A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 6

The All Souls’ Day celebrations marked the end of Hallow-tide, and the scholars of Michaelhouse woke the following morning aware that it was time to return to their usual routines. There were groans from Bartholomew’s students when the bell rang to call them to church, and everyone was tardy about assembling in the yard. There were sore heads aplenty, and no Fellow thought it would be a good day for teaching.

It was William’s turn to take the church service, and as he prided himself on the speed at which he could gabble through the sacred words, it was not long before everyone was walking back to College for breakfast. Any food left over from the reception had been eaten by the servants by the time they returned, so they sat down to watery oatmeal flavoured with cockles, cabbage and nutmeg. The dismal fare told them for certain that the holiday was over.

‘I thought about Irby all night,’ said Bartholomew unhappily, setting down his spoon when he found a slug in his bowl. ‘When Nigellus told me that he had confined him to bed, I assumed it was part of the ploy to foist nemo dat on us – to dispense with a member of the consilium who would have voted against it. I wish to God I had gone to see him at once.’

‘I wish you had, too,’ said Michael. ‘Then he might still be alive.’

‘He tried to summon me,’ Bartholomew went on wretchedly, ‘which suggests he was dissatisfied with Nigellus’s care. And with good cause.’

Michael nodded. ‘He is the tenth of Nigellus’s patients to die – the eleventh if we count Frenge. It cannot be coincidence, and he did say that Irby was not the leader he wanted for Zachary. I imagine we will find motives for the other deaths, too, if we dig deep enough.’

‘We might.’ Bartholomew was still racked with guilt for not going to Irby’s assistance.

‘But why kill them?’ Michael went on. ‘He must realise that people will notice if he loses more clients than other medici. Then the surviving ones will desert him, which he will not appreciate, given how much he loves the fees they pay.’

‘He practised at Barnwell for years before coming here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could not have dispatched those customers at this sort of rate, or the whole village would be in their graves. We must be wrong, Brother. He is a physician – a healer.’

‘Of sorts – even I can tell that he is barely competent. Hah! Now there is a thought …’

‘What is?’

‘Perhaps he dispatched them to conceal evidence of his ineptitude – his failure to cure them. After all, if he used poison, who would know? You detected signs of a corrosive substance on Frenge, but there was nothing on Letia, so perhaps he learned from his mistake. Meanwhile, Arnold and the Barnwell folk are buried, so unless we exhume them …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

‘Then maybe the dyeworks are responsible,’ said Michael. He held up his hand when Bartholomew started to object. ‘Even you cannot deny that it produces some very foul substances, and I dread to think what is slyly dumped in the river when Edith’s ladies think no one is looking. You can ask when we visit her today.’

‘We are going to see Edith? Why?’

‘To warn her that I have received a lot of complaints about her reeking enterprise, and that she needs to find a way to eliminate the problem before there is serious trouble. But we had better visit Zachary first, to ascertain exactly what happened to Irby. Shall we go now?’

Bartholomew scribbled a list of passages from Galen’s De ossibus for Langelee to read to his classes, and followed the monk across the yard to the gate, where they met Prior Joliet, Almoner Robert and Hamo, coming to put some finishing touches to the mural.

‘Well?’ asked Joliet pleasantly. ‘Did Michaelhouse secure a wealthy benefactor last night?’

‘Negotiations are under way with several interested parties,’ lied Michael, and quickly changed the subject before they could press him for details. ‘I heard you did rather well, too.’

Joliet’s round face split into a grin of delight. ‘Yes! We have been commissioned to paint King’s Hall’s library and Peterhouse’s refectory. They said they had never seen more lifelike leaves than the ones on our oak tree.’

‘And the mayor would like to see what can be done for the guildhall,’ put in Robert, wincing as he tried to free his long white hair from the chain that held his pectoral cross. ‘Not to mention a couple of enquiries from private individuals.’

‘Good occasion,’ mumbled Hamo, apparently deeming it worthy of a rare two-word sentence.

‘The only unpleasant bit was when Hakeney made a scene,’ said Robert, wincing. ‘The man is deranged, and I wish he would find someone else to hound.’

‘I shall buy him a new cross when Michaelhouse pays us at Christmas,’ declared Joliet, all happy generosity. ‘Wayt has offered to get one when he next visits London.’

‘We had better go,’ said Robert. ‘The sooner we finish here, the sooner we can move to our next project.’ That notion brought a sudden smile. ‘The poor will not want for bread this winter!’

‘It is not fair,’ muttered Michael when the Austins had gone. ‘We went to all that trouble for Michaelhouse, not our hired artists.’

‘Yet it is hard to begrudge their good fortune. They aim to use the profits for alms.’

‘I know,’ said Michael irritably. ‘But that does not mean I have to like them raking in money when we still have nothing.’

They met Tulyet at the end of St Michael’s Lane. Dickon was in tow, his face even brighter than it had been the previous day, suggesting the brat had contrived to acquire a private supply of dye and had reapplied it. His hair ‘horns’ were gone, though, no doubt a condition of being allowed to accompany his father out. Regardless, he was still attracting a lot of uneasy attention.

‘His mother was keen for him to stretch his legs,’ said Tulyet, when Michael enquired tentatively whether it might not have been advisable to leave him at home. ‘And I am reluctant to waste good training time anyway. There is a lot to learn about being Sheriff.’

‘I hope he will not be stepping into your shoes too soon,’ said Michael, aware that Dickon would be a disaster for the University, and probably not very good for the town either.

‘Father says I am already showing a firm hand,’ said the boy with a malignant grin. ‘Did you hear that I stopped that sot Hakeney from stealing your spoons yesterday? He started to shove them up his sleeve, but I told him that I would chop off his fingers if he did not put them back.’

