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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘The town does hate us,’ agreed Suttone unhappily. ‘Our College is usually exempt from animosity, because Matt tends the poor and Michael feeds the choir. But those vile dyeworks are owned by Matt’s sister, while Michael keeps arresting people for breaching the peace.’

  ‘At least we have a nice mural to look at in our final days as Fellows,’ said Clippesby, who was holding a pot on his lap, in which swam several fish. ‘Aristotle, Plato, Galen and Aquinas, all teaching eager students.’

  ‘It is a nice mural,’ said Suttone sadly. ‘And I like that oak tree – it reminds me of the one I used to scale when I was a boy.’

  ‘I wish we had commissioned a tapestry instead,’ said Langelee, after a brief silence during which they all tried to imagine the portly Suttone ever being lithe enough to climb anything. ‘We could have sold a tapestry, but we cannot sell a wall.’

  ‘The mural was Wauter’s idea,’ said William bitterly. ‘Perhaps he realises it was sheer folly, and that is why he has disappeared.’

  ‘I searched his room,’ said Langelee. ‘His Martilogium has gone, which makes me suspect that he plans to be away for some time – perhaps even permanently.’

  When the meal was over, even the abstemious Bartholomew felt the need for something else to eat, so he went to see what Michael had in his private pantry. He tended not to buy spare food – called commons – himself because he either forgot it was there or his students got to it first. He was impressed when Michael produced smoked ham, an excellent cheese, several boiled eggs and half a loaf of bread. Obligingly, his students went to the hall to study, leaving the two Fellows alone to discuss their investigation. Michael began.

  ‘Our culprit – I shall call him the strategist, on account of the cunning way he manipulates us all – knows exactly how to stir up trouble between University and town, both with real events and with rumours.’

  Bartholomew agreed. ‘Our so-called removal to the Fens; what or who is causing the debilitas; the murder of Frenge. All have aggravated the situation, especially when combined with the ill-feeling about the various lawsuits and the dyeworks.’

  ‘I visited every convent in Cambridge last night, and all had received an anonymous letter urging them to persuade the Austins to sue Hakeney.’

  ‘Then our culprit is Stephen,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘He is the one who will profit from all this legal activity.’

  ‘I managed to catch him in a tavern last night, and he says he had a missive as well. I am inclined to believe him. However, even the Senior Proctor is fallible, so he had better remain on our list of suspects for now.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘These messages prove the strategist exists – that someone is prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve his ends.’

  ‘Even kill,’ said Michael sombrely.

  ‘I do not suppose Stephen or the priors showed you these letters, did they? In other words, could you match the writing to any of our suspects?’

  ‘None of the priors kept them, while Stephen was in the Cardinal’s Cap, and so not in a position to oblige. However, Hamo saw the one that was sent to Joliet, so perhaps he was killed because he recognised the hand.’ Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘He would have recognised Wauter’s – a fellow Austin.’

  ‘I suppose he would,’ acknowledged Bartholomew reluctantly.

  ‘So let us consider what happened in the chapel last night. Hamo went to prepare it for vespers. He was alone, and while he was there, someone slipped in and stabbed him. He was no weakling, so his attacker either approached very stealthily or it was someone Hamo did not perceive as a threat. Such as a colleague.’

  ‘But no one else saw Wauter in the convent last night.’

  ‘Because the culprit entered via the broken back gate, as you yourself discovered. Of course, it could just be a townsman, aiming to win justice for Frenge. Did Hamo’s body provide any clues?’

  ‘All I can say is that he lived for some time after he was attacked. He lay a while by the altar, but managed to rise and lurch to the door. I could tell by the way the blood had splattered.’

  Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘What a ghoul you are!’

  ‘Most people in his position would have called for help or staggered out to find some, but he stayed in the chapel.’

  ‘He probably wanted to die in a holy place. He was a friar – these things are important.’

  Bartholomew shook his head slowly. ‘Perhaps, but something is not right about the affair. He spoke one word – “all” – but what did it mean? He did not look as though he was praying to the Almighty.’

