joliet’s face.

‘You would never do such a terrible thing!’ breathed the Prior, shocked.

‘No?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Just try me.’

‘You want nemo dat because your students have been practising it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly, unable to help himself. ‘Do not look indignant – we all know the truth. But there is no glory in a victory won by cheating. Moreover, the Chancellor will not stand by and let you make a mockery of–’

‘He will never oppose my wishes,’ interrupted Morys. ‘And if you accuse us of foul play again, I shall sue you for slander. Now, Joliet, what will it be? Nemo dat or poverty?’

Joliet’s answer was in his silence and bowed head.

‘Morys, tell Tynkell that the subject is nemo dat,’ ordered Nigellus, allowing himself a tight, smug smile of triumph. ‘I shall inform our students. No, do not argue, Bartholomew – we have the necessary three votes. The matter is over.’

He and Morys hurried away. The Zachary students began to cheer when he addressed them, a reaction he quelled with an urgent flap of his hand. It told Bartholomew all he needed to know about the hostel’s sense of honour. Wauter watched for a moment, then ambled away to report the ‘decision’ to Michaelhouse, although given that every moment of preparation counted, Bartholomew thought he should have moved more quickly.

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Joliet wretchedly. ‘But I am afraid we did buy sucura to make poor Arnold smile during his last few days. And as legitimate sources are prohibitively expensive, we were obliged to turn to an illegal one.’

‘How did Nigellus know?’ Then Bartholomew sighed and answered the question himself. ‘Because he was Arnold’s medicus, and took a professional interest in his diet.’

Joliet nodded bitterly. ‘He recommended sucura. Now I know why – not to brighten a dying man’s last days, but to blackmail me. He knew I would opt for the cheapest source – and that the Sheriff would love to make an example of us.’ He looked miserable. ‘I know Tulyet is your friend, Matt, but it is the beggars who will suffer if you tell him what we have done.’

‘I will keep your confidence, although I am not sure you can trust Nigellus. Perhaps you should confess before he blabs. Dick is a compassionate and practical man, and will understand why you did it. Probably.’

Sniffing unhappily, Joliet followed him to where Michael stood with Tynkell, ready to set the disceptatio in progress. The Chancellor was almost invisible inside his sumptuous robes of office, and he looked ill.

‘It is strain,’ he said in response to Bartholomew’s polite concern. ‘Morys threatens to invite my mother here unless I do everything he says, while there are rumours that say I am going to lead the University to a new life in the Fens. Half our scholars are delighted and press me for a date; the other half accuse me of being the Devil incarnate.’

‘It is just gossip,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Everyone will forget about it in a few days.’

‘No, they will not,’ said Tynkell glumly. ‘Because the town is overjoyed by the “news”, and when they realise it is untrue, their disappointment will know no bounds. They will riot.’

‘But not today,’ said Michael. ‘Now go and start the debate. The nemo dat principle is not my idea of fine entertainment, but I suppose the consilium knows what it is doing.’

Michaelhouse’s students rose to the challenge magnificently, and their inability to recite long passages from legal texts meant their observations were sharper and more concise, which put the audience on their side. This encouraged them to even greater mental acuity, and it was quickly clear who was the better of the two participants. Zachary’s dismayed response was to resort to personal insults that lost them marks. With grim satisfaction, Bartholomew saw that Nigellus and Morys had done their pupils a serious disservice by cheating – Zachary would have fared better if they had been left to rely on their wits.

‘Deciding the victor has been extremely difficult,’ announced Tynkell when it was over.

‘Rubbish!’ cried Wayt from King’s Hall. ‘There was no real contest. And I do not say I support a College over a hostel, because everyone here knows that Michaelhouse sparkled, while Zachary was pompous and dull.’

‘You are entitled to your opinion,’ said Tynkell, shooting a nervous glance at Morys, whose eyes were like gimlets. ‘But Zachary is adjudged the winner, because–’

Cries of ‘shame’ boomed through the church, which Tynkell was unequal to quelling. Michael let them mount until it was obvious that most support was for Michaelhouse – even from the hostels – and only then did he take pity on the beleaguered Chancellor. He ordered silence in a stentorian bellow.

