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

by Susanna Gregory

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘Let us assume you are right. Is Nigellus the sly mastermind behind this scheme?’

  ‘It is possible: he does think we should go. But so does another suspect, one who is much closer to home.’

  Bartholomew regarded Michael in alarm. ‘You mean Wauter?’

  ‘Yes. He was a scholar in Zachary until the beginning of term – Nigellus’s hostel. Their terms of tenure did not overlap, but they still had dealings with each other.’

  ‘You think Wauter encouraged Nigellus to … No, Brother! This is too outlandish.’

  ‘Perhaps. Yet Zachary lies at the heart of all our problems: one of its masters assaulted Anne; he and two other members lie dead in odd circumstances; another has a licence to absolve scholars from violent acts; its new Principal has an unsavoury hold over the Chancellor; it lies on the same street as the brewery and the dyeworks; and its resident medicus stands accused of murder.’

  ‘And an ex-member is a strong supporter for a move to the Fens,’ added Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘Although I do not see Wauter as an arch villain who would sacrifice lives to get what he wants.’

  ‘I do not know what to think. However, there is only one way forward: Frenge’s murder started it all, and I have the sense that finding his killer will allow us to make sense of everything. You have never been happy with the evidence against Nigellus, so let us explore our other suspects for a while instead – the men of King’s Hall, Shirwynk and Peyn, Hakeney and Stephen.’

  ‘The last four would be glad to see the University leave Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the King’s Hall men would rather it stayed.’

  ‘So they claim – they may be lying in an effort to confuse us. We shall ask them as soon as we have had words with Stephen about his sly manipulation of our gullible priors.’

  They walked directly to Stephen’s house on the High Street, only to be informed by his maid that her master was out with a client, although she was unable to say which one.

  ‘Tell him we called,’ ordered Michael, not bothering to hide his irritation. ‘And that he had better be in when we visit later, or there will be trouble.’

  The girl gulped, clearly loath to repeat that sort of message to the man who paid her wages. ‘Then come in and wait for him,’ she suggested. ‘He will not be long – he is still not very well, so he will be keen to come home and lie down. He has pains in his wrists and he keeps being sick.’

  ‘I hope he will not use ill health as an excuse to avoid answering our questions – if he is fit enough to dash out after customers, then he is fit enough to speak to us,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘You can tell him that when he returns as well.’

  Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and began to stalk towards King’s Hall. However, he and Bartholomew had not taken many steps before they met Tulyet and Dickon. The boy’s face was as vividly scarlet as ever, so he remained an unsettling sight. He favoured the two scholars with a wide grin, and they blinked their astonishment: his teeth were blue.

  ‘You cannot blame that on the dyeworks,’ said Bartholomew to the Sheriff.

  ‘He drank some woad,’ said Tulyet, giving his son a disapproving glare. ‘It was a stupid thing to have done. He might have poisoned himself.’

  ‘I did not drink it,’ Dickon informed him chirpily. ‘I just took a mouthful, kept it there during Mass, then spat it out.’

  ‘I wondered why you were so quiet.’ Tulyet turned anxiously to Bartholomew. ‘It will not stain him permanently, will it?’

  ‘No, although he might want to remember in future that one of the ingredients of blue dye is urine.’

  Horror stole over the lad’s face, and there followed a good deal of agitated spitting.

  ‘Relations continue to deteriorate between us and the University,’ Tulyet said to Michael, dragging his eyes away from the spectacle. ‘The situation is not helped by that tale you told me about Frenge.’

  ‘That he was a cattle thief,’ put in Dickon. ‘Which he was not, so you lied.’

  ‘Dickon!’ snapped Tulyet. He turned back to Michael. ‘I am sure it was an honest mistake on your part, Brother, but the fact is that you were wrong. Frenge’s only real failing was a fondness for his own wares, which led him to do reckless things.’

  ‘Like invading King’s Hall and the Austins,’ said Dickon. ‘It was stupid when he could have gone somewhere like Zachary, which has lots of lovely things to steal, but not much in the way of defences.’