‘A crime was averted,’ said Tulyet proudly. ‘One that would have caused more bad feeling between the town and the University had it succeeded. I am delighted by Dickon’s vigilance.’

‘Have you learned anything new about Frenge?’ asked Michael, unable to bring himself to praise the child. ‘My own enquiries are frustratingly slow.’

‘I have had scant time for anything other than keeping the peace.’

‘There was a big fight last night, see,’ interjected Dickon gleefully. ‘I was there, so I joined in. I stabbed two scholars as hard as I could, and I bit another.’

‘Who are they?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Do they need medical attention?’

‘He exaggerates,’ said Tulyet, shooting his son a warning glance. ‘He did manage to corner a trio of lads from Zachary, but they ran away before any real harm was done. Do you have a few spare moments to talk? I would like to hear what you have learned in more detail.’

‘A few,’ replied Michael, while Bartholomew thought it said a good deal about Dickon’s fearsome reputation that he was able to rout three lads twice his age. ‘But then we must visit Zachary to find out exactly why Irby died.’

He was hungry after the meagre victuals at breakfast, so suggested repairing to the Brazen George, where the landlord kept a room for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant chamber, overlooking a pretty yard where contented chickens scratched among the herb-beds. Landlord Lister came to serve them in person, chatting amiably as he regaled them with the latest gossip, although he was careful to keep well away from Dickon.

‘Did you hear that everyone in Trinity Hall was ill again yesterday?’ he asked. ‘And do not blame the syllabub this time, Doctor – they bought it from me, and the cream was fresh.’

‘Did Nigellus tend them?’ asked Michael casually.

‘I believe he did offer his services, although even he could not calculate horoscopes for everyone, so he told them all to don clean nether garments and stand in full moonlight for an hour.’

‘That does not sound too deadly,’ murmured Michael. ‘But I shall visit Trinity Hall later, to ensure he did not prescribe anything else.’

‘My wife was ill during the night as well,’ said Tulyet. ‘So was Dickon, although he has recovered, thank God. It must have been something they ate.’

‘Not at Michaelhouse,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘None of us were unwell.’

‘Suttone was,’ contradicted Bartholomew. ‘He called me at midnight with stomach cramps, and so did one of William’s students.’

‘Because they overindulged,’ countered Michael sharply. ‘I sampled everything on offer, and I was not ill.’

Tulyet took the opportunity to ask Lister a few questions about sucura and how it might be smuggled into the town, but while the landlord was willing to confide in an old and trusted customer like Michael, sharing confidences with the Sheriff was another matter entirely. He mumbled a vague reply and fled.

‘How am I supposed to stop these illegal imports when no one will talk to me?’ sighed Tulyet crossly. ‘I am sure everyone knows exactly who is responsible. Everyone except me, that is.’

Michael shrugged. ‘No one likes paying taxes, and why should the King receive money for the ingredients we put in our cakes?’

‘Because it is the law,’ replied Tulyet tartly.

‘Then perhaps His Majesty should consider setting a more reasonable levy. Sucura is expensive without the tax, but with the import duty, it is beyond the reach of everyone except him and his wealthiest barons. You cannot blame folk for buying it from smugglers.’

‘You buy it from smugglers?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘Which ones? Their names, if you please.’

‘I was speaking hypothetically,’ replied Michael. ‘I do not shop for foodstuffs myself – I am far too busy for that sort of indulgence.’

Tulyet glared accusingly at him. ‘But I imagine Agatha has laid in a store of it for Michaelhouse.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ grumbled Michael, before remembering the trouble that had been taken to convince everyone that the College was a good proposition for potential investors. He trusted Tulyet with the truth, but Dickon was there, small eyes alight with interest, so he settled for saying, ‘We do not break the law, Dick.’

Tulyet shot him a lugubrious glance, which suggested that Wauter had failed to keep him away from the marchpanes. Eager to avoid trouble, Michael changed the subject.

‘Go away, Dickon. I need to discuss Frenge’s murder with your father. Privately.’

‘You can talk in front of my son,’ said Tulyet. ‘I trust him to be discreet.’

‘He was not discreet when he gossiped about the physicians’ experiments to refine lamp fuel last summer,’ Michael shot back. ‘His loose tongue caused all manner of harm.’

‘He has learned his lesson.’ Tulyet was stung by the reminder. ‘He is older now. And anyway, what do you expect if a group of medici gathers in the garden next door, and sets about making explosions? Of course a bright boy will be intrigued.’

‘Do you have any more tests planned, Doctor?’ asked Dickon keenly. ‘Because if so, I want to watch. You never meet in Meryfeld’s house any more.’

And Dickon was the reason why, thought Bartholomew. ‘We are too busy these days.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘Because it was irresponsible. But tell me about Frenge, Brother. In front of Dickon, if you please – he needs to understand how investigations are conducted.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘We have discovered that Frenge was engaged in some very dark business, which may have led to his demise.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk askance: they had done nothing of the sort.

‘What manner of dark business?’ asked Tulyet curiously.

‘Cattle rustling,’ lied Michael. ‘Which explains why he was on the King’s Ditch. After all, what better way to transport stolen livestock than by water? The poison must have struck him down when he reached the Austins’ convent, and he staggered towards it for help.’

‘I had no idea he was a criminal,’ said Tulyet wonderingly. ‘Perhaps an accomplice killed him then – an argument over profits. I shall look into the matter whenever I have a spare moment.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘But do you have nothing to report, Dick? Not even a snippet?’

‘Well, I learned that Frenge visited Stephen shortly before his death,’ replied Tulyet. ‘I have tried to speak to Stephen, but he is never in. I am beginning to think he is avoiding me.’

‘He will not avoid me,’ vowed Michael. ‘Leave him to us. Is there anything else?’

