‘We do not know what you are talking about,’ declared Shirwynk, although his tone was taunting, and aggravated Morys even further.
‘Kellawe!’ Morys screeched furiously. ‘Where is he?’
Bartholomew watched him. Did his agitation mean he had no idea that his colleague was dead? Or was it a ploy to make the Senior Proctor believe him innocent of murder?
‘How should we know, hornet-face?’ asked Peyn, so insolently that Morys lunged at him.
Peyn jerked back in alarm, but his devoted father was there to protect him, and managed to grab Morys by the neck. When the Principal began to make unpleasant choking sounds, Bartholomew went to intervene, but one of Shirwynk’s meaty paws lashed out and caught him on the nose. Shock rather than pain caused him to stagger back, and when Meadowman surged to the physician’s rescue, Morys took the opportunity to slither free and resume his hunt.
‘I think it is time you left, Principal Morys,’ said Meadowman, releasing Shirwynk when Bartholomew indicated that he was unharmed. ‘You are not wanted here.’
Morys ignored him, and went instead to one of the big lead cisterns and peered inside.
‘Your friend will not be in there,’ jeered Shirwynk.
‘We have found Kellawe,’ said Meadowman. ‘He is in the dyeworks.’
‘He would never set foot in that place,’ declared Morys, darting around Shirwynk and aiming for another vat. ‘It is full of whores.’
‘He is dead,’ said Meadowman bluntly. Bartholomew winced: he had intended to break the news somewhere more private. ‘He forced his way in for mischief and was murdered there.’
Morys stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him, while Shirwynk and Peyn exchanged a glance that was impossible to interpret.
‘Murdered?’ echoed Morys, fists clenched at his side. ‘How?’
‘He was strangled and his corpse tossed in a vat,’ replied Meadowman, before Bartholomew could phrase it more delicately.
‘So,’ snarled Morys, more angry than distressed, ‘yet another scholar killed by the town.’
‘Do not blame us,’ Shirwynk flashed back challengingly. ‘It is far more likely to have been another academic. God knows, you all hate each other enough.’
‘Lies!’ hissed Morys. ‘The town dispatched him for certain. I will hunt out the culprit and—’
He stopped when realisation came that threatening vengeance in front of a beadle was hardly wise. His lips clamped together and he stalked out to stand in the street, breathing heavily as he fought to control his temper. Bartholomew and Meadowman followed.
‘Is it true that Kellawe went out at midnight?’ Bartholomew supposed it was as good a time as any to ask questions. ‘To pray for Irby, Yerland and Segeforde?’
Morys nodded tightly. ‘He took his religious duties seriously, God bless his sainted soul. I saw him out, then retired to bed. When there was no sign of him this morning, I reported my concerns to the Senior Proctor – who ignored them.’
‘Why were you both still up at midnight? It seems an odd time to—’
‘Losing three members of our hostel in such quick succession has been upsetting, and neither of us felt like sleep. We sat talking until he decided to go to church. And before you ask, I went to bed alone. However, you accused Nigellus of murder without foundation, so do not make the same mistake with me.’
‘Did Kellawe take anyone with him to St Bene’t’s?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Or were other Zachary men already there?’
‘I do not recall,’ replied Morys shortly.
‘Footprints tell us that Kellawe was with someone,’ put in Meadowman. Bartholomew winced again, and wished the beadle would be quiet. ‘We shall be wanting to inspect all of Zachary’s boots today.’
Morys glared at him. ‘Then I shall go and assemble my scholars.’
He raced away before they could stop him. Meadowman followed, but the Principal scuttled up the road with impressive speed, shot inside his hostel and slammed the door. Bartholomew stifled a groan. Michael would find no stained footwear now, and any culprit would be told exactly what to say to exonerate himself.
From the door of the brewery Peyn laughed, a forced, jeering cackle that Bartholomew found intensely irritating. Ignoring the fact that he did not have the authority to interrogate townsmen, the physician strode towards him. Peyn promptly disappeared inside, but as he neglected to close the door, Bartholomew was able to barge in after him.
