‘It will make no difference now whether they proceed or not,’ replied Stephen. ‘Because there is yet another suit – the assault on Anne by Segeforde. She was shamed in front of her friends and neighbours, and she is demanding substantial compensation for her anguish.’
‘How much of it will you receive?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘Twenty per cent? Thirty?’
Stephen regarded him coolly. ‘That is my business.’
‘If you do not answer, I shall tell my mother.’ The gleam in Tynkell’s eyes showed the pleasure he took from being on the giving end of threats for a change. ‘And you have met her …’
‘Fifty per cent,’ replied Stephen quickly. He raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Anne could have found a lawyer who charges less, but not one who will win. Quality costs.’
Michael sent a beadle to bring Segeforde to St Mary the Great when Stephen had gone. However, it was not the purple-lipped scholar who arrived, but Morys and Kellawe. Their gloating expressions turned wary when they realised it was not the malleable Tynkell who had summoned them, but the considerably less pliable Senior Proctor.
‘Anne de Rumburgh intends to sue Segeforde for assault,’ said Michael. ‘Where is he? We need to establish some facts if we are to defend him against Stephen.’
‘Bartholomew’s remedy wore off, and he is ill again,’ said Morys, equally cool. ‘But we are not worried about that money-grabbing whore. She has no case against Segeforde.’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘Oh, yes, she does, especially with Stephen representing her. A lot of witnesses saw what happened, including myself.’
‘Town louts, who will claim that Segeforde yanked at her bodice,’ said Kellawe, eyes blazing with righteous indignation. His northern accent was more pronounced when he was angry, and his lower jaw thrust forward aggressively. ‘But twice as many scholars, who are decent men, will say she did it herself. I am one of them. The harlot exposed herself deliberately.’
‘That is a lie,’ said Michael. ‘She did nothing of the sort.’
‘Does this mean you will side with the town against a scholar?’ asked Morys slyly. ‘I would not advise it, Brother – not if you want to be Chancellor when Tynkell resigns.’
‘Tynkell will be in post for a while yet,’ said Michael. ‘And people have short memories.’
‘He will go when I tell him or suffer his mother’s wrath,’ said Morys, grinning when he saw Tynkell’s alarm. ‘I have the power to force an election whenever I choose, so you had better do what I say, Brother, or you will lose everything you have built these last few years.’
‘Then so be it,’ said Michael with cool dignity. ‘Because I will not lie under oath.’
‘And you, Bartholomew?’ Kellawe turned to the physician. ‘What tale will you tell?’
‘The truth, of course,’ said Bartholomew haughtily, not bothering to mention that his testimony would be that he had not actually seen what had happened.
Morys’s expression hardened and he turned to Tynkell. ‘You had better find a way to remind them of their loyalties, or your mother is going to blame you for the University’s troubles.’
Before anyone could argue, he had turned and strutted away, Kellawe at his heels.
Tynkell was so distressed by what might be said to his dam that Bartholomew was obliged to give him a syrup of camomile and wild lettuce to soothe his nerves, then escort him to his hostel to rest. Michael was waiting as the physician walked back past St Mary the Great.
‘I can feel the tension building and I do not know how to stop it,’ the monk said unhappily. ‘We are at war with ourselves just when we need to present a united front.’
‘You mean all the ancient rivalries between Colleges and hostels?’
‘Yes, along with whether we should move to the Fens. There is a growing faction that thinks it is a good idea, while foundations like King’s Hall and Gonville are just as determined to stay.’
‘I am more concerned about Nigellus,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am not sure he should be let loose on patients, but how can we stop him without actual evidence of wrongdoing?’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘You learned nothing from Letia and Irby, but what of the others?’
‘It is too late – they have been buried.’
‘Lenne has not – he is in St Bene’t’s Church, and will not go in the ground until tomorrow.’ Michael glanced up at the darkening sky. ‘It will not be long now before everyone is abed …’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, we have no authority to examine him; and second, there is no reason to think he will provide answers, given that Letia and Irby did not.’