‘Only that Morys has written to Chancellor Tynkell’s mother to complain about the way his hostel is treated by the University. Word is that she is on her way to assess the situation for herself, which I sincerely hope is untrue. She is a friend of the Queen, and we do not want our troubles reported to royal ears.’

‘She is a dragon,’ interposed Dickon. ‘Chancellor Tynkell told me so, and I am looking forward to meeting her. I hope she can breathe fire, because I shall be disappointed if it turns out to be one of your scholars’ inventions.’

The discussion was cut short by an urgent summons for Tulyet to go to the dyeworks, where a group of burgesses had gathered to complain about the volume of water that was being extracted from the river – water that was needed for their own businesses downstream. Bartholomew stood to go with him, but Tulyet waved him away.

‘The sight of the owner’s brother is unlikely to help, especially one who is a scholar.’

‘But she might need me,’ objected Bartholomew.

Tulyet gave a wry smile. ‘She will not, because she has her own little army.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘You mean her Frail Sisters? They are hardly–’

‘I mean the men who used to hire her ladies when they were whores. They have gathered to protect the place, and some are very unsavoury characters. They will keep Edith safe – from disgruntled merchants and from scholars.’

‘It is true, Matt,’ said Michael, watching the Sheriff hurry away, Dickon scampering at his side. ‘Your sister’s women have garnered support from old clients. Unfortunately, there is a rumour that these men are being rewarded with the kind of favours they enjoyed when the lasses were walking the streets.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘In other words, the dyeworks is being used as a brothel. Edith cannot know – she would not condone that sort of thing.’

‘Then we shall tell her. But later, once Dick has restored the peace. He is right about you being more likely to inflame than cool the situation, and we should stay away for now.’

Bartholomew turned to something else that was worrying him. ‘Are you sure it was wise to tell him that Frenge was a cattle thief? When he learns the truth – which he will – he will be furious with you for wasting his time.’

‘Better that than risk Dickon blabbing our suspicions to all and sundry. We do not want Nigellus to learn that he is at the top of our list of suspects just yet.’

‘I am more inclined to believe that Shirwynk killed Frenge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He did it in the expectation that King’s Hall would drop their lawsuit if Frenge was dead.’

‘But it was Shirwynk who encouraged Frenge to invade King’s Hall in the first place,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He is unlikely to have killed him for doing what he was told.’

‘He doubtless did not anticipate that King’s Hall would sue. So he miscalculated twice: once when he underestimated Wayt’s capacity for revenge; and once when murdering Frenge did not result in King’s Hall abandoning their case against the brewery.’

‘And Shirwynk would have eager help in Peyn,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, we should not forget Stephen – the man who spoke to Frenge shortly before the murder and with Shirwynk shortly after it. And who slept with Frenge’s mistress – I think he was lying when he said he had only seduced Anne once.’

‘I suspect it was she who did the seducing, although I doubt she will admit it if we ask.’

‘There is also Wayt,’ Michael went on. ‘The easy familiarity between him and Anne at Michaelhouse suggested that they were old flames. And Rumburgh said that Frenge and Wayt argued shortly before the murder …’

‘True. Moreover, Wayt is one of the three scholars at King’s Hall who have no alibi for Frenge’s death.’

‘Next, there is Hakeney, who hates the Austins because he thinks Robert stole his dead wife’s cross. He may have sent Frenge to steal it back, and dispatched him there in the hope of embarrassing the friary.’

‘That would be an extreme thing to do,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Although if he were drunk …’

‘And finally, Wauter.’ Michael raised a hand when Bartholomew began to object. ‘I do not believe him capable of such wickedness either, but he has said and done some very odd things of late, and until they are explained, he must remain on our list.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, albeit reluctantly.

Michael stood. ‘So there are our suspects: Nigellus, Shirwynk with Peyn, Stephen, Wayt and his two alibi-less colleagues from King’s Hall, Hakeney and Wauter. We had better go to Zachary before any more of the day is lost, and assess whether Nigellus has made an end of Irby.’

They knocked on Zachary’s door a short while later, and were admitted to a building that was as grand as any College. It possessed a handsome hall on the ground floor, beautifully decorated with geometrical designs, and with real glass in its windows. Unlike most foundations, it did not serve as a refectory and lecture chamber – Zachary had designated classrooms for teaching, so that its masters did not have to compete with each other to make themselves heard.

‘If you are here to fine us for improper dress, think again,’ said Morys challengingly. He was wearing another yellow and black outfit, while his students had also dispensed with their uniform tabards in favour of something more colourful, and Nigellus was in red. ‘We are indoors, and can do what we like in the confines of our own home.’

Michael smiled pleasantly. ‘You may, of course. However, my beadles are under orders to stamp down on infractions in the streets, so you might want to change before going out.’

Morys’s expression turned smug. ‘You will never see the fine you levied on Saturday, though. Tynkell has quashed it for us, on the grounds that it was Hallow-tide.’

‘He does not have that authority,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Besides, it has already been entered in our official records, so unless you want “payment refused” put next to it – which means that no Zachary man will graduate until the matter is resolved – I suggest you settle the debt.’

‘You cannot–’ began Morys furiously.

‘I already have,’ said Michael. ‘So what will it be? Payment or a battle you will never win?’

Scowling angrily, Morys counted out the coins and handed them over, while Michael sat at a table to write a receipt. Nigellus made no effort to contribute to the discussion, and went instead to pick up a book and flick through it with studied disinterest. Bartholomew regarded him with dislike, thinking that here was a man who had spent so many years cowing patients with arrogant condescension that he exuded disdain as a matter of course.

‘Do you not consider it demeaning to browbeat a man by telling tales to his mother, Morys?’ asked Michael as he worked. ‘It seems rather a shabby thing to do.’