  Michael and Bartholomew regarded him askance, both unsettled that he should know which University foundation would be best to burgle. Tulyet hastened to change the subject.

  ‘I do not know how best to keep the peace,’ he confided unhappily. ‘Flooding the streets with troops amounts to martial law, which is more likely to inflame than soothe.’

  ‘Then do it,’ suggested Dickon keenly. ‘A massacre will show everyone who is in charge.’

  A soldier arrived at that point to announce trouble in the Market Square. Tulyet hurried away to deal with it, Dickon dancing at his heels, flashing his blue fangs at anyone who glanced in his direction.

  ‘Why are men so blind when it comes to their offspring?’ said Michael wonderingly as he watched them go. ‘Shirwynk is another example: Peyn is a sullen lout who is barely literate—’

  ‘And who has never heard of Virgil,’ put in Bartholomew.

  ‘—but Shirwynk thinks he will sail into the Treasury and make his fortune. Perhaps it is as well I will never have brats. I should not like folk to see me as a doting fool, fawning blindly over some useless young wastrel.’

  King’s Hall was ready to repel an invasion. Its gates were barred, its walls were patrolled by archers, and a stone smacked into the ground when Michael and Bartholomew approached, as a warning that they should come no closer. The monk stopped dead in his tracks and scowled upwards, outraged that anyone should dare try to prevent the Senior Proctor from going about his lawful business. Alarmed, the culprit dipped out of sight.

  ‘No, I will not withdraw my complaint against Frenge’s estate,’ snarled Wayt, when they had been admitted to his solar by a porter who wore full battle armour and carried a bow. ‘We suffered shamefully at his hands, so why should we not sue for compensation?’

  ‘Because it is damaging the fragile relations between the University and the town,’ Michael snapped back, watching intently as he tried to assess whether he was speaking to a killer.

  ‘I care nothing for the town’s paltry efforts to make war,’ spat Wayt. ‘And Frenge’s prank destroyed Cew’s mind, so we owe it to him to persist.’

  ‘Frenge is dead,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Is that not punishment enough?’

  ‘Not as far as we are concerned. And speaking of Frenge, I do not believe that Nigellus dispatched him. The culprit is far more likely to be Shirwynk, in the expectation that we would drop our case against him. Which is another reason why we will not do it.’

  ‘Let us consider Frenge’s last movements again,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘He claimed he was bringing ale here, to King’s Hall. Your porters say such a delivery was never made, but you were seen arguing with him shortly before he died – about Anne Rumburgh allegedly, with whom you both had relations.’

  ‘How many more times must I repeat myself? First, if Frenge claimed he was supplying us with ale, he was lying: we have never done business with his brewery and we never will. And second, yes, he threatened to tell my colleagues about Anne, but his attempt to blackmail me failed: they already know, because most of them have had her themselves.’

  ‘Was it your colleagues he threatened to tell?’ probed Michael. ‘Or the wronged husband?’

  Wayt smiled without humour. ‘He could hardly take that sort of tale to Rumburgh when he was enjoying Anne’s favours himself!’

  ‘But he did not stand to lose princely benefactions from an indignant donor,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I would say the power lay with him in th
is disagreement, and that you had very good reason to want him silenced.’

  Wayt’s face turned pale with anger. ‘How dare you! We are the victims here. It was our pigs and geese who were set running amok in his foolish japes, and our colleague who was frightened out of his wits.’

  Michael folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure there is not another dark secret in King’s Hall? One Frenge discovered when he came raiding?’

  Alarm flared in Wayt’s eyes: Michael had hit a nerve. He began to lash out defensively. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about. Now come with me, both of you. At once!’

  ‘Go with you where?’ asked Michael, not moving.

  ‘To see Frenge’s victim. Then you will see who is in the right and who is in the wrong.’

  He stalked out, so Bartholomew and Michael followed him along a corridor to where curious hooting sounds could be heard. It seemed the King of France had been replaced by an ape.

  Bartholomew was shocked by the decline in Cew. The logician was no longer able to walk, as he had lost control of his left foot, which dragged whenever he tried to raise it. He loped about on all fours instead, making animal-like grunts while Dodenho tried in vain to persuade him back to bed.