  ‘Then perhaps Overe was right, and he started to say aliteum – a crime.’

  ‘He would not have wasted his final breath stating the obvious,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘And why did he not just tell us who stabbed him?’

  ‘The chapel was dark and he was stabbed from behind. He may not have seen his attacker.’

  But Bartholomew remained troubled. ‘I cannot shake the conviction that he was trying to convey a message in that final word – one he mistakenly thought I understood. I have the sense that I have failed him.’

  ‘Then let us return to the friary now. Perhaps he left a clue, and all will become clear in the full light of day.’

  Bartholomew and Michael were about to leave Michaelhouse when the gate opened, and Joliet and Robert walked in. Both were pale, and Joliet’s red eyes suggested he had been crying.

  ‘You need not teach today,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘Not after the nasty shock you had last night. I know from experience what it is like to lose a colleague. Go home and pray for his soul.’

  Joliet looked away. ‘You are good, Master Langelee. However, we did not come to work, but to ask what Brother Michael plans to do about finding Hamo’s killer.’

  ‘All I can,’ replied Michael simply. ‘So perhaps we can walk to the friary now, to view the chapel in daylight.’

  Joliet smiled wanly. ‘I hoped you would, so we shut it up after we took Hamo to the charnel house. No one has been in it since.’

  They walked to the High Street, where they were hailed by Gilby, the dim-witted priest from White Hostel. He was riding on a cart that was piled high with his belongings. He was grey-faced, and one hand was clasped to his stomach.

  ‘I have the debilitas,’ he whimpered. ‘I do not want to die, so I have decided to leave Cambridge while I can. Three other scholars from White will follow me this afternoon, along with four from Trinity Hall and two from Peterhouse.’

  ‘We shall be sorry to lose you,’ lied Michael. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘The Fens,’ replied Gilby with a vague flap of his hand. ‘We shall establish a new University where members can be free of poison – of the body and the mind. In time, this one will fade into oblivion, and we shall be regarded as the true studium generale.’

  ‘Are you sure it is wise to travel while you are ill?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Michael quickly, scowling at him. He turned back to the priest with a bright smile. ‘Go and found your university, Gilby. I wish you every success.’

  ‘I do not want to leave,’ said Gilby, eyes narrowing when he saw the monk was glad to be rid of him. ‘But your ineptitude as Senior Proctor leaves me no choice. And do not come crying to me when the town destroys you, because you will not be welcome.’ He turned to the Austins. ‘But you will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Joliet. He glanced nervously around him. ‘If the town continues to descend into chaos, you might be seeing us sooner than you know.’

  ‘How can you think of going?’ asked Michael reproachfully. ‘What about the paupers who rely on you – the ones you starved yourselves to feed last winter, and who you will help with the money you have earned by teaching and painting at Michaelhouse?’

  Joliet looked away. ‘I pity them, but I must consider the safety of my people. This week has proved beyond all doubt that the town loathes us, despite all our sacrifices.’
<
br />   ‘And one of them killed Hamo,’ added Robert. ‘We cannot fight such deeply held hatred.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ agreed Gilby. ‘So do not wait too long before joining us.’

  He cracked the reins and the vehicle rumbled forward. Another followed, bearing two men from Gonville Hall, one of whom was the drunken Osborne. Both looked wan.

  ‘Where they will sleep?’ asked Bartholomew, watching the wagons clatter away. Joliet and Robert dropped behind to talk in low voices, obviously giving serious consideration to Gilby’s invitation. ‘All are used to comfort, and I doubt they will enjoy bedding down under a cart, especially if they are ill.’

  ‘They will not sleep under a cart,’ predicted Michael. ‘I suspect they will aim for a specific location – one the strategist has already chosen. A settlement left empty after the plague, perhaps.’

  ‘Then they will be disappointed. It has been a decade since those were abandoned, and few will be habitable now. However, I suspect the strategist wants our scholars to think as you have – that his new university has decent buildings free for the taking.’

  ‘Then his foundation will not survive long – his cronies will not stay if they are forced to live like peasants. And they cannot come back to us, because I will not allow it. They will have tasted independence, so will be a divisive force. Yet we will not survive either if we are stripped of too many members, but how can we stop them from trickling away?’

