Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Is that what you think it means?’
‘I am sure of it, and I am only sorry that I did not understand it sooner. Twelve of Nigellus’s patients are dead – thirteen, if you count Frenge – while Trinity Hall has suffered two bouts of serious sickness. This is what happens when medici think they are God, with the power to kill or cure.’
‘He does seem to believe he is infallible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But—’
‘Incidentally, I have issued a statement saying that the corpses of Lenne, Irby, Yerland and Segeforde are exuding deadly miasmas. In the interests of public health, they have been sealed inside their coffins, which is the best way to ensure that no one ever sees what you did to them. It was grisly, even by your standards.’
‘Thank you, Brother. The town and the University would have plenty to say if it became known that I invade churches at night to dissect the dead.’
‘Then perhaps I should tell them,’ said Michael wryly. ‘It is something on which the two sides will agree, and common ground is in desperately short supply at the moment.’
When the meal was over, Langelee came to demand an update on their investigations, and the other Fellows clustered around to listen. After Michael had obliged, the conversation turned to the rumours that were circulating.
‘I do not want to go to the Fens,’ the Master grumbled. ‘There will be no taverns, no women and no wealthy benefactors. How can we enlarge our endowment if we are not here to impress the people who matter?’ He gestured to the mural. ‘And this will have been wasted.’
‘It might have been wasted anyway,’ said William glumly. ‘Folk are not exactly lining up to shower money on us.’
‘I am not ready to concede defeat just yet,’ said Langelee. ‘Suttone, Clippesby and I will visit a few burgesses today, and tell them that they might be slaughtered in their beds if the town explodes into violence, so they should consider their immortal souls. And what better way than a benefaction to a College that will pray for them in perpetuity?’
‘Do not phrase it in quite those words,’ begged Michael. ‘They may interpret them as a threat.’
Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘Leave it to me, Brother – I know what I am doing. You concentrate on restoring the peace. Bartholomew will help.’
‘But I have not given a lecture in days,’ objected Bartholomew, ‘and my students are—’
‘The Austins are coming to tell my lads about the nominalism–realism debate today,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Yours can join them, which means you are not needed here.’
‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael. ‘That debate is central to all current scholarly thinking, and Prior Joliet is sure to have new insights. Your students will learn a great deal, Matt.’
‘Only if they listen,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Which they will not do unless someone is here to keep them in line – and most of the Fellows plan to be out.’
‘Not William and Wauter,’ said Langelee. ‘They will prevent mischief.’
A flash of irritation crossed Wauter’s face. Bartholomew did not blame him: it would not be easy to convince a lot of lively lads to listen to a multi-hour lecture on metaphysics, and Wauter would not be able to relax for an instant.
‘I have other plans, Master,’ said the Austin irritably.
‘Cancel them,’ ordered Langelee peremptorily.
‘I cannot – they are important.’
Langelee’s eyes narrowed. ‘More than the well-being of your College? What are they then?’
Wauter’s face became closed and a little sullen, an expression none of them had seen before. ‘I would rather not say. They are private.’
‘Then you will stay in the hall with William,’ decreed Langelee with finality.
When Bartholomew had delivered his students a stern warning that any mischief would result in them cleaning the latrines for a month, he climbed the stairs to Michael’s room. When he arrived, the monk began planning their day.
‘First, we must visit Zachary, to ask what happened to Yerland and Segeforde. Hopefully, Nigellus’s colleagues will have come to their senses now that the enormity of his crimes has been exposed, and will tell us the truth. Then we shall speak to Nigellus in the gaol.’
‘I will come with you to Zachary, but not the prison. Nigellus will think I am there to gloat.’
‘I do not care what he thinks and we need answers – there is no time for foolish sensitivities. Are you ready? Then let us be on our way.’