‘You did not let me finish,’ bleated Tynkell. ‘Zachary is adjudged the winner in quotes, but Michaelhouse made more convincing arguments. So it is a draw.’

‘You cannot have a draw,’ yelled Wayt, while Morys’s expression was as black as thunder. ‘Do not be a fool, man!’

There was a resounding chorus of agreement, which Michael again allowed to run before calling for order, hoping that Tynkell would come to his senses in the interim.

‘Very well,’ conceded the Chancellor feebly. ‘Michaelhouse wins.’

There was a loud cheer, and Bartholomew was disappointed but not surprised to see that Zachary were poor losers. They shouldered their way out of the church, sullen and angry, and the look Morys shot Tynkell was enough to make the Chancellor wilt.

‘I shall be glad when he retires,’ said Langelee, watching in disapproval. ‘Tynkell is a dreadful weakling, wholly unsuited to the post.’

‘He is,’ agreed Wauter with a tight smile. ‘But justice has been done, so let us forget about the debate and concentrate instead on convincing all these wealthy burgesses that our College is a worthy recipient for their spare money.’

The beadles cleared the church quickly after Tynkell had announced the result, aiming to reduce the chances of fights breaking out. Langelee rounded up his scholars and guests, and led them back to Michaelhouse at a jaunty clip. They were greeted by the peacock, which was indeed standing in full display by the gate. Clippesby was with it, and Bartholomew was not the only one who wondered if the Dominican had somehow persuaded it to do as the Master had ordered.

The hall looked better than it had done in years – bright, clean and welcoming. The mural was spectacular in the full light of day, with the four great thinkers holding forth under a spreading oak while the Fens stretched away in the distance. Prior Joliet stood next to it, accepting the praise of admirers, while Robert and Hamo served wine, managing it better than the students who had been allotted the task – they were more interested in reliving the triumph of the debate. Then Hakeney appeared, and shoved himself to the front of the queue.

‘Who invited him?’ hissed Langelee, glaring accusingly at his Fellows. ‘He is not rich – not now he drinks wine rather than makes it.’

‘No one did,’ surmised Wauter. ‘He just sniffed out free victuals.’

‘I see you wear my wife’s cross, Robert,’ the vintner said aggressively. He was already drunk, although Bartholomew’s remedy seemed to have worked on his constipation, as he looked better than he had when they had last seen him. ‘When will you return it to its rightful owner?’

‘I bought it in London,’ said Robert with weary patience. ‘You have seen the bill of sale.’

‘That is a forgery,’ stated Hakeney, staggering when he tried to lean against a table and missed. ‘And so is the letter from that so-called priest who you claim sold it to you. That cross belongs to me, and I demand it back.’

‘It does not,’ said Tulyet quietly. ‘I looked into this matter at your request. Do you not recall my verdict? Robert can prove ownership; you cannot. So stop this nonsense and let us enjoy this splendid repast.’

‘Unless you would rather talk to me instead,’ said Dickon. His evil leer turned into a grin of malicious satisfaction when Hakeney took one look at the crimson face and backed away.

‘Christ God, Tulyet,’ breathed Langelee, staring at the boy. ‘What have you done to him? Or is that his natural colour, and you have been deceiving us all these years?’

‘His mother insisted that he come,’ replied Tulyet stiffly, which Bartholomew interpreted as meaning that she wanted the brat out of her house. She, unlike her husband, was beginning to accept that there was something not very nice about their son. ‘Personally, I thought he should remain indoors until it wears off.’

‘Well, just make sure he does not fly up to the rafters, trailing his forked tail behind him,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I do not want potential benefactors frightened out of their wits.’

He turned abruptly to usher members of the wealthy Frevill clan towards the cakes, leaving the Sheriff scowling his indignation.