‘But Frenge did,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If Nigellus has been helping patients into the grave, we need to stop him – and if that means examining a corpse in the middle of the night, then so be it. Go home and try to sleep. I will wake you when the time is right.’
But Bartholomew reached Michaelhouse to find he was needed by several patients. He set off at once, and included Trinity Hall on his list, to see if he could ascertain why an entire College professed to feeling under the weather. He examined a wide range of their leftover food, paying particular attention to the syllabub, but found nothing amiss. He did, however, discover that Nigellus had been a guest of the Master on both occasions when its members had fallen ill.
It was late by the time he trudged home again. The conclave was in darkness, so he went to the kitchen, arriving at the same time as Michael, who had spent the first part of his evening in a futile attempt to persuade Anne to withdraw her complaint, and the second half with the University’s lawyers, discussing the cases Stephen intended to bring against them.
The monk disappeared into the pantries in search of food, but his foray was unsuccessful, and it fell to Cynric, who made them both jump by materialising suddenly out of the gloom, to reveal where Agatha had hidden the last remnants of the feast. There were sweet cakes, some dry-cured meat, bread that was beginning to turn mouldy, and some of Shirwynk’s apple wine.
Cynric was more friend than servant, and had been Bartholomew’s book-bearer for years, although as the physician was unable to pay him, the title was more honorary than a description of his duties. He divided his time between helping in Michaelhouse’s kitchens and working at Edith’s cloth business on Milne Street – he was married to one of the seamstresses there. Bartholomew was glad he was not involved with the dyeworks, although the Welshman was by far the most able warrior in the town, and well able to take care of himself.
When he heard what Michael and Bartholomew intended to do at the witching hour, he offered to accompany them, eyes agleam at the prospect of creeping undetected through dark streets and breaking into a locked building. They were discussing details of the plan when they became aware that someone was listening in the shadows by the door. It was Wauter, wearing not his Austin habit but secular attire.
‘I could not sleep,’ the friar explained. ‘I tried working on my Martilogium, but I cannot concentrate. I dressed – in clothes that will not expose me as a scholar, which would be reckless after nightfall – and was about to go for a walk when I saw lights in the kitchen.’
‘Why are you restless?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew wondered why Wauter should risk going out at all when a stroll could be taken in the safety of the College’s grounds.
‘I keep thinking about the University’s move to the Fens,’ replied the Austin. ‘It is a major decision, not one that should be taken lightly. However, the one thing that makes me feel we should go is the dyeworks. I am sure they are dangerous.’
‘The University has been in Cambridge for a hundred and fifty years,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We cannot abandon all we have built over a few bad smells. We will reach some accommodation with Edith, never fear. She is a reasonable lady.’
Wauter stared at him for a moment, then continued. ‘And while I hate to cast aspersions, I am worried about Nigellus. He lost six patients at Barnwell: two Augustinian canons, the reeve
’s wife and uncle, and two priory servants. From what I understand, they died of the debilitas.’
‘The debilitas!’ spat Bartholomew. ‘There is no such disease. Nigellus only coined the term to make his wealthy clients feel special – to pander to their desire not to have the same ailments that afflict the poor. Moreover, the people who claim to be suffering from it display such a wide range of symptoms that they cannot possibly all have the same malady.’
‘Which is why you plan to visit St Bene’t’s tonight,’ surmised Wauter. ‘To assess Lenne’s remains with a view to determining whether Nigellus has done anything untoward. I will come with you, if you do not mind. Another pair of eyes to keep watch will not go amiss.’
‘Good,’ said Cynric, pleased. ‘There are three doors, and I cannot guard them all. But before we go, you must secrete these about your persons.’ He handed each scholar a packet.
‘What is it?’ Bartholomew opened his, and a salt-like substance poured into his hand.
‘Powder,’ replied Cynric, unhelpfully. ‘To repel restless spirits.’
