‘So it and the apple wine are insidious poisons,’ said Tulyet when Bartholomew had finished. ‘Ones that work gradually. Once they are unavailable, will the debilitas disappear?’
‘There should be no further cases, and I hope the symptoms of those already affected will be eased by certain treatments.’ Bartholomew glanced at Michael. ‘Lead poisoning explains the damage I saw in the stomachs and livers of Lenne, Yerland, Segeforde and Irby.’
‘We shall have to apologise to Nigellus,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Damn! It is certain to cost an absolute fortune – one he will doubtless use to fund his new studium generale in the Fens.’
‘You will have to apologise to Edith as well,’ added Bartholomew. ‘She said from the start that her dyeworks were innocent, and she was right.’
‘What about Frenge?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Can we attribute his death to sucura or apple wine?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He was fed an acidic substance that killed him quickly, one quite different from lead salts.’
‘Yes – we still have a killer at large,’ agreed Michael. ‘A person who stabbed Hamo and strangled Kellawe as well. Unfortunately, we are running out of suspects. Or do you think Shirwynk and Peyn are responsible?’
‘Not Shirwynk,’ said Tulyet. ‘He was too shocked by his son’s admissions to be a seasoned murderer himself. And to be frank, I do not think Peyn is brave enough to claim his victims face to face. What about Cew? His madness has always seemed rather convenient to me. After all, who will suspect a lunatic?’
‘I am fairly sure his affliction is genuine,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Perhaps so, but that does not preclude him from being the strategist,’ said Michael, and explained his theory about the criminal mastermind to the Sheriff. ‘After all, it requires a certain type of insanity to bring all this about – one that entails a good deal of ruthless cunning.’
‘Then perhaps the strategist is Stephen,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘He is ruthlessly cunning.’
‘He is currently suffering from a weakness in his wrists,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One that would make strangling anyone impossible.’
‘Who, then?’ demanded Tulyet, beginning to be exasperated. ‘Wauter, who rode away into the Fens, where he is welcoming scholars with open arms?’
‘We cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for his disappearance.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I appreciate that you do not want this strategist to be from Michaelhouse. I have a fondness for your College myself, and would far rather the culprit came from somewhere else – such as King’s Hall or Zachary.’
‘Not King’s Hall,’ said Michael. ‘They are determined to keep the University in Cambridge, no matter what they have to do to achieve it. The best suspects are Nigellus and Morys, who are leading proponents for the studium generale in the Fens.’
‘If it is Nigellus, you will not have to apologise for arresting him on suspicion of killing his patients,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘And I admit that it would give me pleasure to see such an arrogant devil behind bars.’
Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am with you there, Dick, so Matt and I will speak to him and Morys as soon as I have had something to eat. It is not something to be attempted on an empty stomach, and the confrontation with Shirwynk and Peyn has quite sapped my energy.’
‘There is no time for gorging,’ said Tulyet. ‘I should have told you at once: trouble is brewing between King’s Hall and some of the scholars who want to leave. I tried to quell it, but they took exception to my interference. You are the only one who can prevent a pitched battle.’
‘I am sure there are townsmen to hand, though,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Ready to join in. We must stand together if we are to keep the peace, so come with me.’
They secured the brewery and hurried to the High Street, where raised voices could be heard. Afternoon was fading to evening, and it would not be long before it was dark, at which point it was obvious from the tense atmosphere that fights would break out.
‘How long have you known that the University rejected Peyn?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Ever since he admitted it just now.’ Michael shrugged at the physician’s astonishment. ‘It was a guess, Matt. We do not keep records of failed applications.’
The quarrel was centred on the Trumpington Gate, where scholars from King’s Hall, along with students from several other Colleges, had taken up station, all armed to the teeth. Facing them was a horde from the hostels, many wearing religious habits and carrying bundles of belongings. Crowds of townsfolk had gathered to watch, clearly intending to weigh in should there be a brawl.
