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

by Susanna Gregory

  The feeble glow from the lantern that was produced showed Hamo’s face to be unnaturally pale. It also revealed a spreading stain on the floor. Hamo had been stabbed.

  ‘Save him!’ cried Joliet, while the other Austins clamoured their horror and disbelief. ‘You must save him!’

  But the wound, although small, had sliced deeply into Hamo’s lung, and Bartholomew could hear that it had already filled with blood. There was nothing he or anyone else could do, and he read in Hamo’s eyes that he knew it.

  ‘He needs last rites,’ he said to Joliet, hating to see the Austins’ instant dismay.

  Hamo took a handful of Bartholomew’s tunic and tugged, indicating that he wanted to speak. Bartholomew put his ear close to the dying man’s mouth, but what emerged was so low as to be virtually inaudible. When he sat back, the others clamoured to know what had been said.

  ‘I am not sure,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It sounded like “all”.’

  ‘All what?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘Perhaps he was beginning a prayer,’ suggested Robert, white-faced with shock. ‘Almighty God, have mercy upon me …’

  ‘Or he wanted to say aliteum,’ added Overe. ‘Meaning a crime – because one has certainly been committed here.’

  ‘Fetch some water,’ ordered Joliet urgently. ‘It may unlock his throat. Hurry!’

  ‘Who did this to you, Hamo?’ asked Michael, ignoring the panicky confusion that ensued as the friars blundered around in a frantic attempt to locate a cup. ‘Did you see?’

  He crouched next to Bartholomew, but this time the whispered word was even softer.

  ‘Where is the water?’ cried Joliet, his voice cracking with desperation. ‘Overe!’

  Hamo fixed Bartholomew with a bright-eyed stare, and the physician was sure he was trying to convey a message. The dying man held his gaze a moment longer, before giving a brief, conspiratorial nod. Then he closed his eyes and breathed his last.

  Joliet began to intone a final absolution in a voice that was unsteady with shock, and one by one, his priests joined in. Some looked around fearfully as they did so, afraid the killer might still lurk, ready to claim another victim.

  ‘There is no one else here,’ said Michael, the only one who had thought to check. ‘The culprit must have committed his vile deed and fled.’

  Resolve filled Joliet’s round face. ‘Our prayers for Hamo’s soul can wait – God will understand. Search the grounds. We cannot let this villain escape. He may kill again!’

  Bartholomew went to help, leaving Michael to question those friars who were too old or infirm to join in the hunt. The obvious place to start as far as the physician was concerned was the back gate – Overe assured him that the front one had been locked and guarded all day – so he grabbed a pitch torch and hurried there at once, Robert at his heels. It was ajar when they arrived. Robert tugged it open and pointed at the priory’s boat.

  ‘We got a better mooring rope after Frenge died,’ he said, and Bartholomew noted that the little craft was now secured to the pier with a serious tangle of knots. ‘The killer cannot have used our boat to cross the ditch this time, so he must have swum across.’

  ‘Not unless he is a lunatic,’ said Bartholomew eyeing the still, black, stinking waters in revulsion. ‘However, I noticed that the gate was open – I thought you were going to keep it locked after what happened to Frenge.’

  ‘We meant to mend it,’ said Robert sheepishly, ‘but then other concerns assailed us, and I am afraid and we made the foolish assumption that lightning would not strike twice …’

  ‘So this is definitely how the culprit came in, then,’ said Bartholomew, sure such an unforgiveable oversight would not have happened at Michaelhouse. ‘He must have taken a boat from somewhere else. It would not be difficult – there are dozens of them further downstream.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Robert miserably. ‘Poor Hamo. How could such a terrible thing happen?’

  Easily, thought Bartholomew, when his brethren were so cavalier about security.

  News of Hamo’s stabbing spread like wildfire, and the town was soon abuzz with rumours. Bartholomew volunteered to help keep the peace, but first a gaggle of lawyers from Gonville Hall howled insults at him for being kin to the woman who hired whores, then a band of townsmen accused him of encouraging Edith to poison people in order to drum up trade for himself.