  When the Michaelhouse men approached, Cew bared his teeth, and Bartholomew saw a thin grey line around the top of them. It was identical to the one he had seen in the student the previous day, and similar to the problem suffered by Rumburgh. But there was no time to ponder its significance, because Cew began to gibber in a manner that made Dodenho back away in alarm.

  ‘Garlic and onions. Put them in my soul-cakes. List the syllogisms – Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio. Dodenho does not know them. Garlic in the oysters, onion in the pastries.’

  ‘You see?’ snapped Wayt, although there was more sorrow than anger in his voice. ‘Now tell us why we should care about the man who did this to him.’

  ‘He will not eat oysters now.’ Dodenho sounded sad and frustrated in equal measure. ‘Just soul-cakes. God knows why – they are far too sickly for me.’

  ‘You sweeten them with sucura,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Dodenho had let slip the last time they had met.

  ‘Not any more,’ averred Wayt. ‘We use honey instead.’

  ‘Honey is not a syllogism,’ babbled Cew. ‘Baroco, Bocardo. Nasty, sticky stuff to dissolve my orb and sceptre. I hate honey, so give me onions. Onions and garlic.’

  ‘He keeps asking for those,’ said Dodenho worriedly. ‘But he cannot mean it.’

  Bartholomew was about to agree when he remembered Rougham quoting Galen the night before, about the body knowing what it needed. Nigellus had mentioned it, too, at a meeting of the consilium, when he and Bartholomew had argued about the importance of a balanced diet. But before he could suggest that they give Cew what he wanted, Wayt tried to propel him and Michael towards the door. Outraged that anyone should dare lay hands on the august person of the Senior Proctor, Michael resisted with a snarl, so Wayt ordered Dodenho to see the Michaelhouse men off the premises, loath to risk his dignity in a shoving contest he would not win.

  ‘He means no harm,’ said Dodenho apologetically, once they were in the yard. ‘Although I shall be glad when Master Shropham comes home. Can you help Cew, Bartholomew? Or did Wayt not allow you sufficient time to judge?’

  Suspecting Dodenho might baulk if anything as vulgar as onions and garlic was recommended for the patient, Bartholomew mumbled something about a remedy he kept at home.

  ‘I will prepare it now and bring it as soon as it is ready,’ he promised.

  Leaving Michael to visit Stephen alone, Bartholomew hurried back to College, where he solicited Agatha’s help. Together, they produced a stew that contained plenty of onions and garlic, along with barley and sundry other vegetables. When they were soft, he mashed them to a paste, which he coloured with saffron left over from Hallow-tide, aiming to disguise the mundane ingredients with an exotic splash of colour. Then he added boiled water to turn the concoction into a smooth soup. Agatha grinned when he asked her to keep the recipe secret, delighted to indulge in a conspiracy with a Fellow.

  He returned to King’s Hall, where Dodenho was waiting anxiously. He was whisked quickly to Cew before Wayt could see him, and was pleased when the patient gulped down a whole bowl.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Dodenho curiously, as Cew indicated that he wanted more.

  ‘Royal Broth,’ lied Bartholomew, smiling encouragingly at Cew. ‘It is full of expensive ingredients that only monarchs can afford.’

  The logician wolfed down a second helping, after which he curled up and went to sleep.

  ‘We shall have some of this Royal Broth for our ailing students as well,’ declared Dodenho, watching in relief. ‘Nigellus calculated their horoscopes, but we are not sure we can trust those now that he stands charged with murder.’

  ‘What else did Nigellus do?’ probed Bartholomew. ‘What medicines did he prescribe?’

  ‘No medicines,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Only advice – mostly about foods that should be avoided when the moon and stars are in certain positions. It was all very complicated, and I am not surprised our lads made mistakes – it is not always easy to see where these celestial bodies are at specific times, and we cannot spend all night gazing at the sky.’

  ‘He gave them nothing at all to swallow?’