For the next hour, Bartholomew made polite conversation with the guests, who were so numerous that he wondered if Langelee had invited everyone with two coins to rub together. Edith was there with Anne and Rumburgh. They were talking to Wayt from King’s Hall, and he went to join them quickly when he saw anger suffuse his sister’s face.

‘I was telling her that Cew is getting worse,’ explained Wayt, when Bartholomew asked what was the matter. ‘He might have recovered from the fright Frenge gave him, but the dyeworks poison the air he breathes and send him ever deeper into lunacy.’

‘If that were true, you would be showing symptoms of madness, too,’ retorted Edith.

‘Perhaps he is, and he came here for a remedy,’ purred Anne, running one finger down Wayt’s sleeve, so that Bartholomew was seized with the sudden conviction that she already counted the Acting Warden among her conquests. ‘I know one that is better than any physick.’

‘In that case,’ Wayt said smoothly, ‘perhaps you will enlighten me, madam. Shall we step outside to discuss it? It is overly warm in here.’

Rumburgh started to protest, but Anne and Wayt sailed away without so much as a backward glance, leaving the burgess bleating his objections to thin air.

‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Frenge,’ Rumburgh muttered resentfully. ‘After all, I did overhear them arguing shortly before Frenge died – Frenge was telling Wayt that if he continued with his lawsuit, he would reveal a nasty secret about King’s Hall.’

‘What secret?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘I did not hear, but Wayt was livid.’ Rumburgh clenched his fists in impotent fury as his wife and the Acting Warden reached the stairs and disappeared from sight.

‘And Frenge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How did he seem?’

‘He yelled like a fishwife.’ Rumburgh lowered his voice. ‘I should not speak ill of the dead, but I could not abide him either. He had designs on my Anne, and she was hard-pressed to repel him on occasion. He was very persistent.’

‘What happened when he and Wayt parted ways?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not know. I could not bear to be in the same vicinity as either, so I walked to the dyeworks, where I listened to Edith and Anne talk about woad balls for the rest of the day.’

Edith confirmed Rumburgh’s tale, which meant that he – and Anne – had alibis for Frenge’s murder. Bartholomew was thoughtful. Had the burgess witnessed the quarrel that had led one man to poison another, and he and Michael need look no further than the Acting Warden of King’s Hall for their culprit?

A little later, Bartholomew saw Rougham, and supposed he had better apologise for what had happened the previous day. He was surprised to see him talking to Nigellus, though, because no one else from Zachary had accepted Langelee’s invitation. As Bartholomew seriously doubted that Nigellus was a more gracious loser than the rest of his colleagues, he was instantly suspicious.

‘I hope your lads learned something useful yesterday, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham pleasantly. ‘Nigellus and I certainly put them through their paces. Indeed, there were several instances when they were stunned into silence by the beauty of our logic.’

Bartholomew breathed a silent prayer of relief that Rougham was so full of hubris that he had failed to realise what was really happening. ‘They told me they had enjoyed themselves,’ he replied ambiguously.

‘You can thank me by explaining why Stephen has withdrawn his offer to give Gonville his books,’ said Rougham. ‘I saw you talking to him earlier. Did he mention it?’

‘I know why.’ Nigellus spoke before Bartholomew could answer. ‘Because Michaelhouse made such a fuss about you having them that Stephen decided to disinherit both Colleges.’

Rougham eyed him coldly. ‘Do not try to stir up hostility between Bartholomew and me, Nigellus. It is unbecoming. And speaking of unsavoury antics, I am unimpressed with Zachary’s fervour for decanting to the Fens as well. It is a stupid notion, and you would be wise to drop it.’

‘On the contrary,’ growled Nigellus, ‘it is the most sensible idea I have heard since I enrolled in the University. But do your objections mean you will not be coming with us?’

‘They do,’ averred Rougham. ‘I am not going anywhere, and neither will Michaelhouse, King’s Hall, Bene’t College or any other quality establishment. Your new studium generale will comprise nothing but a lot of ruffians from the lowest kind of hostel.’