  ‘You are more liability than help, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘But your offer is appreciated, as are the ones from Michaelhouse and the Austins. No one else has bothered, presumably because they would rather be fighting.’

  ‘Or because they are too frightened to venture out,’ suggested Bartholomew.

  Michael snorted his disbelief at that notion. ‘But I am worried about Wauter. Has he gone to find a nice spot for the University in the Fens? Or is there another, darker reason for his absence?’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think that he might have killed Hamo?’

  ‘Well, he is an Austin, who knows his way around their priory.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe that of him. The killer is more likely to be Hakeney, who has a grudge against the Order.’

  ‘Against Robert,’ corrected Michael.

  ‘He is a drunk and the chapel is poorly lit. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘I doubt that even the most pickled of minds could confuse Hamo with Robert, even in the dark.’ Michael turned when his favourite beadle approached. ‘Well, Meadowman? Will there be a battle between us and the townsfolk tonight?’

  ‘No, thank God,’ replied the beadle tiredly. ‘But there may be one tomorrow, when the troublemakers use Hamo’s murder to whip up more bad feeling. We are going to be busy if we want to avert a crisis, Brother.’

  Bartholomew walked back to College, grateful when Meadowman offered to escort him. The beadle’s burly presence saved him both from a spat with Zachary and from trouble with Shirwynk’s apprentices. It was the role Cynric usually fulfilled, but Bartholomew was glad he had detailed the book-bearer to stand guard over Edith instead.

  As it was late, his students were already in bed, but Bartholomew was too unsettled to sleep. He sat in the hall, reading works by Aretaeus of Cappadocia, aiming to learn whether Nigellus had misquoted him. A little after midnight, Michael came to report that the town was quiet – partly because it had started to rain, but mostly because Tulyet had given Dickon charge of a patrol.

  ‘Which did more to send would-be rioters home than all my beadles and the drizzle put together,’ said the monk. ‘The boy is a hellion. What are you reading?’

  Bartholomew told him. ‘I have found nowhere yet that recommends quaffing urine to assess it for sweetness.’

  ‘And nor will you, I warrant,’ said Michael. ‘But do not stay up too late. We shall have another busy day tomorrow if we are to catch a killer and avert a war.’

  Bartholomew was soon absorbed in the book again and time ticked by. He closed his eyes when oily fumes and the flickering light from the lamp gave him a headache, aiming to rest them briefly, so was surprised when someone shook him awake several hours later.

  ‘You are not supposed to sleep in here,’ said Deynman accusingly. ‘It is a library. What will benefactors think? We shall be banished to the Fens for certain.’

  Bartholomew sat up, hand to his stiff neck. ‘Is it time for church?’

  ‘Not yet, but I was restless, so I thought I would come here to think. It is a good place during the hours of darkness, when there is no one clamouring at me to borrow my treasures. Sometimes, I wish you would all go away and let me do my work in peace.’

  ‘But we are your work,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You are supposed to lend us books.’

  ‘Not the way I see it,’ retorted Deynman archly. ‘And there is a nasty tendency in this University to take me for granted – to use me for menial tasks. Well, I am not a messenger-boy – I am a librarian.’ He spoke the word grandly, still delighted by
the way it sounded.

  Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Please do not say a patient asked you to tell me something and you refused. Or forgot.’

  ‘Not a patient. I would make an exception for those. It was Irby from Zachary – before he died, obviously. He shoved a note in my hand and ordered me to give it to you. I told him I was Michaelhouse’s inlitteratus, and thus above running errands, but he only laughed.’

  Bartholomew regarded him wonderingly. ‘Inlitteratus?’

  ‘It is Latin for librarian,’ explained Deynman. ‘Thelnetham told me so.’

  ‘It means illiterate,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Deynman’s grasp of the language could remain so dismal when he spent his whole life among books written in it. ‘Thelnetham was being unkind, and Irby must have thought you were making a joke.’

  Deynman’s face crumpled in dismay. ‘You mean I have been going around telling all and sundry that I am unlettered? No wonder people have looked at me so oddly! How could he?’

