‘Fens,’ growled Hamo, gripping the stave. ‘Good.’
‘You are right, Hamo,’ said Robert, wincing when a group of passing apprentices took the opportunity to howl abuse. ‘Because as soon as one problem is solved in this place, another raises its head. Like my cross – Hakeney stole it today.’
‘How do you know it was him?’ asked Michael tiredly.
‘Because he raced up to me, tore it from my person and danced away laughing,’ replied Robert sourly. He rubbed his neck. ‘And it hurt.’
‘When they heard, the head of every convent in Cambridge demanded an audience with me,’ added Joliet. ‘They all said the same: that attacks on priests cannot be tolerated and action must be taken. They ordered me to report Hakeney to the Sheriff immediately.’
‘Which he did, but Tulyet was reluctant to make an arrest, lest it ignited a riot,’ Robert went on bitterly. ‘He said that Hakeney is clearly not in his right wits, and it would be wiser to resolve the matter without recourse to a process that might see him hanged.’
‘So we decided to let the matter go,’ said Joliet, ‘but then my fellow priors descended on me again, this time with Stephen, who recommended a civil suit instead.’
‘No!’ cried Michael, horrified. ‘The University cannot sue another townsman. Dick Tulyet was right: it will cause no end of trouble. The priors should have minded their own business.’
‘I disagree,’ said Wauter stiffly. ‘If we ignore this vicious assault, what message will it send to those who wish us harm? A lawsuit is the only way to keep us all safe.’
‘Let me speak to Hakeney,’ said Michael wearily. ‘I will tell him to give back the cross and apologise. Then you can tell Stephen that his services will not be required, and the matter can be quietly forgotten.’
‘Very well,’ said Joliet, sadness etched into a face that was meant for laughter. ‘I should like to avoid bad feeling if possible, so please try your best.’
‘But if Hakeney refuses, we will have no choice but to proceed,’ warned Robert. ‘We cannot risk people thinking it is acceptable to assault clerics – which some may already believe, given that Prior Joliet has just been injured. It is—’
He was interrupted by another barrage of waved fists and combative yells, this time from a gaggle of bakers. Joliet whimpered his distress, Robert and Wauter flinched, and Hamo took a firmer grip on his staff. Michael saw the culprits on their way with a few sharp words, but Bartholomew was unnerved. The Austins were by far the most popular Order in the town, and if they were not safe, what hope did the rest of the University have?
Not many moments passed before Bartholomew and Michael were stopped again, this time by Wayt and Dodenho from King’s Hall. They were at the head of a phalange of students who wore leather jerkins under their tabards, and carried swords or bows. One even had a mace, a weapon rarely seen off the battlefield. Several were wan, and clearly not in the best of health. Bartholomew stared at a lad whose hand was to his stomach; the student saw him looking and sneered, which revealed a thin grey line around the tops of his incisors.
‘Are you aware that strutting around armed to the teeth is a finable offence?’ asked Michael.
‘We are,’ replied Wayt arrogantly. ‘But we do not care. We would rather lose a few shillings than our lives – and the town is not safe for scholars at the moment.’
‘It is safe if you stay indoors,’ retorted Michael. ‘You do not have to venture out.’
‘We do if we want to pray in St Mary the Great for Cew,’ Wayt flashed back. ‘Or do you suggest that we forget our religious obligations while the town is being difficult?’
‘That does not excuse—’ began Michael.
‘Cew is worse,’ blurted Dodenho. His expression was so full of unhappy concern that Michael elected to overlook the interruption. ‘He has a weakness in his muscles now.’
‘And he still thinks he is the King of France,’ said the Acting Warden unpleasantly. ‘Your medicine did nothing to cure him of that delusion, Bartholomew.’
‘Meanwhile, three more of our lads have come down with the debilitas,’ added Dodenho. ‘Would you mind visiting them later, to see what might be done to ease their discomfort?’
‘No,’ said Wayt sharply. ‘What if the reason for their malaise is his sister’s dyeworks? He is not the man we should trust with our students’ welfare.’
Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but Dodenho was wise enough to know that offending medici was not a good idea when the University was on the verge of a major brawl. After all, who else would sew up wounds and set broken bones?
‘Please come when you can, Bartholomew,’ he said quietly, shooting the Acting Warden a glance that warned him to hold his tongue. ‘We would be most grateful. Perhaps you will be able to persuade Cew to eat something other than oysters and soul-cakes as well.’
‘Now that would be useful,’ acknowledged Wayt. ‘Oysters are expensive, while soul-cakes should not be baked outside Hallow-tide.’
‘They also contain sucura, which is risky to buy with the Sheriff on the warpath about it,’ added Dodenho, then flushed sheepishly when he realised that he had just admitted to breaking the law. He changed the subject hastily. ‘I hear Nigellus has been arrested for killing Frenge. Pity. It would have been better for the University if the culprit had been a townsman.’
‘Fortunately, he has not been a scholar for very long,’ said Michael. ‘He was a resident of Barnwell until a couple of months ago – a fact we shall be sure to emphasise.’ He turned to Wayt. ‘Are you sure it was your relationship with Anne de Rumburgh that Frenge threatened to expose unless you dropped the lawsuit against him? Not something else?’
‘Of course,’ replied Wayt, curtly enough to be suspicious. ‘And now, if you will excuse us, we have business to attend.’
‘You are going the wrong way,’ said Michael, stepping in front of him. ‘St Mary the Great is in the opposite direction.’
‘We have another matter to attend first,’ explained Dodenho. ‘Namely asking if Stephen will change his mind about representing us. We have our own lawyers, of course, but none of them have his experience or cunning.’
Michael watched them go, then he and Bartholomew resumed their walk to the Lenne house.
‘King’s Hall has all manner of nasty secrets,’ he said, ‘illicit supplies of sucura among them. But we have no time to explore that now, so I shall leave it for later.’
‘Will you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was under the impression that you were willing to turn a blind eye to that particular crime.’
‘I turn a blind eye if the culprits are discreet, but Wayt is brazen and arrogant. Indeed, if I did not think it would cause more trouble than it was worth, I would tell Dick Tulyet about him.’
Bartholomew had expected a frosty reception from Isabel Lenne, so he was startled and wary when she smiled warmly at him. Her cordiality was quickly explained, though.
‘It was good of you to give Will a free coffin, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I always thought you did not like him, because of his sour temper and sharp tongue.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably, feeling the colour rise into his cheeks. Michael poked him hard, warning him against declaring that the ‘gift’ had had nothing to do with him.
‘It is not the fanciest of caskets,’ she went on, ‘but it would have suited Will’s simple tastes.’
‘It is our pleasure, Mistress Lenne,’ the monk said smoothly.
‘He went in the ground this afternoon,’ sighed Isabel. ‘Which you will know, of course. That is why you are here – to offer your condolences.’
‘Yes,’ lied Michael. ‘Nigellus tells us that your husband died of metal in the mouth.’
She nodded. ‘Which is a common symptom of the debilitas, apparently. Nigellus says it occurs most frequently in men who swear a lot, and Will did love to curse.’
‘Nigellus said that?’ Bartholomew could not keep the astonishment from his voice.
She nod
ded again. ‘But Will’s suffering did not last long. After the metal came a recurrence of his old apoplexy, which is what carried him off.’
‘So he died of an apoplexy?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Not the debilitas?’
She flushed. ‘It was the debilitas, but it manifested itself in apoplexy-like symptoms. I will not have it said that Will died of anything vulgar.’
‘What happened exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to comment.
Isabel’s voice grew unsteady as she described how Lenne had returned from the tavern feeling ill. He had mentioned an unpleasant taste that Nigellus had diagnosed as metal in the mouth, the remedy for which was to suck raw garlic. Not long after, Lenne had exhibited all the classic symptoms of a major apoplectic attack and had died an hour later. As far as Isabel knew, nothing other than garlic had been recommended, and Nigellus had been the only visitor.