It was early, but the streets were busy, and the atmosphere was tense and dangerous. Townsmen glared at scholars, who responded in kind, and Bartholomew was shocked when some of his patients, people who had accepted his charity and professed themselves to be grateful, included him in their scowls. Perhaps more surprising was that several members of the Michaelhouse Choir hissed abuse at Michael – the man who provided them with free bread and ale. The monk did not react, but Bartholomew suspected they would be told to leave if they turned up for the next practice. Isnard was his usual friendly self, though.
‘They are angry that a scholar ripped the clothes from a townswoman,’ he explained. ‘And they wish the University would leave Cambridge instead of just talking about it.’
‘Are you among them?’ asked Michael coolly, hurt by his singers’ disloyalty.
‘Certainly not,’ replied Isnard indignantly. ‘It would mean the end of the best choir in the country. And who would tend me when I am ill? I do not let any old medicus near me, you know – I have standards. No, Brother. You cannot let the scholars leave.’
‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael, mollified by the warmth of the response. ‘But you can help by telling folk that there will be no lawsuit between Segeforde and Anne, because Segeforde is dead. He passed away last night.’
‘Yes, of the debilitas,’ nodded Isnard. ‘I heard. But it makes no difference. King’s Hall is still suing Frenge’s estate, even though he is dead, so Anne will still sue Segeforde’s.’
‘Stephen!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That will have been his idea.’
‘He is skilled with the law,’ agreed Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Have you seen your sister today? She had some trouble before dawn this morning.’
‘Trouble?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.
‘Someone broke into the dyeworks and—Wait! I have not finished!’
Bartholomew sped along Milne Street, dodging carts, horses and pedestrians. He almost fell when he took the corner into Water Lane too fast, but regained his balance and raced on. As usual, there were knots of protesters in the square at the end, some led by Kellawe and others in a cluster around Hakeney and Vine the potter. The dyeworks door was open, so Bartholomew tore through it, barely aware that the stench was so bad that day that most of the women wore scarves around their mouths and noses. Edith was on her knees with a brush and pan.
‘What happened?’ he demanded breathlessly.
‘Matt,’ said Edith, climbing to her feet. ‘Do not worry. We drove him off before he could do too much harm.’
‘We? You were here at the time?’
‘Yes, with Yolande. We came to … to stir the woad.’
‘I see.’ Bartholomew drew his own conclusions when she would not look him in the eye.
‘The rogue had the fright of his life when he saw us,’ Edith went on, then gave a sudden impish grin. ‘I have never seen anyone run so fast in all my life.’
‘Who was it?’
‘He wore a mask, so we could not tell. Segeforde maybe, irked because Anne intends to sue.’
‘Not if it happened just before dawn – he was dead by then. I suppose it might have been one of his Zachary cronies though.’
‘Dead?’ asked Edith, shocked. ‘How? I hope it was not the debilitas, because we shall be blamed if so. Zachary already thinks we caused the deaths of Letia, Lenne, Irby and Yerland, just because they lived nearby.’
Bartholomew glanced around, aware of the reek now tha
t he was no longer worried for her safety. In the annexe, Yolande was using a ladle to remove some foul residue from the bottom of a vat, while another woman was pouring buckets of urine over the fermenting balls of woad. Then he saw that a window had been forced, showing where the invader had broken in.
‘He was unlucky to find you here,’ he said. ‘He probably expected the place to be empty.’
‘We did not hear him at first, because we were out on the pier, getting rid of the alum-lye mix that …’ Edith trailed off in guiltily.
‘You put lye in the river?’ cried Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that is caustic! It will hurt anyone who drinks it. And what about the fish? It will kill everything that—’
‘No one drinks from the river at that time of the day,’ interrupted Edith defensively. ‘Besides, the tide is going out, so it is all washed away now.’
Bartholomew smothered his exasperation. ‘The tide is on the turn, which means some will come back again. And what about the people downstream, not to mention their animals? Besides, you are meant to be transporting of that sort of thing to the Fens.’
‘We do, usually, but it is a long way on isolated tracks, and two or three buckets of sludge hardly warrant the trouble.’