‘I am perfectly within my rights to write to my new in-laws,’ declared Morys, bristling like an angry insect. ‘It is hardly my fault that Tynkell is frightened of his dam.’

‘If she is as terrifying as he claims, you might have done yourself a serious disservice by summoning her,’ warned Michael. ‘She may have words for you, too.’

Morys drew himself up to his full unimpressive height. ‘Let her try! I am more than capable of standing firm against a woman, even one who counts royals among her friends.’

‘Are you Principal now that Irby is dead, or will there be an election?’ asked Michael, changing the subject abruptly as he scattered sand on the ink to dry it. ‘I imagine you are not the only scholar who would like a stab at the post.’

‘Actually, he is,’ said Nigellus. ‘So there will be no election, because we are all agreed: Morys is the man to lead us forward.’

Morys grinned nastily. ‘Wauter will be sorry he left Zachary when he hears that Irby is dead. He wanted to be Principal himself.’

‘He is happy where he is,’ said Bartholomew sharply.

‘You think being a Fellow is preferable to being a Principal?’ sneered Morys. ‘Wauter will not – he is an ambitious man. Or have you not yet seen that side of his character? Your Langelee should watch himself.’

‘Irby,’ said Bartholomew, declining to pursue such a distasteful discussion. ‘I would like to examine him now. Where is he?’

‘Examine him?’ demanded Nigellus, eyes narrowing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I need an official cause of death to enter in the records,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘As is the case for any scholar who dies.’

‘Nigellus conducted the only examination that is necessary,’ stated Morys. ‘He rested a hand on Irby’s forehead after he died, to test for the presence of his soul.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘He did what?’

‘It is a standard medical technique,’ replied Nigellus loftily. ‘As you would know if you had my extensive experience. Cadavers vibrate if the soul is still within them.’

‘Regardless,’ said Michael, speaking while Bartholomew was still processing the outrageous claim, ‘my Corpse Examiner is duty-bound to look for himself. So where is Irby?’

‘I am not telling you,’ said Nigellus. ‘You have no right to maul–’

‘We have every right,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or is there a reason you want to keep him hidden? Such as the fact that his death is not all you claim?’

‘Of course not!’ snarled Nigellus. ‘Very well – disturb his rest if you must. However, you will do it without me, because I want no part in such a vile desecration.’

‘Good,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Because you would not have been permitted to observe anyway. It is against regulations.’

This was news to Bartholomew, although Nigellus only gave an irritable sigh before returning to his book. This time, there was considerable agitation in his page flicking, so much so that one tore. Muttering under his breath, Morys led the way up the stairs, where Irby occupied the largest room, laid out ready to be carried to church.

‘Will you be long?’ Morys asked curtly. ‘We have sent for a bier, and it will be here soon. We do not want to pay extra because you make the bearers wait.’

‘Your grief for Irby is duly noted,’ said Michael drily. ‘And the answer to your question is that the examination will take as long as is necessary. Now leave us, please.’

Huffing irritably, Morys backed out and closed the door behind him. Michael took a scrap of parchment from his purse and shoved it in the keyhole. He and Bartholomew exchanged wry grins when they heard the new Principal curse softly on the other side.

‘Hurry up,’ Michael whispered, aiming for a large clothes chest, which he flung open. ‘I suspect it will not be long before they devise some pretext to interrupt us.’

‘What are you hoping to find?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him begin to rifle.

‘Poison – which will give us the evidence we need to arrest Nigellus.’

‘It will not be in here. If Irby has been murdered, the culprit will have taken any toxins away, to ensure that no one ever knows how his victim really died.’

‘We shall see.’

They were silent as they worked, Michael opening cupboards and peering under the bed, and Bartholomew intent on his examination. Unfortunately, it told him nothing. There were no marks of violence, no suggestion of illness – sudden or otherwise – and no indication that Irby had been forced to swallow poison.

‘So what did kill him then?’ asked Michael, exasperated. ‘Not “loss of appetite” surely?’

‘I do not know, Brother. However, Nigellus does not distinguish between symptoms and diseases, so it is possible that Irby complained about not being hungry – a remark that Nigellus then took to be an ailment in itself.’

‘You are too generous. Irby’s lack of hunger was probably caused by some insidious poison. Do you know of any that might have such a terrible effect?’

‘Plenty, although there is no way to tell whether they were fed to Irby – and dissection will not give us an answer, before you suggest it. In short, I cannot tell you why he died, and my official verdict will have to be “cause unknown”.’

‘Damn! Because something untoward is definitely afoot here. For a start, everything in this room belongs to Morys, and there is no sign of that grey and cream cloak Irby always wore. Morys could not even wait for Irby’s corpse to be moved before claiming these quarters as his own!’

‘Does that mean he is the killer, not Nigellus?’

‘Not necessarily – perhaps they did it together. After all, there does seem to be a consensus in Zachary that Irby was too placid.’

‘But we have no evidence. You found no sign that a toxin was used, and neither did I.’

Michael pointed to a jug on the table. ‘The obvious place for it is there – it contains Shirwynk’s apple wine, which we know Irby liked, because he always had a flask of it to hand. But I drank from it just now, and I am still here, so it must be innocent.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You sampled wine in a room where you suspect a man was poisoned? What were you thinking?’

‘That we needed answers,’ replied Michael shortly. Then he looked sheepish. ‘To be frank, I was thirsty, and it did not occur to me that it might be dangerous until I had taken a substantial swallow. But we are wasting our time here, Matt. If Irby was murdered, his killers have covered their tracks too well. We shall have to find another way to catch them.’

Bartholomew was about to open the door when he noticed a piece of parchment adhering to the bottom of the jug – one that might have remained hidden if Michael had not indulged his greedy instincts. It was folded in half, and he was surprised to see his own name written on one side. He opened it, aware of the thudding of his heart. Was it going to be an outpouring of Irby’s fears, naming Nigellus or Morys as the villain and berating Bartholomew for not coming to his aid? But there were only three words, and they made no sense whatsoever.