Bartholomew knew better than to argue, but Michael and Wauter were in holy orders.
‘No, thank you,’ said the monk, trying to pass it back. ‘We shall put our trust in God.’
‘A lot of prayers were said for the dead over Hallow-tide,’ said Cynric, managing to make it sound sinister. ‘And it has agitated their spirits, especially the ones who were murdered. Lenne’s ghost will be abroad, looking for someone to haunt, but the sucura will protect you.’
‘This is sucura?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘How did you come by it? It is expensive.’
‘Very,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because it comes all the way from a distant place called Tyre. But its spectre-repelling properties are well worth the cost.’
‘I thought it was a cooking ingredient.’ Wryly, Bartholomew noted that Cynric had cleverly managed to avoid saying how he had paid for it.
‘It is, but the dead cannot abide its sickliness. It will drive them away with no trouble at all, so put it in your scrips, and let us be on our way.’
‘Where did you buy it?’ Bartholomew persisted, staring down at the little packet in his hand. ‘Dick Tulyet would like to know.’
‘I am sure he would,’ retorted Cynric. ‘But I am not in the habit of betraying friends – who would not need to sell it in taverns if the King was not so greedy with his taxes. As things stand, he has forced the price so high that he is the only one who can afford it. Which is not right.’
He had a keen sense of social justice, and Bartholomew could tell from the jut of his chin that there was no point in reminding him that buying contraband was illegal. Moreover, Michael showed no inclination to pursue the matter, which told him yet again that the monk was unwilling to investigate a crime with which he felt some sympathy.
Bartholomew would have asked more anyway, but Cynric turned abruptly and led the way across the yard, blissfully unaware that Michael’s packet went down the first drain they passed. Bartholomew wondered if he should do the same, but the truth was that he was sometimes assailed with the sense that the dead did not like what he did to them in the name of justice, and so was inclined to accept any ‘protection’ on offer. It was rank superstition, and the rational side of his mind told him he was a fool as he slipped the sucura into his bag.
It was the darkest part of the night, and should have been the quietest, but the town was full of shadows and whispers. Bartholomew did not see anyone, but he knew they were there, and disliked the sensation that he was being watched by eyes that were almost certainly hostile.
When they reached St Bene’t’s, Cynric led them up the alley that ran along the side of the graveyard, and kept them waiting for an age until he was satisfied that no one had followed. Eventually, he aimed for the priest’s door, where Bartholomew – as always – was dismayed by the speed with which he picked the lock: it was hardly a talent a University servant should own. They entered a building that was pitch black and eerily silent after the rustles and murmurs in the streets.
Cynric deployed Michael and Wauter, then went with Bartholomew to the chancel, where the physician was disconcerted to see not one but three bodies. The first was Lenne, covered by a purple cloth. Irby was next to him, dressed in his Zachary uniform. The last was Yerland. Bartholomew started, shocked that the student should be dead.
‘The debilitas,’ whispered Cynric. ‘I heard it in the Cardinal’s Cap earlier. Will you look at him, too? You might as well, given that he is here.’
He handed Bartholomew the barest stub of a candle, and indicated that he was to make a start. The physician obliged, wanting to be finished as quickly as possible. He jumped violently when there was a crash, and waited, heart thumping until Cynric came to whisper that it was just drunks in the churchyard. Then Wauter appeared, running on silent feet.
‘Douse the light,’ he hissed urgently. ‘Someone is coming.’
He and Bartholomew had only just ducked behind a tomb when a lamp began to bob towards them. It was a procession. Morys and Nigellus were at its head, while four students walked behind, carrying a bier. Kellawe was last, murmuring prayers. The students set the bier down and removed the blanket that had covered the body.
‘Oh, no,’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘It is Segeforde!’
CHAPTER 8
The Zachary men did not stay long in St Bene’t’s. They deposited Segeforde and left – all except one: Kellawe had announced in a fiercely ringing voice that he would remain there to pray by his three dead colleagues’ sides.