  ‘How indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Do you still have Irby’s letter?’

  Deynman went to rummage in a pile of parchments, his expression sullen. ‘Thelnetham will not get away with this,’ he vowed. ‘I shall send him an anonymous gift of that apple wine he likes so much – in the hope that it will make him sick again.’

  ‘Apple wine? You mean the stuff Shirwynk makes?’

  ‘Thelnetham is a glutton for it, and is sure to drink it all without sharing with his brethren. He told me that the last barrel he purchased brought on a bout of the debilitas – it turned him silly and he had to spend a whole week in bed.’

  ‘Then why would he drink a second one?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the Librarian’s plans for sly revenge needed some serious revision.

  ‘Because he is a pig and will be unable to resist it,’ replied Deynman. ‘And I hope my gift makes him ill for a lot longer than a week. Hah! Here is Irby’s note.’

  Bartholomew groaned when he read what was written. ‘Similia similibus curantur.’

  ‘Currants are similar to each other,’ translated Deynman liberally. ‘But why—’

  ‘No! It means like things are cured by like things.’ Bartholomew waved the letter at him. ‘And here he explains that it is his suggestion for the disceptatio. He and I were on the committee appointed to choose the topic, but he was ill for the final meeting. Morys took his place.’

  ‘And promptly picked a boring discussion about giving away property that one doesn’t own,’ recalled Deynman. He nodded to the letter. ‘Irby’s idea would have been much more entertaining.’

  ‘When did he give you this message?’

  Deynman thought carefully. ‘Saturday – the day before his death. Why?’

  ‘Because when he received no reply, he started to write another – the one I found under a jug in his room. It is not a clue revealing the identity of the man who took his life: it is a piece of routine correspondence.’

  Deynman regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you saying it was important?’

  Bartholomew nodded unhappily. ‘We wasted valuable time trying to work out its significance. And worse yet, Michael arrested Nigellus on the strength of it.’

  Deynman’s expression was scornful. ‘I am surprised he has lasted so long as Senior Proctor, because everyone knows that Nigellus never cures anything. He calculates horoscopes that prevent people from becoming ill, but once they have a disease, he does nothing at all.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew absently, his mind on Nigellus’s probable reaction when told his arrest had been a mistake. It would not be pleasant.

  ‘Because my brother got the debilitas, and Nigellus told him to abstain from food and drink for a day, but refused to prescribe a remedy. He also declined to give anything to Trinity Hall when they got the debilitas – twice – and the Gilbertine Priory.’

  Bartholomew scrubbed hard at his face, wishing Deynman had acted like a responsible, rational being, and passed the letter on. He left the hall, and when he saw a lamp burning in Michael’s room, he climbed the stairs to tell him what had happened. The monk was horrified.

  ‘But that was our best piece of evidence against Nigellus!’

  ‘I did tell you it was unsafe,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘You will have to let him go.’

  ‘Let him go?’ cried Michael, loudly enough to wake the novices who shared his room. They sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. ‘Even if he did not dispatch Irby, his incompetence still made an end of Letia, Lenne, Arnold and God knows how many others.’

  ‘Did it? I am no longer sure about that. The Prior of Barnwell told me that Nigellus recommended all manner of tonics, infusions, electuaries and decoctions to help the canons who were ill, but nothing worked. Then Nigellus came here, where his “cures” entail eating garlic, wearing certain clothes or standing in the moonlight.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ asked Michael impatiently. ‘Do not speak in riddles, Matt.’

  ‘Meaning that I think the Barnwell losses shook his confidence, so when he came here, he elected not to prescribe anything. His diagnoses are outlandish, and he almost certainly has never read Aretaeus of Cappadocia, but I have not encountered a single person who has said that Nigellus has given him medicine.’

  ‘You are right, sir,’ put in one of the students. ‘I have friends in Ovyng Hostel, and all he did when they had the debilitas was tell them to avoid being looked at by rabbits.’

  ‘Prior Norton probably contributed to Nigellus’s self-doubt,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘He confessed that he said some cruel things when his people failed to recover.’