‘Where were you between midnight and dawn?’ he demanded.
‘In here,’ replied Peyn, bold again now that his father was there to protect him. ‘Guarding our wares against the scholars who come to steal.’
‘And I was asleep in the room at the back,’ added Shirwynk. ‘But before you ask, no one was with us. I am recently widowed, while Peyn was too busy being vigilant for company.’
‘So you will have to take our word for it,’ smirked Peyn. ‘You have no choice – the town will not take kindly to you trying to blame one of us for Kellawe’s murder.’
‘Of course, the University will not be pleased when it learns that I am going to sue Morys for trespass,’ said Shirwynk slyly. ‘But I do not care. Look at the mess he made. And you and your beadle will be our witnesses.’
‘There will be a riot!’ chortled Peyn in delight. ‘After which the University will be ousted from our town once and for all. We do not want you here, and I cannot imagine why I ever thought I might become a scholar.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, thinking of the lad’s awful writing and the fact that he had never heard of Virgil. He seriously doubted Peyn would have been accepted, even at those foundations where academic merit came second to the size of parents’ donations.
Sensitive to any perceived slight against his son, Shirwynk shoved the physician rather vigorously, so that he stumbled against one of the wine tanks. ‘It was a passing phase, and one he grew out of, thank God. Now get out, before I sue you for trespass, too.’
Bartholomew was glad to leave the brewery, although he wished he had more to take with him than a host of unanswered questions and suspicions. He returned to the dyeworks to find that Michael had already gone to Zachary, and hoped the monk had arrived before Morys had warned everyone to hide any stained footwear.
‘What is this?’ asked Edith, turning him around to inspect the back of his tabard. ‘You are covered in white dust. Take it off. I will wash it and then dye it with the others.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting a garment he was obliged to wear every day to go in a vat that had recently held a corpse. It was silly, he knew, especially given his occupation, but he could not help it. ‘Shirwynk pushed me against one of his tanks. That dust must have—’
‘If he pushes you again, tell me,’ instructed Cynric grimly. ‘And I will push him back.’
While Bartholomew had been gone, the women had done their best to return the Franciscan to some semblance of normality. They had scrubbed his hands and face, and although he was still more amber than he should have been, at least he was recognisably human. They had been unable to do much with his habit, though, so Edith had sent Cynric to Michaelhouse to beg one from William. What had arrived was a vile article, thick with filth and fleas, but Bartholomew put it on the body anyway. Then he loaded Kellawe on the bier and sent the beadles away with it.
He walked to Zachary Hostel, and arrived to find Morys refusing to let Michael inside. He was at an upstairs window, Nigellus at his side.
‘You cannot keep me out,’ Michael was stating indignantly. ‘I am the Senior Proctor.’
‘You arrested me on patently false charges,’ shouted Nigellus. ‘So I took legal advice from Stephen. He says that any contact with you should be through him from now on.’
‘It is not you I want,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is everyone else.’
‘Then you should have thought about that before hounding an innocent man,’ Morys shot back. ‘Because you are not coming in.’
Mi
chael spread his hands. ‘How am I supposed to solve Kellawe’s murder if you will not help me? Do you want his killer to go free?’
‘You will not solve it,’ sneered Nigellus. ‘You are an incompetent. Now go away. If you have questions for us, you can ask them through our lawyer. But not today. Stephen’s debilitas is worse and keeps him in his bed. However, he was not too ill to assure me that your University will be obliged to pay me a fortune.’
‘It is your University, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And suing it is hardly the best use of its resources. We should be channelling them into averting the trouble with—’
‘We do not want to be a part of it any more,’ interrupted Nigellus. ‘It is corrupt and rotten, and Kellawe was right to want a new one in the Fens. We shall leave in the next few days, to join those who have gone before us. Our new studium generale will be free of vice and cronyism.’
