A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  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.’