‘Your anatomising should have told us that he died of natural causes,’ said Michael crossly, once they were outside. ‘We could have saved the cost of a coffin.’
‘It is not as simple as that. Perhaps Lenne did die of an apoplexy – Isabel’s testimony certainly suggests it – but what about the damage to his liver and stomach? Moreover, this metal in the mouth is peculiar. I have never heard of it before, and I am puzzled as to what caused it.’
‘So did Nigellus murder Lenne or not?’ asked Michael impatiently.
‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, equally irritable. ‘There is no way to tell.’
‘You are no help,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘But you can make up for your inadequacy in the Corpse Examining department by accompanying me to interrogate Nigellus.’
‘No, Brother. I told you: he will think I am there to gloat.’
‘You must – he will try to confuse me with complex medical explanations, and I shall need you to tell me whether they are reasonable. Come on. The sooner we see him, the sooner we can go home. Even I feel vulnerable wandering about today.’
CHAPTER 9
The proctors’ gaol was a nasty, damp building behind St Mary the Great. Bartholomew only visited it when prisoners needed medical attention, and each time he went, he remembered how much he disliked it. The cells were in the basement, on the grounds that this would reduce the risk of the inmates being broken out by indignant cronies.
Although he complained about the unhealthy atmosphere, it was not bad as such places went. There were vents to supply fresh air, and the beadles kept it fairly clean. The food was often better than what was served in Michaelhouse, and there were reasonable arrangements for sanitation. Nigellus had been provided with a lamp, books, parchment, pens and blankets. He was writing when the beadle unlocked the door, taking the opportunity to prepare lectures for the following week – underlining the fact that he expected to be free to give them.
‘Have you come to release me?’ he asked archly, when Michael and Bartholomew entered. ‘If so, do not bother with apologies. You have offended me so deeply that only financial restitution will salve my distress. You will be hearing from Stephen first thing in the morning.’
‘We are here for answers,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed; Bartholomew leaned against the doorframe. ‘The matter is far from over, I am afraid. At least a dozen of your patients are dead, and if your feathers are ruffled in our search for the truth, then so be it.’
‘I am surprised at you, Bartholomew,’ said Nigellus coldly. ‘You are a colleague, and I had expected your support. How can you betray me in this manner?’
‘Shall we begin with Barnwell?’ asked Michael, ignoring the remark. ‘And the six people who died within days of each other while under your care?’
‘Three very elderly men, two servants who did nothing but sit around and eat, and a woman with a wasting sickness,’ replied Nigellus dismissively. He glanced archly at Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think these are folk you might have saved?’
‘Then what about Frenge?’ demanded Michael. ‘He was your patient, and he was neither ancient, fat, nor cursed with poor health.’
‘Yes, but his last visit to me was more than a week ago. You cannot lay his fate at my door.’
‘You have seen him since,’ countered Michael. ‘We have witnesses who say you argued with him over the sour ale he sold Zachary. Please do not lie: it will only make matters worse.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘I had forgotten – it was an unmemorable event. I did inform him that selling us inferior wares was unacceptable, but that is not a crime. However, I had nothing to do with his demise. Or do you imagine that I lurk in convents waiting to strike my victims?’
‘I am not in a position to say – yet,’ replied Michael. ‘Now tell me about Letia.’
‘Shirwynk summoned me too late to save her,’ said Nigellus, treating the monk to an unpleasant look. ‘Personally, I think he did it deliberately, because he wanted her dead. When I arrived, she was so dizzy that she barely knew her name.’
‘You mean she was delirious?’ asked Bartholomew.
Nigellus shot him a disdainful glance, and when he spoke, it was as if he was addressing an annoying and particularly stupid child. ‘No, because she was not suffering from hallucinations. You cannot have one without the other. Surely you know that?’
‘Actually, it is perfectly possible to be in an acute confused state without delusions,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Nigellus might think otherwise. ‘What were her other symptoms?’