‘There speaks the hostel that controls Tynkell with threats over his mother,’ muttered Michael, as the window slammed closed. ‘I shall be glad to be rid of them. Unfortunately, the fact that they are not leaving immediately suggests they aim to use the intervening time to recruit more scholars to their cause.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And Morys has no alibi for Kellawe’s murder – perhaps he killed him to make scholars think they are in danger here, and will be safer in the Fens.’
‘Surely Morys would have preferred Kellawe alive? Kellawe was fervent in his support of the move, not to mention the fact that he held the licence to absolve Zachary’s scholars from acts of violence.’
‘Would you want a man like Kellawe in your new University? He might be popular with malcontents and fanatics, but rational, decent scholars would recoil.’
‘Rational, decent scholars will not be considering removing to the Fens.’
‘But they are, Brother. The Austins think it is a sensible idea, and other good men will follow. Unless you do something to stop it, your University will be torn in half.’
CHAPTER 12
Although Bartholomew and Michael spent the rest of the day in a determined effort to identify Kellawe’s killer, they met with no success. Bartholomew lost count of the boots he examined for red and yellow splashes, but whoever had been with the Franciscan in the dyeworks had been clever enough to dispose of any incriminating evidence. In the end they gave up and went home, exhausted by their efforts.
‘We have a number of suspects, both for killing Kellawe and for being the strategist,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew stood outside the hall after breakfast the following day. ‘First, Morys, because Kellawe’s fierce tongue was a liability—’
‘And he killed Frenge to cause a rift between University and town,’ nodded Bartholomew, ‘thus encouraging a lot of scholars to think they might be safer in the Fens. Nigellus is innocent of the first, but might have had a hand in the latter.’
‘Second, Shirwynk and Peyn, who live next door to the dyeworks and hate all scholars. Third, Hakeney, because he is under the delusion that Robert stole his cross, and his assault to get it back has certainly encouraged the Austins to want to leave us for the marshes.’
‘I am less convinced about those three. The strategist is clever, and I am not sure they are sufficiently well organised, especially Hakeney.’
‘Fourth, Wauter,’ continued Michael, ‘because we do not know where he is or what he is doing. He is certainly intelligent enough to organise all this trouble. Fifth, Stephen, because he will have more work from townsmen if the University’s lawyers move to the Fens. He denied sending the messages urging the priors to convince Joliet to sue Hakeney, and I thought he was telling the truth, but perhaps I was wrong to be so trusting …’
‘But Nigellus – and Stephen’s maid – said that he has the debilitas. Sick men do not strangle their victims and toss them in vats.’
‘The debilitas comprises a lot of symptoms that cannot be proved – headaches, nausea, stomach pains, constipation, so how do you know he is ill? Have you examined him?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I offered, but he refused.’
‘Interesting,’ said Michael. ‘So I suggest we pay him a visit today and repeat the invitation. His response will be revealing in itself. And sixth, we have the men of King’s Hall. They are violently opposed to a move to the Fens, and killing one of its most vocal proponents might serve to damage its cause. Of course, if so, it means that none of them is the strategist.’
‘I doubt Cew is the culprit, while Dodenho is no more capable of ingenious subterfuge than Shirwynk, Peyn and Hakeney. That leaves Wayt …’
‘Cew also has the debilitas,’ mused Michael, ‘but his sickness has turned him insane. Yet how do we know his madness is real? He might be acting.’
‘I really do not think so, Brother. It seems genuine to me.’
Michael turned to another subject. ‘Edith and Yolande did not tell us the truth, you know.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘About what?’
‘They said their women were with them all night, but Cynric confided that there was actually a good deal of coming and going – some still engage in their old business, despite your sister’s efforts to reform them. I am afraid we cannot discount them as suspects for Kellawe’s murder, so they are seventh on our list.’
‘None of them will be the strategist though – they will not want the University to go, because scholars buy a lot of dyed cloth and … other services.’