‘Similia similibus curantur,’ he read aloud. He looked at Michael in puzzlement as he translated. ‘“Like things are cured by like things”. What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that it is time we asked Nigellus a few probing questions,’ said Michael with quiet determination.

‘Why him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And not Morys?’

‘Because of the word cured, which is what physicians do. Or do not do. I imagine Irby left this clue when you failed to answer his plea for help. He would have known that the Corpse Examiner would come, and it is his way of identifying his killer.’

‘You are reading far too much into it, Brother! It might just be the nonsensical ramblings of a dying man.’

‘Perhaps. But let us see what Nigellus has to say for himself.’

They descended the stairs to discover that Nigellus had gone to Trinity Hall, to tend those patients who had not benefited from standing under the full moon in clean underwear. Michael shot Bartholomew a look that revealed exactly what he was thinking: that Nigellus had fled to avoid being asked any awkward questions.

‘I am sure he will not be long,’ the monk said, sitting on a bench and making himself comfortable. The Zachary men exchanged glances of consternation: they had expected him to leave once the Corpse Examiner had finished with Irby. ‘Meanwhile, perhaps you will talk to us.’

Alarm flashed in Morys’s eyes, and he ordered a student to fetch Nigellus back as quickly as possible, which had Michael flinging Bartholomew another meaningful glance, this one asking why the new Principal was unwilling to suffer an interrogation on his colleague’s behalf.

‘We found this.’ Michael handed over the scrap of parchment. ‘Is it Irby’s writing?’

Morys nodded. ‘He must have penned it in his delirium – a nonsense, as I am sure you can tell. Where was it?’

‘Under the wine jug.’

Morys pulled a face. ‘Ah, yes, the apple wine he loved so much. Personally, I would never touch anything made by Shirwynk. His hatred of our University is unnatural, and he cannot be trusted not to piss in it – or worse.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully: did the remark arise from the perfectly understandable caution of a man who hated scholars? Or was he trying to shift the blame for Irby’s death on to an innocent party?

‘You assumed the mantle of responsibility very quickly, Morys,’ remarked Michael. ‘Was Irby even cold before you took possession of his room?’

‘Nigellus said Irby’s soul had left his body, so where lay the harm?’ shrugged Morys. ‘However, I can see what you are thinking, and you are wrong. No one at Zachary would have harmed Irby. He was weak, but we liked him, and we are sorry he has gone.’

‘Where are his belongings?’ asked Michael, his cool expression suggesting that he did not believe a word of it. ‘We need to examine those as well.’

‘Why?’ asked Morys suspiciously, then shrugged again when the monk’s eyebrows drew down in an irritable frown. ‘They are in the shed, ready to be sent to his kin.’

A student conducted them there, but although Michael and Bartholomew went through Irby’s things with the utmost care, they found nothing to help their investigation. Bartholomew paid special attention to the wineskin, but it was empty, and if it had contained something to hasten its owner’s end, there was no sign of it now.

They returned to Zachary’s hall, where Michael once again made himself comfortable, and Bartholomew stood behind him, tense and alert for trouble.

‘What happened last night?’ the monk asked. ‘We know Irby tried to summon Matt.’

Morys rolled his eyes to indicate his irritation at being questioned again, but answered anyway. ‘He had been unwell for two weeks or more, but woke feeling worse yesterday. Nigellus recommended that he stay in bed and told me to take his place on the consilium. A little later, the rest of the hostel joined us at the disceptatio.’

‘You left a sick man alone?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed.

‘No – Stephen the lawyer offered to sit with him. When we came home, Irby was fading fast. He asked for you, but then Nigellus arrived back, so you were not needed. Irby died shortly after. Of loss of appetite, as I am sure you discovered. Now is there anything else? I have work to do.’

Michael smiled enigmatically. ‘Then do it. Matt and I will not disturb you.’

Bristling with indignation, Morys busied himself with pens and parchment, but the presence of the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner was a distraction, and although he made a good show of being inundated with important business, he did little more than shuffle documents into random piles.

Eventually, the door opened and Nigellus stalked in. The student had evidently decided that reinforcements were needed, because he had brought Kellawe and Segeforde as well, a sight that lit Morys’s waspish face with relief. The Franciscan muttered something in his thick northern accent that might have been a greeting, but that might equally well have been an insult. His voice was hoarse, indicating that he had been ranting, almost certainly at the dyeworks. But it was Segeforde who caught Bartholomew’s attention: the man’s thick purple lips were stark against an unnaturally white face, which shone with sweat.

‘Go to see if Yerland is better, Segeforde,’ instructed Morys. ‘Then lie down yourself. You are exhausted after the effort of preparing … our students for yesterday’s debate … drilling them in the art of disputation, I mean. Not making them learn chunks of legal tract verbatim.’

‘We lost because Michaelhouse cheated,’ snarled Kellawe, and out went his pugnacious jaw, all bristling antagonism.

‘What is wrong with Yerland?’ asked Bartholomew, treating the ridiculous claim with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it.

‘A headache,’ replied Nigellus. ‘I told him he would feel better if he recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards, but he refuses to do it on the grounds that he cannot concentrate. Fool!’

‘Perhaps Bartholomew has a remedy,’ said Segeforde, the hope in his voice suggesting that if so, he would have a dose of it himself.

Bartholomew made for the door. ‘Where is Yerland? Upstairs?’

‘Yes, but there is no need for you to see him,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘Just give me what you usually prescribe for severe pains in the head, and I will make sure he swallows it.’