  ‘There is only one way: find the strategist.’

  It was not an easy journey to the Austin friary. Townsmen hurled abuse at them, although none was quite brave enough to launch a physical attack on the princely bulk of the Senior Proctor, while students roamed in belligerent packs.

  ‘We should follow Gilby,’ gulped Robert. ‘We will be safe in the marshes.’

  ‘Safe, but not comfortable,’ said Michael. ‘Do not abandon your lovely convent just yet.’

  ‘I am not comfortable here,’ averred Joliet, waving a hand in front of his face as a particularly noxious waft blew from the dyeworks.

  They reached the priory, where Bartholomew and Michael surveyed every inch of the chapel for clues, but found nothing useful. The blood that had been dripped and smeared on the floor confirmed what the physician had already surmised – that Hamo had been attacked near the altar, but had managed to stagger to the door where he had died.

  ‘There is no suggestion that the culprit broke into the church,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the lock. ‘He walked inside freely.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Robert bitterly. He and his brethren were standing in the porch, watching the search with troubled expressions. ‘The door was open, because we were about to say vespers – and Hamo was in here, preparing the altar.’

  ‘I have been wickedly remiss,’ said Joliet, tears rolling down his round cheeks. ‘I saw how easy it was to invade our holy grounds when Frenge died, but I never imagined the killer would strike again. I should have posted guards, or barricaded the gates. And Hamo paid the price for my complacency.’

  ‘We will find the culprit,’ promised Michael, as the friars hastened to comfort their leader. ‘And we shall start by questioning Hakeney.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Hakeney was not at home or protesting at the dyeworks, and Bartholomew and Michael were not sure where else to look for him. As they pondered, Isnard the bargeman swung up on his crutches, and began to regale them with his opinion of the latest rumour that was surging around the town.

  ‘Hakeney did not kill Hamo,’ he declared. ‘It is a vicious lie – one put about by the Austins, probably, so we will all support their legal case against him. Well, it will not work.’

  ‘Who told you this tale?’ demanded Michael irritably.

  ‘Dozens of folk,’ replied Isnard, and began to list them. ‘Landlord Lister, Noll Verius, Thelnetham of the Gilbertines, Dickon Tulyet, Peyn and Shirwynk the brewers—’

  ‘What makes you so sure that Hakeney is innocent?’ interrupted Michael, seeing the recitation would continue for some time if he let it.

  ‘Because he was with me in the King’s Head when Hamo was stabbed,’ replied Isnard. ‘We were there all night, and he is still there now. I am his alibi, and you know you can trust me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael, aware that Isnard was not always conscious after visiting that particular tavern, and Hakeney could have wandered out, committed a dozen murders and returned to his tankard with the bargeman none the wiser.

  A hurt expression suffused Isnard’s face when he saw what Michael was thinking. ‘I barely touched a drop all night, Brother. We kept clear heads for making plans, see.’

  ‘What plans?’ asked Michael in alarm.

  ‘Me and some of the choir aim to stop the University from slinking off to the Fens,’ replied the bargeman. ‘Our musical evenings would not be the same without you, Brother, and we want you to stay.’

  ‘I am glad someone does.’

  ‘It might be dangerous to intervene,’ warned Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what wild and reckless scheme the patrons of the King’s Head might have hatched, regardless of whether they had stayed sober. ‘Please do not—’

  ‘We care nothing for danger,’ declared Isnard grandly. ‘Not when we are doing what we believe is right. Do not worry – we will not let the fanatics in the town drive you away.’

  ‘I am more concerned about the fanatics in the University,’ muttered Michael. ‘But leave the matter to me, Isnard. I have no intention of leaving Cambridge.’

  ‘But some of you have already gone,’ Isnard pointed out worriedly. ‘Wauter yesterday, Gilby and others this morning, with more set to follow tonight. It is the beginning of the end.’

  ‘It is not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I repeat: leave the matter to me. Now, you say Hakeney is in the King’s Head still?’

