‘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,’ gr
owled 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.’
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.
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 14