‘I cannot prescribe anything without examining him first,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Nigellus should think he might. ‘Headaches are symptomatic of all manner of conditions, and it would be reckless to dispense medicine without making a proper diagnosis first.’

Nigellus scowled. ‘Very well, if you must, although you are wasting your time. Segeforde will take you to him, while I stay here with Morys and Kellawe. They can help me answer the Senior Proctor’s questions, which I imagine will be deeply stupid.’

Segeforde took Bartholomew to the students’ dormitory, where Yerland writhed in agony. A brief glance inside the lad’s mouth showed no evidence that he had swallowed anything caustic, but that did not mean he had not been poisoned. As the student was unable to answer questions himself, Segeforde obliged. He did so in a voice that shook with fear, and Bartholomew saw he fully expected to share Yerland’s fate.

‘It came on suddenly. Before that, he was as hale as the rest of us.’

‘Has he eaten or drunk anything different than usual?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There must have been special Hallow-tide treats over the past three days.’

‘Of course, but they were all from common pots, and no one else is ill. He did have a lot of apple pie, though.’

‘What about you? Did you eat a lot of apple pie too?’

‘No,’ whispered Segeforde. ‘I do not like fresh fruit, so I kept to the Lombard slices. I cannot imagine what is wrong with me. Do you think it is a deadly contagion that will carry us all off?’

‘It is not a contagion.’ Bartholomew decided to be blunt. ‘Has Nigellus given you or Yerland anything to swallow? Some remedy, perhaps, which he claimed is beneficial to health?’

Segeforde would not look at him. ‘He thinks such things are a waste of money, and I was surprised when he agreed to let you prescribe a cure for Yerland. Perhaps he feels the boy is beyond his skills – just as Irby was last night.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He rummaged in the bag he always carried over his shoulder for wood betony and poppy juice, hoping Yerland’s pain would subside with sleep. He mixed a milder dose for Segeforde, who gulped it down eagerly. It was not long before Yerland’s breathing grew deep and regular, and the lines of agony eased from his face. The colour returned to Segeforde’s cheeks, too. Bartholomew recommended that they both confine themselves to barley broth and weak ale for a few days, and to call him if there was no further improvement. Then he went downstairs, where Michael was still grilling Nigellus.

‘What does similia similibus curantur mean to you?’ he was asking. Nigellus, Morys and Kellawe sat in a row facing him, all looking like courtiers in their gorgeous robes; even Kellawe’s habit was a princely garment, quite unlike those worn by most friars in his Order. ‘Irby wrote it shortly before he died – addressed to Matt.’

Nigellus leaned back in his chair, all arrogant confidence. ‘It means nothing – other than that his wits must have wandered as he slipped into his fatal decline.’

‘What do you think killed him?’ asked Michael.

‘Loss of appetite,’ replied Nigellus. ‘How many more times do you need to be told?’

‘No one starves to death in a few hours,’ put in Bartholomew impatiently.

‘I did not say he starved,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘I said he lost his appetite. Clearly, his lack of eating caused a fatal imbalance in his humours. However, he did not stop drinking, and he was fond of Shirwynk’s apple wine – perhaps that played a role in his demise.’

‘We will never know,’ said Michael pointedly, ‘because someone had emptied the wineskin he always carried.’

‘Irby himself, probably,’ shrugged Nigellus. ‘As I said, he had a fondness for the stuff.’

‘A lot of your patients have died recently: the Barnwell folk, Letia, Lenne, Arnold, Frenge and now Irby.’

Nigellus was unfazed by the accusation inherent in the observation. ‘It happens, as Bartholomew will tell you. Indeed, he has lost two clients himself in the last month.’

‘Three,’ corrected Kellawe. ‘I heard that the cousin of Vine the potter died an hour ago,’

‘Did she?’ Bartholomew was dismayed. He never had been summoned to see her, almost certainly because Vine objected to his association with the dyeworks, but he had intended to visit anyway. It had slipped his mind, and now it was too late.

‘Why are you concerned about these particular fatalities anyway?’ asked Morys. ‘None are people who will be missed: Letia did nothing but moan, Lenne and Frenge were troublemakers, and Arnold was too old to be useful. And as for Barnwell, well, that was weeks ago, so who cares about them now?’

‘You dispense some very odd cures, Nigellus,’ said Michael, eyeing Morys with distaste before turning back to the Junior Physician. ‘Such as telling those at Trinity Hall to stand in moonlight and wear clean undergarments.’

‘And most have recovered,’ asserted Nigellus haughtily. ‘Thanks to me.’

‘Have you heard the good news about Kellawe?’ Morys spoke even as Michael drew breath for another question. ‘He has been granted licence to absolve all scholars from acts of violence. It means we shall have the advantage in the looming crisis – we can dispense any lessons we like to aggravating townsmen, but nothing we do will count against our souls on Judgement Day.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘The University has not applied for one of those.’

‘Oh, yes, we have,’ said Morys. ‘Chancellor Tynkell obliged, at my suggestion.’

‘And we shall be needing it soon,’ added Kellawe, eyes gleaming. ‘Scholars will not stand mute for much longer while the town abuses us. And the biggest insults of all are the dyeworks and their scheming whores.’

Bartholomew did not often feel like punching anyone, but he experienced a very strong desire to clout the Franciscan. Michael pushed him towards the door before he could do it, informing the Zachary men curtly that he would be back with more questions another time.

‘Damn Tynkell!’ Michael hissed, once they were outside. ‘And damn Morys, too! The town will see Kellawe’s licence as a deliberate move against them. It was a stupid, wicked thing to have done when we are on the brink of serious trouble.’

‘If Kellawe insults my sister again, he will be absolving me from an act of violence,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘But what are we going to do about Irby? Just because we found no evidence against his colleagues does not mean they are innocent of harming him.’

Michael nodded. ‘So we shall ask Stephen if Irby said anything significant as he lay dying.’