  ‘Yes, lying on the floor. Do you want a word with him? Then I had better accompany you, to make sure you come to no harm.’

  The King’s Head was a sprawling tavern on the edge of the town, famous for strong ale, vicious fights and rabid opinions. Scholars were not welcome, although Bartholomew and Michael were tolerated, one for physicking the poor and the other for running the choir. Even so, both were uneasy as they entered the dark, smelly room with its reek of spilled ale and rushes that needed changing. The clatter of conversation immediately died away.

  ‘They are with me,’ announced Isnard. ‘Come to disprove these lies about Hakeney.’

  ‘Good,’ said the landlord, a burly brute with scars. ‘Because he came here shortly after the squabble at the dyeworks and he has not left since. A dozen witnesses will tell you the same. Besides, can you really imagine a skinny wretch like him dispatching a great lump like Hamo?’

  ‘You would be surprised,’ said Michael. ‘Not all murderers are …’ He waved a vague hand, suddenly aware that if he attempted a description of the classic notion of a killer, any number of men in the room, including the landlord, might take it personally.

  Bartholomew left the monk to verify Hakeney’s alibi, while he followed Isnard to the back of the tavern, where the vintner was fast asleep on a straw pallet, one of several thoughtfully provided for those patrons who found themselves unable to walk home. Isnard woke him with a jab from a crutch, and Hakeney sat up blinking stupidly. He wore a knife on his belt, but it was too large to be the murder weapon.

  ‘Why would I stab Hamo?’ he asked, when Isnard explained what was being said about him. ‘It is Robert who stole my cross.’

  ‘Perhaps you aimed to deter the Austins from suing you,’ suggested Bartholomew.

  ‘Is that a possibility?’ asked Hakeney eagerly, and the physician could see it was a notion that had not occurred to him before. The vintner was not the culprit.

  ‘Why choose now to snatch the cross?’ asked Bartholomew. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Or did someone encourage you to do it?’

  ‘I did meet a man who told me I was a fool to let myself be so w
ronged,’ confided Hakeney. ‘He suggested the best way to get my property back was just to take it.’

  ‘Who was he?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

  Hakeney shrugged, and the red-rimmed eyes and sallow features suggested he would not be a reliable witness anyway. ‘I never saw his face, and the tavern where he got me was one of the dark ones. He was a townsman, though. No scholar would have dispensed such sensible advice.’

  ‘Give it back, Hakeney,’ said Isnard disapprovingly. ‘You told me last night that Robert’s cross is different from your wife’s. Do the decent thing and admit you made a mistake.’

  ‘No, I shall keep it,’ said Hakeney, taking it in his hand and staring down at it. ‘It reminds me of Lilith, even if it was never hers in the first place.’

  Bartholomew considered grabbing it himself, knowing that the vintner was not strong enough to stop him, but then came to his senses. They were in the King’s Head, and even Isnard would not be able to protect him if he assaulted one of its regulars.

  ‘The Austins are going to ask the Bishop to decide the case,’ he said instead. ‘It is a good idea – he will be an impartial judge.’

  ‘Oh, no, he won’t,’ declared Hakeney fervently. ‘I have crossed swords with him before – over a pig that was mine, but which he claimed was his. I will not get a fair hearing from the Bishop of Ely, and I refuse to accept him as an arbiter.’

  ‘Then stay low until Hamo’s killer is caught,’ advised Bartholomew, sure the sight of the vintner strolling free would infuriate some of the University’s feistier members, and the last thing they needed was another murder. ‘Do you have somewhere to hide?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hakeney, reaching for the jug of wine that he had not finished the previous night and taking a deep draught. ‘Right here. The landlord will not mind.’

  Bartholomew and Michael left the tavern, and as they crossed the bridge over the King’s Ditch, the physician stopped to stare down at the sluggish, murky waters. When he looked up again, he saw the top of the Austins’ chapel over the chaos of rooftops in between, while several boats were tied up on the bank below. None were secure, and anyone might have jumped into one, rowed the short distance to the convent and gone in to commit murder.