‘True, but the strategist might have encouraged one of them to kill Kellawe. Most are impetuous ladies who would not need much convincing that dispatching a thorn in their side would be to their advantage. They are unlikely to have sat down and considered the repercussions. Like so many others, they would have been clay in his manipulative hands.’
Bartholomew was silent for a while, thinking. ‘There are other deaths that should not be forgotten either – Letia, Lenne, Arnold, Irby, Yerland, Segeforde and the Barnwell folk. We do not know why they died, but four of them suffered damage to their stomachs and livers, which I am sure was not natural …’
‘Damage that cannot be attributed to Nigellus, because he does not dispense medicines,’ sighed Michael, then shook his head. ‘And those are the deaths we know about. It occurs to me that this strategist might have claimed dozens of other lives to get what he wants.’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand though his hair. ‘We had better visit Stephen then. Unfortunately, being a lawyer, he is unlikely to be tripped up by our questions.’
‘Do not be so sure.’ Determination gleamed in Michael’s green eyes. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, and no sly killer has bested me yet.’
Before they started their enquiries, Bartholomew stopped at King’s Hall, where he was pleased to learn that all seven patients were showing signs of improvement. He started to tell Michael why he thought his Royal Broth was working, but the monk waved his explanation away with an irritable flap of a plump hand, more interested in holding forth about their suspects.
As they walked along the High Street, Bartholomew recalled the stone that had been lobbed at Prior Joliet, just for associating with Michaelhouse, and sensed that it would not be long before someone from the College suffered serious physical harm. It was not a comforting thought, and when they met Thelnetham the Gilbertine, who favoured them with a friendly smile, it was a welcome relief.
‘You cannot still want to be reinstated as a Fellow at Michaelhouse,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘It is a dangerous place to be at the moment.’
‘No worse than any other University foundation,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘And I will take my chances. I hear that Wauter has abandoned you, probably to facilitate the new studium generale in the Fens, so you have a vacancy …’
‘You will not be joining him there?’ asked Michael. ‘To make a cleaner life away from the polluting effects of the town?’
Thelnetham shuddered. ‘Certainly not! It will be damp, uncivilised and full of fanatics. And speaking of fanatics, have yo
u heard that Shirwynk is suing Morys for trespass? Morys invaded his brewery yesterday, apparently, looking for Kellawe.’
Michael groaned. ‘Yet another incident to cause dissent. Will it never end?’
‘Not as long as we enrol undesirables like Kellawe, Morys, Segeforde and Wayt,’ said Thelnetham ruefully. ‘But I am glad we met, Bartholomew, because I have a touch of the debilitas and I am in need of relief.’
‘Deynman said you had been unwell,’ recalled Bartholomew, and regarded the Gilbertine coolly. ‘After he mentioned that you called him an inlitteratus.’
Thelnetham shrugged, unrepentant. ‘I needed a diversion from my discomforts, just as I need one now – I should not have drunk that second cask of apple wine, given that the first made me so ill, but it was a gift from an admirer and I could not resist it.’
‘It was from Deynman,’ said Bartholomew, a little gleefully – he was fond of the dim-witted Librarian, and disliked Thelnetham’s supercilious attitude towards him. ‘To avenge himself for your unkindness. If you are ill, it seems his plan worked.’
Thelnetham was stunned to learn that he was the victim of a scheme devised by Deynman. ‘What a vile thing to do! I shall sue him for damages unless you give me some of your Royal Broth. I feel dreadful – my head is swimming in a most unpleasant manner.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Deynman said the first lot of wine made you silly and drove you to bed for a week. Does that mean your head swam then as well?’
The Gilbertine nodded. ‘In an identical manner. What does—’
‘What about difficulty in sleeping, nausea, headaches and a metallic taste in your mouth?’
‘Yes, but to a lesser degree. I went to Nigellus for a cure, but all he did was calculate my horoscope and advise me to avoid going anywhere near sheep – which is easier said than done when one’s priory lies on a main road, and the creatures are taken to and from market all day.’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 29