The lawyer lived on the High Street in one of the best houses in the town. A maid led Bartholomew and Michael to an elegant room filled with sunlight, where her master was reading. Books stood in regimented rows on shelves that lined one complete wall, so numerous that Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping – books were expensive, given that each had to be handwritten, a task that might take a scribe several years.

‘My library,’ explained Stephen proudly. ‘Mostly tomes on architecture.’

‘You promised them to Michaelhouse,’ recalled Michael. ‘Then to Gonville Hall.’

‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘But I have decided to keep them for myself. They mean a great deal to me, and I do not want them to go to a place that is on the brink of collapse.’

‘Michaelhouse is a very stable foundation,’ lied Michael, then added spitefully, ‘although I cannot say the same about Gonville. Its Master has been in Avignon for years, and shows no sign of returning.’

‘Actually, I was referring to the University as a whole,’ said Stephen, ‘which is about to decant to the Fens, where it will not survive. Of course, I shall not mind seeing its lawyers go – it will mean more work for me.’

‘There is no truth in that silly rumour,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why would we abandon Cambridge when we have everything we need here?’

‘Because many of your scholars are weary of the discord between them and the town, and are delighted by the notion of a fresh start.’

‘Well, we are not going anywhere,’ averred Michael between gritted teeth. ‘How many more times must I say it?’

‘The town will be disappointed. It is looking forward to being shot of you.’

Michael scowled at him. ‘Relations might be easier if you did not dispense inflammatory advice – such as urging King’s Hall to sue Frenge, and encouraging Edith to open a dyeworks. Both have set town and University at each other’s throats.’

‘I suppose they have,’ acknowledged Stephen carelessly. ‘But it could not be helped.’

‘I understand you were with Irby yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly before his dislike of the man could start to show. ‘When he was ill.’

‘Yes, I sat with him for two or three hours. He was a good man and will be missed.’

‘Did he say anything at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or write messages to anyone?’

‘He was asleep most of the time. I stayed until his colleagues returned from the disceptatio, then came home. He thanked me when I went, but those were the only words he spoke. And he certainly did not pick up a pen.’

‘Why did Zachary ask you to do the honours?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Or do you have secret nursing skills?’

‘There is little nursing required for a man in slumber, as your pet physician will confirm. However, I volunteered to help because Irby was a friend, and I did not want him to be left alone while the others went out.’

‘Did you know he was dying?’ asked Bartholomew, manfully resisting the urge to insult Stephen back.

‘No – Nigellus told me that Irby was suffering from loss of appetite, which did not sound very serious, so I was stunned when I later heard that he was dead. Unfortunately, I think I caught something from him, because I do not feel well today. Nigellus says I have the debilitas.’

‘The what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘The deb-il-i-tas,’ repeated Stephen, enunciating pedantically. ‘The poor have flux, fleas and boils, but the rich have the debilitas. Nigellus says he would not sully his hands with common sicknesses, but the debilitas is another matter.’

‘Would you like me to examine you?’ offered Bartholomew, to avoid giving an opinion on such an outlandish claim.

‘No, thank you.’ The lawyer eyed the physician’s shabby clothes with open disdain. ‘I bought a horoscope from Nigellus, and he assures me that if I avoid onions and cats, I shall feel well again in no time at all.’

‘You had two visitors on the day that Frenge died,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could comment on Nigellus’s peculiar advice. ‘First, Frenge himself …’

‘Yes – he came to ask whether Anne de Rumburgh might prefer marchpanes or a bale of cloth as a token of his esteem.’ Stephen’s face was impossible to read.

‘He sought the opinion of a man who slept with her once?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Or are we to conclude that you know Anne rather better than you would have us believe?’

‘You may conclude what you like, Brother.’ Stephen smiled blandly. ‘But Frenge respected my wisdom in the matter. What more can I say?’

‘The second visitor was Shirwynk,’ Michael went on. ‘He–’

‘We have already discussed this,’ interrupted the lawyer. ‘He came to hire my services against King’s Hall.’ He stood abruptly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I have important business to attend. Good day.’

There was a powerful stench in the air as they emerged from Stephen’s house, and Bartholomew groaned. How could Edith expect her dyeworks to be accepted when they produced such rank odours every few hours? He started to hurry there, sure the demonstrators would not let the reek pass unremarked and wanting to be to hand if she needed help. Michael followed, but they had not taken many steps before they met Wayt.

‘No, I will not drop my case against the brewery,’ the Acting Warden snarled in response to Michael’s hopeful question. ‘Cew is costing a fortune in horoscopes – Nigellus is expensive – and I do not see why King’s Hall should pay for something that was Frenge’s fault.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘Michaelhouse would not baulk at the cost if one of our members needed specialist medical attention.’

Wayt shot him an unpleasant look. ‘We did not mind at first, but it is a bottomless pit, because Cew is not getting better. Nigellus’s latest advice is to apply cold compresses to the head – ones that contain some very expensive oils.’

‘We have been told that you quarrelled violently with Frenge shortly before he died,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew thought that while Nigellus’s treatment was unlikely to work, at least it would do no harm. ‘Would you care to tell us why?’

Wayt eyed him coolly. ‘If you must know, Frenge said that unless I dropped the case against him, he would tell my colleagues about my … my indiscretion with Anne de Rumburgh, a woman whose husband is generous to King’s Hall.’

‘So he tried to blackmail you, and within hours he is dead?’

Wayt gave a tight smile. ‘What Frenge did not realise is that half the Fellowship have been seduced by that particular lady, so his threat was meaningless. I was angry with him for attempting extortion, but not vexed enough to do him harm. And now, if there is nothing else …’

He stalked away, and loath to chase after him when it was clear he was unlikely to elaborate on his answer, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their journey to the dyeworks. The smell grew stronger with every step, and people glared at the physician as he passed, knowing him to be kin to the woman responsible for it.