  ‘No – just a long list of instructions about the ascendancy of Venus and that kind of thing. When he first arrived in Cambridge, he confided in his cups that he planned not to accept any sick clients, and that he aimed to acquire a practice comprised solely of healthy ones.’

  ‘Well, a lot of them are sick now,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘And some have died.’

  ‘He should have realised that no one stays hale and hearty for ever, and his was an impractical aspiration. He must be livid that the debilitas has come to haunt us, given that he is not very good at curing it. Unlike you with your magical Royal Broth. What did you say was in it?’

  To ensure that Dodenho continued to feed it to Cew, Bartholomew took a leaf from Nigellus’s book and became haughty. ‘I am afraid I cannot share my professional secrets with laymen. Suffice to say that it contains a wide variety of costly and efficacious compounds.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Dodenho pleasantly, and handed him a shilling, a fee far in excess of what the physician had intended to charge. ‘Is that enough, or do you require more?’

  Bartholomew wanted to refuse it, feeling that to accept would be tantamount to theft. However, if he did, Dodenho would probably be suspicious, and he was loath to risk Cew’s well-being over a few pennies. He took the coin with a sheepish nod of thanks.

  Dodenho spirited him to the students’ dormitory afterwards, both keeping a wary eye out for the bellicose Wayt. When he had examined his new patients, Bartholomew trailed back to Michaelhouse and handed the shilling to a delighted Agatha. She immediately set to work on a much larger pot of ‘Royal Broth’, promising to deliver it to King’s Hall herself when it was ready.

  Bartholomew met Michael in the yard. The monk was disconsolate that interviews with Shirwynk, Peyn and Hakeney had yielded nothing of value, while Stephen could not have been as ill as his maid had claimed, because he was still out.

  ‘I discovered that Cew and Wauter were friends, though. Very good friends.’

  ‘We already knew that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told us so himself.’

  ‘No – he told us that he visited Cew to debate points of logic. It is not the same, and by all accounts he is deeply distressed by Cew’s descent into madness. And now he has disappeared.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Frenge’s attack on Cew sent Wauter on a spree of revenge that involves murder and the removal of the University to the Fens.’

  ‘It does sound outlandish,’ admitted Michael. ‘But we have both encountered stranger motives in the past, and we should not discount this one until we are sure it is wrong. I suggest we visit Zachary now
, to see what Wauter’s old colleagues can tell us about him.’

  They arrived to find the Zachary students sitting in their hall on benches, while Morys held his lecture notes upside down and Kellawe looked shifty. Bartholomew interpreted this as meaning that the pair had been giving incendiary speeches, but did not want the Senior Proctor to know.

  ‘We will not talk to you until Nigellus is released,’ stated Morys, to a chorus of defiant cheers. He was wearing hose with yellow and black stripes, a black gipon with an amber belt, and a hat stippled in the same colours. Bartholomew wondered why one of his friends did not do him the kindness of advising him to choose attire that did not scream ‘unpopular stinging insect’.

  ‘That would be foolish,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It will only prolong his incarceration.’

  ‘If you are here to suggest we apologise for what Segeforde is alleged to have done to Anne, you have had a wasted journey,’ said Morys. ‘It was an accident, and we are not giving that money-grubbing harlot a penny.’

  ‘She exposed herself deliberately,’ declared Kellawe, all wild eyes and outthrust jaw. ‘And poor Segeforde was so appalled by the sight that he fell into a fatal debilitas.’

  One lad in the front row began to splutter, struggling to turn laughter into a cough when the Franciscan glared at him, while his cronies looked away or pretended to wipe their noses in an effort to conceal their own amusement. Clearly, the late Segeforde had been rather more worldly than Kellawe would have the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner believe.

  ‘Segeforde’s demise puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he could reveal what his illicit dissection had told him – one of the Zachary men might have an explanation. ‘He was well enough to protest outside the dyeworks and launch himself at Anne. But all of a sudden he is dead.’

  ‘It was not “all of a sudden”,’ snapped Morys. ‘He had been unwell with the debilitas all day, which you know perfectly well, because you physicked him.’