‘Is that so?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Well, we shall see. However, I am delighted to learn that we shall soon part company permanently. To be frank, I do not respect either of you as medici.’

‘There speaks the Junior Physician,’ scoffed Rougham. ‘However, it is not we who have lost so many patients of late – Letia, Arnold, Lenne, six clients from Barnwell …’

‘None of them would have died if they had followed my advice,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘I calculated their horoscopes with great precision, and outlined exactly what they needed to do to save their lives. Is it my fault that they elected to ignore me?’

‘You mean they declined to take the medicines you prescribed?’ probed Bartholomew, thinking of the arsenal of potentially toxic ingredients that was available to physicians, many of which would not be detectable even if the victim was dissected.

‘I do not prescribe medicine,’ replied Nigellus haughtily. ‘If a patient needs some, then he is past saving and it would be a waste of his money.’

‘Lies!’ cried Rougham, while Bartholomew regarded the Zachary man askance. ‘You do dispense cures, because I saw you at the apothecary’s shop only today.’

‘Yes – buying liquorice root for sweetmeats,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘Not that it is any of your concern. Irby has a fondness for them, and I thought they might cheer him up. He is a colleague, you see, so I am prepared to go the extra mile for him.’

‘How is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing some of Nigellus’s clients were listening, as he was sure they would defect to another practitioner if they knew their current one did not consider them worthy of his best efforts.

‘Ill,’ replied Nigellus shortly. ‘He has lost his appetite.’

Bartholomew waited for a fuller report, and when none came said, ‘What ails him exactly?’

Nigellus regarded him askance. ‘I have just told you: loss of appetite. It is a nasty disease.’

‘It is not a disease,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘It is a symptom.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Nigellus. ‘But I expect him to die of his malady, and then we shall have Morys as Principal. I cannot say I am sorry. Zachary needs a strong man at the helm, and while Irby is a kindly soul, he is hardly what you would call an inspiring leader.’

‘Would you like Rougham or me to visit him?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. Irby had not been in good health when they had last met, but he had certainly not been dying. Did it mean that Nigellus was the killer, and was in the process of claiming yet another victim – one whose death he had just said would suit him very well?

‘I do not. He is my patient, and I shall thank you not to meddle.’

Bartholomew went on the offensive. ‘You claimed that Letia died of dizziness, but–’

‘Dizziness?’ blurted Rougham. ‘I have never heard that ever given as a cause of death.’

‘Then you are a poor physician,’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Next you will say that there is no such disease as metal in the mouth, which killed Lenne. Or insomnia, which took Arnold. Or pallor, which carried away so many at Barnwell, although I bested it when it struck Trinity Hall.’

‘But they are not diseases,’ cried Bartholomew. ‘And what is “metal in the mouth” anyway?’

‘I am shocked that you should need to ask,’ declared Nigellus. ‘Call yourself a medicus? Clearly, you have a very long way to go before you match me in experience and skill. Now, if you will excuse me, there are wealthy burgesses who may need to buy a disease-preventing horoscope.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Rougham, watching him strut away, while Bartholomew supposed the last remark explained why Nigellus had accepted Langelee’s invitation. ‘If I am ever ill, promise you will not let him anywhere near me. I shall do the same for you.’

Bartholomew made the vow with all sincerity. Then Rougham went to refill his goblet, and Bartholomew turned to see that Michael had overheard the entire conversation.

‘Even I know you cannot die of pallor, insomnia and dizziness,’ said the monk. ‘While “metal in the mouth” is a nonsense.’

‘He should not be allowed anywhere near the sick,’ stated Bartholomew. ‘Unless we can believe his claim that he does not bother with medicine.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps we need look no further for our poisoner. But would Nigellus be strong enough to force a fit man like Frenge to swallow something deadly?’

‘Yes, if the first mouthful was taken willingly. Then, when Frenge collapsed from the shock, Nigellus could have grabbed his head and poured the rest into his mouth. But why would Nigellus do such a thing? He has no reason to inflict such a terrible death on a client.’