When they arrived, a spat was in progress. Anne was at the heart of it, skimpily dressed even by her standards, bodice straining to contain her bulging bosom. A semicircle of Frail Sisters stood with her, hands defiantly on their hips, while behind them was a gaggle of rough men – the former clients who had rallied to protect them.

As usual, the crowd was made up of two factions. The first comprised scholars led by Kellawe, whose finger wagged furiously as he made all manner of points that no one heard over the noise of the second group, who were townsmen. Shirwynk and Peyn watched the altercation from the brewery, and their satisfied smirks suggested that they may well have aggravated the trouble. Rumburgh stood nearby. He took a sweetmeat from his scrip, and Bartholomew could tell by the way he chewed it that eating pained his sore gums.

‘Thank God you are here,’ said Edith, hurrying up to Michael. ‘Will you tell your scholars to go away? They say they do not like the smell, but we cannot get rid of it as long as they are out there bawling and shrieking. Even Anne cannot reason with them, and she is good with men.’

‘They have a point,’ said Michael. ‘You have stunk out the whole town, and it cannot be allowed to continue. Matt says it is only a matter of time before it kills someone.’

‘I never–’ began Bartholomew.

Edith silenced her brother with a look that would have blistered metal. ‘It is a lot of fuss over nothing. No one will notice the aroma once they get used to it.’

‘But we do not want to get used to it,’ objected Michael. ‘It is–’

He broke off when two Zachary scholars darted forward to engage in a fisticuffs with a pair of apprentices. With an exasperated sigh, he strode towards the mêlée. Unfortunately, his intervention meant that people stopped haranguing each other to watch, and Kellawe used the sudden silence to make an announcement.

‘I have a licence to absolve any scholar who commits an act of violence against the town,’ he declared in a ringing voice. Morys was next to him, nodding vigorously. ‘It came from the Bishop himself. However, any townsman who harms us will land himself in serious trouble.’

‘That is not fair!’ cried Hakeney. ‘We have the right to defend ourselves.’

‘If you do, you will be doomed to the perpetual fires of Hell,’ shouted Kellawe, grinning provocatively. ‘Scholars, however, will be deemed blameless.’

‘Not in the eyes of the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I will fine any man – scholar or townsperson – who breaks the King’s peace. And so will the Sheriff.’

‘But we have just cause,’ yelled Kellawe angrily. ‘Not only does this place release dangerous vapours, but he said its women run a different business after dark.’ He nodded towards Shirwynk. ‘We do not want a brothel as a neighbour, thank you. Our students have impressionable minds.’

Bartholomew took in the Zachary lads’ courtly clothes and worldly faces, and was sure there was not an impressionable mind among them. Segeforde was behind them, pale but better than he had been earlier, although there was no sign of Yerland.

‘Then Shirwynk has slandered us most disgracefully,’ said Edith, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing the brewer with an imperious glare. Shirwynk promptly slunk indoors, although he was a fool if he thought that was the end of the matter – Edith was not a woman to forget insults to her workforce.

‘Has he?’ demanded Kellawe hotly. ‘Then why have you hired so many whores?’

‘To dye cloth,’ replied Edith tartly. ‘And they are not whores: they are women reduced to desperate measures by circumstances beyond their control. You should applaud their courage, not condemn them.’

‘You should,’ agreed Yolande. She jabbed an accusing finger at Segeforde. ‘Especially as you and many of your colleagues regularly hired our services before we started working here, so do not play the innocent with us, you damned hypocrite.’

There was a mocking cheer from the women, laughter from the townsfolk, and indignant denials from the scholars.

‘These dyeworks stink,’ declared Morys, once the clamour had died down. ‘They made Trinity Hall sick – twice – and they claimed the life of poor Principal Irby, God rest his soul.’

‘You told us that he died of loss of appetite,’ pounced Michael.

Morys pointed at Bartholomew. ‘Yes, but he said loss of appetite was a symptom, not a disease. And the disease came from here, from this filthy business.’

‘How could you, Matthew?’ whispered Edith crossly. ‘I thought you admired what we are trying to do. How could you fuel these ignoramuses’ vitriol by gossiping with them?’

‘More importantly, there have been town deaths,’ shouted Hakeney, before the physician could defend himself. ‘Namely Will Lenne, Mistress Vine, Letia Shirwynk and poor John Frenge. Bartholomew does not care that his sister is killing us, and neither do his medical cronies. And now Stephen has the debilitas.’

‘That sounds nasty,’ gulped Isnard the bargeman. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It is something that afflicts only the rich,’ explained Hakeney. ‘Paupers are immune, so most of us need not fear it. However, it is what carried away all these hapless townsfolk.’

‘If that is right, then we are not responsible,’ said Edith. ‘How can the occasional waft of bad air or bucket of sludge target only the wealthy? The answer is that they cannot. Now go away.’

‘Not until you agree to leave the town,’ yelled Kellawe. ‘We do not want you here, and I do not see why my University should have to up sticks and move to the Fens when it is you causing all the trouble.’

‘We cannot leave – not when we provide a valuable service to so many men,’ purred Anne. She winked at Segeforde. ‘And some scholars in particular would miss us sorely.’

Full of mortified rage, Segeforde surged towards her. The rest of Zachary followed, and there was a lot of unseemly jostling, all of which stopped when there was a piercing screech that was half indignation and half amusement. It came from Anne. Segeforde had stumbled and grabbed her dress, so that the flimsy material had come clean away in his hand. There was a shocked silence from both sides, and for a long time, no one moved.

‘Well,’ drawled Michael eventually, his eyes huge in his chubby face. ‘That is one way to quell a spat.’