‘The hostels are appalled that Shirwynk is prosecuting Morys for trespass,’ explained Beadle Meadowman worriedly. ‘And fear they will suffer similar charges if they inadvertently set foot in the wrong place. Thus the sanctuary of the Fens is attractive, but the wealthier foundations want to stop them from going.’
‘We have arrested Shirwynk,’ said Michael. ‘He cannot sue anyone.’
‘That news was broken a few moments ago, but it has made the situation worse,’ said Meadowman. ‘The hostels think it is a lie – a ruse to keep them here.’
‘We must put an end to this nonsense fast, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘Your University is tearing itself apart over this Fen business, and my town will certainly home in on any weakness.’
‘You have soldiers and Michael has beadles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Send both groups in to disperse this gathering.’
Michael and Tulyet shot him withering looks. ‘That would ignite a riot for certain,’ said Tulyet. ‘This is not a situation that will be resolved by brute force.’
While he and Michael discussed strategies, Bartholomew turned his attention to the mob. Not surprisingly, some voices were louder than others. Nigellus and Morys were in the vanguard of those who wanted to leave, although neither had a pack, suggesting that they did not intend to stay long in the marshes – they would return for more converts.
Meanwhile, Wayt led the faction that aimed to stop them. He was yelling that the hostels had a duty to stay, but was unable to explain why, and side-stepped the issue when his opponents claimed, not without cause, that King’s Hall was prepared to put comfortable buildings before a better atmosphere for teaching. Then Nigellus bawled that scholars would be able to devote themselves to the lofty goal of learning far more readily when away from the filthy habits of seculars, and Tulyet’s men were hard-pressed to prevent offended townsmen from responding to the insult with their fists.
The soldiers were heavily armed, but were under strict orders not to use their weapons. Dickon ignored the edict, and scampered around with a drawn sword. Townsmen and scholars alike fell back whenever he was near, all eyeing the red-faced figure uneasily. Bartholomew took the opportunity afforded by the distraction to approach Wayt and Dodenho.
‘Take your men home,’ he begged. ‘Without them, the other Colleges will give up and—’
‘And the hostel rabble will escape,’ snapped Wayt, eyeing the opposition with icy disdain. ‘Which I refuse to allow.’
‘You cannot keep them here against their will,’ argued Bartholomew.
‘Oh, yes, I can,’ averred Wayt. ‘Personally, I would just as soon be rid of the scum, but we cannot let them establish a rival studium generale elsewhere. It might grow bigger than our own, and we have carved a nice niche for ourselves in Cambridge.’
‘It is not just selfishness,’ added Dodenho hastily. ‘We may not survive if half of us defect, especially if Oxford takes advantage of our weakness and comes to poach our remaining best thinkers.’
‘These hostel men are fools,’ declared Wayt, ‘driven to recklessness by the mealy-mouthed nonsense spouted by Nigellus, Morys and the Austins. It is for their own good, as much as ours, that we intend to stop them from going.’
‘The Austins?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘They are no fanatics.’
‘They are les
s bombastic than the rest,’ conceded Wayt. ‘But they still think the University would be better off in the bogs. The damned imbeciles!’
It occurred to Bartholomew that King’s Hall’s arrogance might have done more to drive the hostel men away than anything the Austins had said. And when he glanced at the fleshy, dissipated faces around him, he wondered if the rebels were right to think the University would fare better away from the town and its worldly distractions.
‘Hamo getting himself killed did not help either,’ said Dodenho. ‘Prior Joliet should have done more to prevent another murder in his domain, especially given what happened to Frenge.’
‘Hamo probably poisoned Frenge,’ spat Wayt venomously. ‘Which is why a townsman invaded the convent and dispatched Hamo in his turn. It is a pity the man did not use his dying breath to identify his assailant. I heard all he did was blather about the Almighty.’
‘I suppose he was in pain,’ surmised Dodenho. ‘And did not know what he was saying.’