‘Now what?’ whispered Bartholomew, as the Franciscan dropped to his knees and began to intone a psalm in a loud, important bray that seemed to suggest the Almighty had better forget what else He was doing and listen.
‘Leave it to me,’ Wauter whispered back, and made a show of ‘arriving’ in the church to keep a vigil of his own.
‘You are not needed,’ Kellawe informed him curtly. ‘My petitions will be more effective than yours, because I am a Franciscan.’
‘Very well,’ said Wauter, displaying admirable restraint in the face of such hubris. ‘But come outside and share a flask of wine with me. The night will be long and cold, and you will need something decent inside you if you are to give of your best.’
Kellawe allowed himself to be escorted away, and the moment the door closed behind them, Bartholomew darted towards the bodies, sensing he would not have much time before the opinionated friar declared himself suitably fortified and returned to his self-imposed duties.
It was an unpleasant business, not only rushed and fraught with the fear that Kellawe might decide his devotions were more important than chatting to Wauter, but because of what he was obliged to do for answers: when an external examination of Lenne revealed nothing amiss, Bartholomew embarked on a more invasive one using knives and forceps. What he discovered prompted him to look inside Irby, Yerland and Segeforde as well.
‘Keep your sucura to hand,’ Cynric advised, glancing down as he passed by on one of his prowls, although his eyes did not linger on the body for long. ‘Irby’s spirit will not like you doing that to its mortal coil, so you will need the powder’s protection for sure.’
The remark unsettled Bartholomew even more. He had no idea why, when he had long been of the belief that much could be learned from the dead and that anatomy was a valuable tool for helping the living, but it was a feeling he could not shake. He finished quickly, put all to rights, and left the church with relief. It was not long before Michael, Cynric and Wauter joined him in the graveyard, the latter pale and agitated.
‘Kellawe has some very nasty opinions,’ the Austin said, indicating that Cynric should lead the way home. ‘He will have the entire town in flames before long. Perhaps that alone is reason enough for moving to the Fens – it will spare the town his vitriol.’
By the time they returned to the College, it was almost too late to go to bed. Bartholomew tried to sleep anyway, and passed two very restless hours befo
re the bell rang to wake everyone for church. It was his turn to assist at the altar, and a cold chill ran down his spine when Clippesby passed him the Host and the candles guttered. The rational part of his mind reminded him that it happened all the time – St Michael’s was full of unaccountable draughts – but it did make him wonder anew whether people were right to object to dissection.
‘Tell me again what you discovered,’ instructed Michael, when they were back in the hall, eating a plentiful but slightly peculiar breakfast of barley bread, carrots and nuts.
‘Inflammation of the stomach membranes and damaged livers,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘On all four bodies.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘Meaning that something is wrong, but I cannot tell you what.’
‘But it might indicate that they were poisoned?’
‘It might. All had been ill, but with different ailments: Lenne had lung-rot, Irby complained of loss of appetite, Yerland had head pains and Segeforde had some undefined malaise – the debilitas, for want of a better diagnosis.’
‘I can accept Lenne dying of natural causes, but not the other three. I think Nigellus killed them. And the logical extension of that conclusion is that he poisoned Letia, Arnold and the folk from Barnwell, too.’
‘And Frenge – perhaps in revenge for selling sour ale to Zachary.’
‘Quite,’ said Michael grimly. ‘So I rose before dawn and arrested him. His colleagues are furious, of course, and so is he. He thinks you put me up to it.’
Bartholomew groaned. ‘If he is innocent, he will never forgive me.’
‘He is not innocent, and I wish to God that I had acted the moment we found Irby’s note. If I had, Yerland and Segeforde would still be alive. Similia similibus curantur – “like cures like”. Irby knew he had been poisoned, but was too frightened to tell his colleagues lest they ran straight to Nigellus, so he wrote to you instead. It was a subtle yet clear plea for you to find an antidote.’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 19