‘Actually, he has – I have just learned that Irby bought ale from Frenge, but it was bad. Several Zachary masters stormed to the brewery to demand a refund, but Frenge refused. The confrontation grew quite heated, by all accounts.’

‘And you think this is sufficient to drive a healer to murder?’

‘I think it is sufficient to drive Nigellus to murder. Apparently, he was most indignant about the wrong that was done to his new hostel. Perhaps it is his way of demonstrating loyalty to the foundation that brought him from a dull country practice to the hub of academia.’

‘He was not the only one who quarrelled with Frenge.’ Briefly, Bartholomew told the monk what Rumburgh had confided, but when they went in search of the Acting Warden of King’s Hall, it was to discover that he had left early. Someone else had left early, too.

‘My wife has gone home,’ said Rumburgh. ‘She found your hall a little too warm.’

‘So did Wayt,’ said Michael. ‘And I imagine they are both busily dispensing with unnecessary clothing as we speak.’

It was late by the time the last of Michaelhouse’s guests went home, leaving their hosts with a mass of dirty goblets and a crumb-strewn floor. Wearily, Fellows and students began setting all to rights, while the servants were packed off to bed before they could claim overtime.

‘That went well,’ said Suttone, whose idea of clearing up was to eat the leftovers. ‘No one will think we are on the brink of bankruptcy now, and benefactors will flock to us.’

‘Have any flocked so far?’ asked Wauter eagerly.

‘Not yet,’ replied Langelee. ‘So we must continue the illusion for a little longer. Our next ploy will be to change the colour of our tabards from black to green.’

‘We cannot buy new cloth for sixty students and Fellows, Master,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘The expense would finish us for certain.’

‘And therein lies the beauty of my plan,’ said Langelee smugly. ‘We will not have new tabards made – we shall dye the old ones. Edith has offered to oblige for a very reasonable price.’

‘But they are black,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘The colour will not take.’

‘I am sure she knows what she is doing,’ said Langelee. ‘She would not have accepted the commission if she did not think she could do it.’

‘Then I hope your trust is not misplaced,’ said Wauter worriedly. ‘Or we shall have no tabards at all, and our students will have to wear secular clothes.’

‘Like Zachary,’ said Father William disapprovingly. ‘Not one was in his uniform today, and if we had lost the disceptatio, I was going to demand that they be disqualified on the grounds of illegal attire. But as we won, I decided to overlook it. Still, I am surprised that Tynkell did not order them home to change.’

‘It is time we were rid of Tynkell and had a proper Chancellor,’ said Suttone harshly. ‘One who is not afraid that Morys might carry tales to his mother.’

‘Incidentally, Irby summoned you earlier,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew. ‘He claimed he was dying and wanted you to visit. I was on my way to fetch you, but Nigellus intercepted me and volunteered to go instead. I did not think you would mind, as they are members of the same hostel.’

Alarmed, Bartholomew grabbed his cloak. ‘I had better go now.’

‘Unfortunately, there is no longer a need,’ said Langelee. ‘There was another message within the hour to say that Irby had passed away. It was very sudden, apparently.’

‘Well,’ breathed Michael, while Bartholomew gazed at the Master in dismay. ‘Yet another of Nigellus’s patients dead in curious circumstances.’

‘We should go there now,’ determined Bartholomew, donning his cloak. ‘Nigellus was very open in wanting to be rid of Irby so that Morys could be Principal. Well, this is one death that will not go unremarked.’

‘Would he have expressed such an opinion if he were the killer?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘It would be reckless, would it not, to announce a motive for murder before the event?’

‘He thinks we are stupid,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He does not fear an investigation, because he believes he can outwit us.’

‘Then he will learn the perils of underestimating the Senior Proctor and his trusty Corpse Examiner,’ vowed Michael. ‘But it is very late, and Irby will still be dead in the morning. I recommend we wait until tomorrow before beginning our assault – when daylight will assist in telling you what really happened to the unfortunate Principal of Zachary Hostel.’