‘Nonsense – the killer would have used a sharp knife,’ argued Wayt, ‘which means that Hamo would have felt nothing at all. And it was remiss of him to go to his grave without sharing the name of his murderer.’
Bartholomew started to tell Wayt that being fatally stabbed certainly would hurt, sharp blade or no, but the Acting Warden ignored him and began haranguing the hostel men again. Unwilling to stand next to him while he did it, Bartholomew slunk away.
Yet Wayt’s words sparked a sudden memory of Poitiers, when men with terrible injuries had still found the strength to fight on and even celebrate when the battle was over. In some cases, it had been hours before they had complained of pain, so perhaps Wayt was right to claim that Hamo had not felt much. A solution began to unfold in his mind, so he grabbed Michael’s sleeve and pulled the monk away from the howling mob, where he could make himself heard.
‘Hamo lived for some time after he was stabbed,’ he began. ‘Long enough to lurch from the chancel to the porch, and then to whisper his dying words. Or rather, word, in the singular.’
‘A word that made no sense,’ said Michael distractedly. He tried to pull away. ‘I cannot talk about this now, Matt. We are on the verge of a riot, in case you had not noticed.’
Bartholomew gripped his arm harder. ‘The other morning, Langelee jabbed my hand with his letter-opener, but I did not feel it bite because the blade was so sharp. The same thing happened to Hamo – I think there was no or little pain when he was first stabbed. He was weakened certainly, but still able to move about. It was only when we found him that the agony struck and he died.’
‘What are you talking about?’ cried Michael. ‘Please, Matt! We have more serious matters to consider right now – such as the survival of our University.’
‘I think Hamo did see his killer,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But the culprit did not care – he left him to die, confident that he would not live long enough to talk. He was the strategist, Michael – a man so sure of himself that he thinks he is infallible. He—’
Tulyet bustled up at that moment, to make a terse report. ‘The hostel men are retreating, thank God. Order King’s Hall to stand down, Brother, and I will deal with the townsfolk. However, it is only a temporary reprieve: the hostels will try to leave again, and the Colleges will attempt to stop them. Tonight, probably.’
Michael shoved Bartholomew aside and went to do as he was told. ‘You have won the confrontation,’ he said to Wayt, speaking softly so that no one from the hostels would hear and beg to differ. ‘Now go home before any of your lads are hurt. It is getting late anyway. You must be tired.’
‘Not at all,’ declared Wayt, although Dodenho began chivvying their students away. Few went willingly. Meanwhile, Peterhouse, Bene’t and the Hall of Valence Marie – the Colleges with buildings closest to the Trumpington Gate – offered hospitality to their supporters, which meant that most were not going very far at all.
‘Listen to me, Brother,’ Bartholomew said urgently, pulling the monk away from his duties a second time. ‘Hamo did tell us his killer’s identity. Or rather, he told us where he had left something that will give us the answer.’
Michael shook his head in incomprehension. ‘He said “all”. How can that—’
‘I think I only heard part of the word he was trying to say. He was preparing the chapel for vespers when he was attacked – his killer chose a time and a place when he knew his victim would be alone. Hamo was stabbed in the chancel – we know that because of the blood that spilled there. I think he was trying to say “altar”.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that he left something on or near the altar and he expected us to find it. He believed he had communicated something important with his dying breath, because I saw satisfaction and relief in his face.’
‘What manner of something?’ demanded Michael.
‘We must go to the Austins’ chapel and look. And hope that the strategist has not guessed what Hamo tried to do and has been there before us.’
Tulyet was irked when Michael told him that he was going the Austin Priory, feeling he was being left to handle a potentially explosive situation on his own. The monk promised to return as soon as possible, and left Meadowman in charge in his stead.
‘Then do not be long,’ ordered Tulyet curtly. ‘It will be dark soon, at which point the hostel men will try to slip away under cover of night – and the Colleges will be waiting.’
‘Hopefully, we will return with the news that the strategist is arrested,’ said Michael. ‘That might calm troubled waters.’