‘Two or three buckets a day,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It adds up. You should store them until you have enough to make the journey worthwhile.’
‘We have tried that, but your colleagues will insist on moaning about the smell.’ Edith fixed him with a hard glare. ‘You criticise us, but what about all the Colleges, hostels and convents that throw sewage, kitchen waste and God knows what else into the water? And besides, a few pails in an entire river will do no harm. They will dilute.’
‘Will they?’ demanded Bartholomew. Lye could have caused the burns he had seen on Frenge – the King’s Ditch was not the river, but they were still connected. Could Frenge have been poisoned as he rowed to the Austin Priory, and the bruises on his face were not from someone forcing him to drink, but him clawing at himself in agony? ‘Are you sure? Because I am not.’
‘Our waste looks bad because it is brightly coloured,’ Edith went on, ‘whereas the stuff produced by everyone else just looks like dirty water. But theirs is just as dangerous.’
‘You cannot know that,’ Bartholomew said tiredly. ‘And what if the protestors are right – what if the spate of recent deaths is because of you?’
Edith scowled at him. ‘Use your wits, Matthew. Who drinks from the river and eats its fish? Paupers! And are paupers falling ill? No, the dead are all wealthy folk who go nowhere near the Cam for victuals. Besides, if you want a culprit, you should look to your own profession, as I have told you before. All the victims consulted a physician before they died.’
‘Yes – Nigellus mostly,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘So Michael arrested him last night.’
‘Good,’ said Edith harshly. ‘He is certainly the kind of man to let an innocent dyeworks take the blame for something he has done.’
‘He still might, so perhaps you should close until the situation is resolved.’
‘And what happens to my ladies in the interim? Do they go back on the streets until you give us permission to reopen? I am sorry, Matt, but I am proud of what we have achieved here, and I cannot abandon them. They need me.’
Bartholomew smiled despite his concern, touched by her dedication to a sector of the community that did not often win champions. ‘Then Cynric will stay with you until this is over.’
Edith smiled back, and Bartholomew was glad the quarrel was over, even if it was only a temporary truce. ‘Thank you. His presence will be greatly appreciated.’
The door opened then, and Anne sauntered in wearing a kirtle that was cut even more revealingly than the one that had caused all the trouble the previous day. It looked new, and he wondered if she was already spending the money she expected to win from her lawsuit.
‘I thought we had agreed that you would stay away until the matter with Segeforde is sorted out,’ said Edith coolly, eyeing the gown with open disapproval. ‘You being here is incendiary, especially with Kellawe outside.’
‘Why should he dictate what I do?’ pouted Anne. ‘I am a free woman.’
‘Very free – that is the problem,’ muttered Edith.
‘I have money invested in these dyeworks,’ Anne went on. ‘So I have a right to reassure myself that they are running smoothly. Besides, no one has my experience with the sales side of the business, so you need me here.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Edith. ‘We do. Very well, then, but stay in the back and keep a low profile. We do not want your presence to aggravate the University – our biggest customer.’
‘I know you are vexed with me for suing Segeforde,’ said Anne, coming to take her hand. ‘But he deserves it for what he did to me. Besides, I shall invest some of my compensation here, so the dyeworks will certainly benefit.’
‘Segeforde is dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will not be paying you anything.’
‘I heard,’ shrugged Anne. ‘But Stephen says we can just transfer our grievance to his estate. And better I get the money than Segeforde’s vile colleagues at Zachary Hostel. It would not surprise me if they dispatched him, in a desperate attempt to make me drop my complaint.’
Having had her say, she flounced off, all swinging hips and heaving bosom.
‘Do not let her beguile you, Matt,’ warned Edith, clearly of the opinion that no man would be able to resist such a tempting display. ‘Her husband might be impotent, but they are still married, and I doubt she would make you happy anyway.’
‘She hardly compares to Matilde and Julitta,’ said Bartholomew, offended that Edith should think he might allow himself to be enticed. He had standards and Anne was well below them.
‘No,’ agreed Edith softly. ‘She does not.’