‘She was hot and she had vomited, but those were irrelevant to my diagnosis. Dizziness is a serious and often fatal condition, and it was obvious to me that she was going to die.’
Bartholomew did not bother to argue. ‘And Lenne?’ he asked.
‘Metal in the mouth, a disease described by Hippocrates. I prescribed garlic, not only to remove the taste, but to rebalance the humours. Garlic is hot and wet in the second degree, as I am sure you know.’
Bartholomew knew no such thing, and was also sure that Hippocrates would never have considered ‘metal in the mouth’ a disease. He regarded his colleague intently, trying to decide whether Nigellus was simply a terrible physician, or a very clever one attempting to conceal his crimes with a show of bumbling ineptitude.
‘Brother Arnold,’ he said eventually. ‘You claimed he died of insomnia.’
‘Yes, which can be deadly in elderly patients, as the Greek physician Xenocrates says. If they do not have access to the rejuvenating powers of sleep, they sicken and die. And before you ask, Irby was suffering from a loss of appetite, another dangerous disease.’
‘It takes longer than a few hours for a loss of appetite to prove fatal,’ said Bartholomew, whose only knowledge of Xenocrates was that the infinitely more famous and trustworthy Galen had criticised him for making ‘remedies’ out of particularly unpleasant ingredients.
‘Irby had a pre-existing condition that required a regular intake of nutrients,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘When he failed to eat, he fell into a torpid state, and that was the end of him.’
Bartholomew struggled to understand what might actually have happened. ‘Did he suffer a sudden loss of weight, accompanied by excessive urination and—’
‘Hah! You do know of the ailment. Your training is not as flawed as I was beginning to fear. His urine was sweet on my tongue, and was obviously abnormal.’
‘You tasted it?’ Bartholomew was repelled.
Nigellus’s composure slipped a little. ‘Of course, as the great Aretaeus of Cappadocia recommended we do. Why? How do you do it?’
‘By seeing whether it attracts ants,’ replied Bartholomew, regarding him askance.
Nigellus waved a dismissive hand, although a flush in his cheeks indicated his chagrin at having been found lacking. ‘But Yerland is the one who will prove my innocence. I did not give him medicine for his headache, you did. Ergo, you are the one who should be sitting here, not me.’
‘You gave him nothing at all?’ asked Michael.
‘No – I have one cure for headache
s: sleeping in a darkened room. I have learned through the years that they either get better on their own or they become worse and the patient dies. Nothing the medicus does affects the outcome one way or the other, so I never bother to try.’
‘Did Segeforde have a headache, too?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He had a pallor,’ replied Nigellus. ‘So all I did for him was recommend an early night.’
‘Now what about this debilitas you have been diagnosing?’ asked Michael. ‘Matt tells me that there is no such sickness.’
Nigellus scowled. ‘Of course there is, and his remark does nothing but underline the fact that I am a better, more experienced medicus than he. He claims to have University degrees, but all I can say is that he cannot have paid much attention in class. I, on the other hand, listened to every word my tutors told me.’
‘When did you study at Oxford?’ asked Michael, aiming to make enquiries to see if Nigellus was telling the truth about his education.
‘Before you were born,’ came the sharp response. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant sneer. ‘When medical students were of a much higher calibre.’
‘Similia similibus curantur,’ persisted Michael, while Bartholomew felt himself begin to lose patience with Nigellus, and struggled against the urge to turn on his heel and march out. ‘Irby wrote it just before he died. What did he mean?’
‘Clearly, he was reflecting on the best way to counteract the stench caused by Edith Stanmore’s dyeworks.’ The speed of Nigellus’s response indicated that he had already given the question serious consideration. ‘He was pondering whether creating odours of his own would neutralise hers.’
‘Can you prove that?’ asked Michael.
‘Can you disprove it?’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘You think I harmed all these people, but you have no evidence to support your theories, or you would not be here now, fishing for answers.’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 22