‘It is far too late for that,’ said Tulyet bleakly. ‘And while Meadowman is an admirable fellow, he is not the Senior Proctor. Come back as soon as you can.’
Michael and Bartholomew hurried to the convent. At a glance, the streets appeared to be deserted, folk obediently obeying the curfew that had been imposed by Senior Proctor and Sheriff, but there were flickers of movement in the smaller alleys, and doors were ajar in every house as people peered out. Bene’t College’s gates were closed, but a rumble of feisty voices from within indicated that its residents were busily inciting each other to mischief.
‘There is no point speaking to them,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Michael falter, torn between exploring the Austins’ chapel and issuing a warning to a College known for its fondness for brawls. ‘They will not listen, and you will have wasted valuable time.’
The monk knew he was right, and they resumed their journey without a word. It was not long before they arrived. The front gate was locked, and the Austins were evidently not expecting visitors, because no one was on duty to answer their knocks. Fraught with frustration, Bartholomew gave it a heavy thump with his shoulder, and was disconcerted to discover it so rotten that it almost gave way.
‘They spend all their money on alms,’ said Michael. ‘Unlike King’s Hall, or even Michaelhouse, where security is considered more important. Hit it again.’
‘But if I break it, they will have no way to keep marauders out,’ argued Bartholomew, disliking the notion of vandalising a religious house.
‘A rotten door will provide scant protection anyway,’ Michael pointed out, and when the physician still hesitated, he charged at it himself, causing it to fly to pieces under the onslaught.
‘God’s teeth, Brother!’ hissed Bartholomew, surveying the shattered remnants in dismay. ‘Now we cannot even begin to disguise the damage.’
‘It was more fragile than I anticipated,’ said Michael defensively. ‘And do not blaspheme.’
The priory grounds were empty, but a voice could be heard emanating from the refectory: the friars were eating, listening to their Bible Scholar read aloud as they did so. Rather than waste time in explanations, Michael trotted straight towards the chapel.
The building was shadowy and as silent as the grave, which Bartholomew found unnerving, especially when he remembered that it had been about the same time of day that Hamo had been killed. He glanced around anxiously, half expectin
g the strategist to leap out at them with his sharp little blade, but the place was deserted. He followed Michael to the altar.
‘There is nothing here,’ said Michael accusingly, whispering because it seemed wrong for loud voices to shatter the building’s peace. ‘You were wrong!’
Bartholomew dropped to his hands and knees, and pushed aside the cloth that covered the table to peer underneath. At first, he thought Michael was right, but then he saw dark smudges in the ancient dust of the floor. He stood, grabbed a candle, and crouched back down.
‘Writing,’ he said excitedly. ‘Or rather letters drawn in blood. Hamo must have put his hand beneath and—’
‘I understand what he did,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘What does it say?’
‘Robert,’ replied Bartholomew, staring up at him.
‘He cannot mean the almoner. He must mean Robert de Hakeney.’
‘Hakeney has an alibi for Hamo’s murder – he was in the King’s Head.’
‘Then perhaps he hired a crony to do it. God knows, there are dozens of men in that rough place who would oblige him.’
‘It costs money to rent a killer, and Hakeney does not have any. Moreover, his behaviour on the night of the murder was not commensurate with a man who had commissioned a crime. I think Hamo did mean his fellow Austin.’
Michael glanced around uncomfortably, although they were still alone. ‘Why?’
‘First, because he wrote this message in a place where it would not be seen by any of his brethren. And second, because he told us, rather than one of them, what he had done.’
Michael made an impatient movement with his hand. ‘You are reading too much into the unfathomable actions of a dying man.’
‘Think, Brother! Hamo was badly wounded, but did not try to summon help. Why? Because he knew his killer would be among those who came. And why did he not reveal the name of his assailant as he breathed his last? Because Robert was there, and would have found a way to dismiss or explain away whatever Hamo had managed to gasp.’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 32