Bartholomew left the dyeworks to find Michael and Kellawe outside, glaring furiously at each other, while Hakeney and his cronies watched intently from the other side of the road.
‘Here,’ said Kellawe, thrusting a flask at the physician. ‘Swallow this.’
‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, declining to take it.
‘Water from the river. If your sister’s business is doing no harm, you will not mind downing it, to prove to everyone that it is safe.’
‘The river has never been safe,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And I have been advising people not to drink from it ever since I became a physician.’
‘You are refusing?’ pounced Kellawe triumphantly.
‘Yes. Not because of the dyeworks, but because of the sewage that is discharged into it from Trinity Hall, Clare College, the Carmelite Friary and every house and hostel in between.’
‘We know the truth,’ called a verbose but stupid priest named Gilby. ‘The Cam is poisoned, thanks to your sister and her whores. Her husband must be spinning in his grave.’
Oswald probably would have deplored Edith helping prostitutes, thought Bartholomew, but it was not for Gilby to say so. He reined in his temper with difficulty, ignoring the jeers that followed when Kellawe theatrically poured away the flask’s contents.
‘I am glad you refused, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘They probably added something to make you ill regardless. They are so determined to see Edith fail that no sly tactic is beneath them.’
‘Now perhaps you will answer some questions.’ Bartholomew addressed Kellawe, pointing at the Franciscan’s boots as he did so: they were speckled with spots of red, yellow and blue. Clearly, the friar had not gone straight home after finishing his vigil for Segeforde, Irby and Yerland in St Bene’t’s Church, but had made a detour. ‘Such as how did that happen?’
Kellawe flushed scarlet. ‘Painting,’ he replied, chin jutting out defiantly. ‘Touching up the murals in our hall. And you cannot prove otherwise.’
Bartholomew felt his blood boil. What if the Franciscan’s felonious antics had put Edith and her women in danger? He was about to launch into an accusatory tirade when
Michael grabbed his arm and pulled him away, much to Kellawe’s obvious relief.
‘Exposing him as a burglar here will do nothing for the cause of peace,’ he muttered. ‘I shall fine him later, in the privacy of his hostel, where there will be no witnesses to turn it into an excuse for a fight.’
Bartholomew was not sure he agreed, but allowed himself to be steered away. ‘I will go to Barnwell this afternoon,’ he said, wondering if the Franciscan and his followers would leave the dyeworks alone if Nigellus was proven guilty. ‘To ask about the six people who died there.’
‘Go now,’ instructed Michael. ‘We should have as many facts at our fingertips as possible when we interrogate Nigellus.’
He was about to add more when he noticed Shirwynk and Peyn outside their brewery. Peyn was slouched in an attitude of sullen indolence, and Bartholomew felt like remarking that the lad would have to make himself more amenable if he aimed to succeed at the Treasury.
‘If you want the villain who invaded the dyeworks,’ Peyn said as the two scholars approached, ‘you need look no further than there.’ He nodded to Kellawe and his supporters.
‘My son is right,’ said Shirwynk, and there was pride and love in the way he looked at the youth. ‘The culprit will not be a townsman.’
‘Moreover,’ Peyn went on, ‘the sudden outbreak of the debilitas is a sly plot by academics to kill all the burgesses, so there will be no one left to challenge the University’s authority.’
‘If that were true, the debilitas would only affect townsfolk,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But scholars are suffering, too.’
‘But not at Michaelhouse,’ Peyn flashed back. ‘Which is more affluent than all the other Colleges put together. You should be dying, too, yet you remain suspiciously healthy. You are sacrificing colleagues from other foundations to strike a blow at the town.’
Langelee would be pleased to hear that his scheme to conceal Michaelhouse’s poverty had been so successful, thought Bartholomew, amused by the irony. ‘No one is—’
‘You are ruthless and dangerous,’ interrupted Shirwynk. ‘And if we can do anything to oust your University from our town, we will not hesitate.’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 20