  Michael stared at him. ‘But Nigellus will sue me if I release him, and we cannot afford yet another source of discord. I will have to keep him until the current trouble is over.’

  ‘That might be some time,’ said the student. ‘Because the disturbances will not stop until the University has moved to the Fens – and that will not be organised overnight.’

  ‘We are not going,’ said Michael firmly.

  ‘That is not what the town thinks,’ said the student, ‘while half our scholars would go tomorrow if they could. Regardless, the trouble will not subside very quickly, if at all.’

  Dawn was touching the eastern sky when Bartholomew and Michael left the College, but the streets were mercifully empty, and when they met Meadowman, the beadle reported that it had been a quiet night. The gaol was full, though, of those who had made a nuisance of themselves before the rain and Dickon had driven people home. All would be released later that morning on payment of a fine – or languish until their friends managed to raise the requisite amount.

  As the prison was filled to capacity, Nigellus no longer had the luxury of a room to himself, but he had made the most of the situation, and when Bartholomew and Michael arrived he was delivering an acid-tongued sermon to his cellmates. It comprised a poisonous diatribe against everyone who annoyed him: the dyeworks; the folk at Barnwell, whom he claimed had spread lies about him; and medici jealous of his superior abilities.

  ‘Here comes the Devil Incarnate,’ he sneered when he saw Michael. His hateful gaze shifted to Bartholomew. ‘And his helpmeet. You will both go to Hell for what you have done to me, and I shall sue the University for every penny it has.’

  ‘Good,’ said a lad from Bene’t College. ‘Because I do not want to move to the Fens, and if you deprive the University of funds, its officers will not have the money to bring it about.’

  ‘I would not mind going,’ countered a Carmelite novice. ‘There are no Frail Sisters in the Fens, and I shall not find myself tempted by their invitations. I never think about them when they are not around, but when they appear in front of me …’

  ‘Stand up, Nigellus,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am letting you go.’

  There was a resounding cheer and Nigellus smirked. It was an unpleasant expression, designed to annoy, and Bartholomew found himself wishing his colleague had been guilty.

  ‘I shall see Stephen the
lawyer this morning,’ Nigellus declared. ‘My reputation has been severely damaged, and for that you must pay.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the Carmelite. ‘Your reputation is enhanced – you are a martyr for the cause and we all admire you. You will certainly find your practice swollen with new patients now.’

  Nigellus shot him a foul look. ‘I do not want new patients. I want compensation.’

  He stalked through the door, and made a show of brushing himself off once he was in the street, declaring in a ringing voice that the University had never had any real evidence against him. He had been arrested, he informed passers-by, purely to conceal the fact that Edith was poisoning the town with her dyeworks, aided and abetted by her brother.

  ‘Edith has harmed no one,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound as though he believed it.

  ‘You would say that,’ jeered Nigellus. ‘Michaelhouse has become fabulously rich of late – mostly because she is giving you half her profits.’

  Bartholomew doubted even that would be enough to save the College from fiscal ruin. ‘No,’ he began. ‘She would never—’

  But Nigellus was already stalking away.

  It was Suttone’s turn to officiate at Mass, and as he was inclined to be wordy, it went on longer than usual. The scholars arrived home to see smoke billowing from the kitchen, and the breakfast pottage was full of crunchy black bits. Agatha had attempted to disguise the damage with an additional dose of salt and a generous sprinkling of parsley.

  ‘Perhaps we should go to the Fens,’ said Michael, poking at the mess without enthusiasm. ‘Living off the land cannot be worse than this. I am glad no benefactor is here to see what we really eat, or he might be forgiven for thinking we will not last the term.’

  ‘We won’t,’ said Langelee in a low, strained voice. ‘Our creditors are demanding payment, and our coffers are empty. Word will soon spread that we cannot pay our debts, and that will be the end of us. If we had secured even one donation, we might have weathered the storm, but we have won nothing.’

  ‘It is your fault,’ said William sullenly to Michael. ‘The University has never been so unpopular, and as Senior Proctor, you should have taken steps to maintain good relations.’