A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 13

  ‘Loss of appetite, apparently. I hope he recovers soon. Not only is he a friend, but he has promised to help me finish my Martilogium.’

  ‘Langelee says that we must clean the hall when the guests have gone,’ grumbled Suttone, slouching up and cutting into the discussion. ‘He wants to avoid paying the servants overtime. So no wandering off when the event is over, if you please.’

  He looked hard at Bartholomew and Michael, the ones most likely to have business elsewhere, then went to take his place in the procession. The others followed in order of seniority – William directly behind Langelee, Bartholomew and Michael side by side, Suttone and Clippesby together, and Junior Fellow Wauter bringing up the rear.

  ‘We must interview all our suspects again as soon as we have a free moment,’ said Michael, while they waited for Langelee to set off. ‘I have little new to ask, but if they are guilty our questions may make them nervous – and nervous men make mistakes.’

  Bartholomew listed them. ‘Rumburgh, Shirwynk, Peyn, Hakeney, Stephen, the three men from King’s Hall and Nigellus.’

  ‘And possibly Wauter,’ added Michael in a low voice. ‘But you should have put Nigellus first. Not only for his nine dead clients, but I learned last night that he was at Trinity Hall when everyone there was poisoned. He was not ill himself, and his advice to the sufferers was to stand on their heads to let the bad humours drain out. When that failed, they called you.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘His “remedies” beggar belief sometimes.’

  ‘You should be pleased by the news – if he is the culprit, your sister’s dyeworks will be exonerated. And there is another thing …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The only people who have died of late have been wealthy: Letia, Lenne, the Barnwell folk, Arnold and now your burgess. There is not a pauper among them. Do you not find that odd?’

  Bartholomew supposed that he did.

  There was to be an academic parade through the town before the disceptatio, although many scholars thought it should have been cancelled, given the town’s current antipathy towards them. Luckily, it was only along a short section of the High Street, and the hope was that it would be over before any serious protest could be organised.

  Unfortunately, the town was only part of the problem, and trouble broke out between rival factions within the University before anyone had taken so much as a step. Peterhouse thought they should lead the way, because they were the oldest foundation, but King’s Hall had been built by royalty, which they claimed made them more important. Their antagonism sparked quarrels between other Colleges and hostels, and it was not long before a dozen spats were in progress.

  ‘It is Tynkell’s fault,’ grumbled Michael, watching his beadles hurry to intervene. ‘He should have published the order of precedence in advance, so there would have been no surprises. I reminded him to do it, but he claims he forgot.’

  ‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would have given resentment longer to fester, and feelings would have been running even hotter.’

  Michael sniffed, unwilling to admit that he might be right. ‘There is Peyn,’ he said, looking to where the brewer’s son was standing with his father. ‘Is he about to lob mud at King’s Hall?’

  He was, and the missile sailed forth. Fortunately, Wayt chose that particular moment to adjust his shoe, so the clod sailed harmlessly over his head. Michael stalked towards Peyn, Bartholomew at his heels, but Shirwynk hastened to place himself between scholars and son.

  ‘You would be wise to take him home before he spends the rest of the week in the proctors’ gaol,’ growled Michael.

  ‘For what?’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘Accidentally flicking up a little dirt? You will have a riot on your hands if you try to arrest him for that.’

  ‘I am surprised to see you merrymaking when your wife is barely cold,’ said Michael, going on an offensive of his own. ‘Why are you not praying for her soul?’

  ‘My parish priest is doing that,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘A man with no connections to your University, because I would not want a scholar near her.’

  He stared hard at Bartholomew, who wondered with a pang of alarm whether the brewer somehow knew that Letia had been examined without his consent. Or was it a guilty conscience that prompted another warning to stay away?

  ‘She and Frenge died on the same day,’ said Michael, apparently thinking likewise, and so launching into an interrogation. ‘That is an uncanny coincidence, do you not think?’

  ‘Not uncanny – cruel,’ said Shirwynk. ‘King’s Hall knew exactly how to inflict the maximum amount of distress on me. Thank you for the invitation to dine with you after this silly debate, by the way. However, I would sooner jump in the latrine than accept.’

  ‘You were asked?’ blurted Bartholomew.

  ‘By Wauter,’ replied Shirwynk coolly. ‘Many of my fellow burgesses will demean themselves by setting foot on University property, but I shall not be among them.’

  ‘My father sent me to ask if all is well,’ came a voice from behind them. It was Dickon, resplendent in new clothes, and carrying a sword that was larger than the one he usually toted. However, what really caught their attention was his scarlet face and the fact that he had contrived to shape his hair into two small points just above his temples.

  Peyn promptly turned and fled. Shirwynk followed with more dignity, treating the scholars to a final sneer before he went, leaving Bartholomew astonished that a boy with a dyed face and hair-horns could achieve what the formidable figure of the Senior Proctor could not. Dickon set off in pursuit and Michael opened his mouth to call him back, but then had second thoughts.

  ‘Did you see Peyn blanch when he saw that little imp?’ he chuckled. ‘He doubtless thought it was the Devil come to snatch his soul.’

  ‘We should have asked Shirwynk why he encouraged Frenge to attack King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Dickon had kept his distance for a little longer. ‘And why he consulted Stephen so soon after Frenge’s death.’

  Michael nodded to where the lawyer stood not far away. ‘Shall we ask him instead?’

  Stephen was so adept at twisting the law to suit the highest bidder that he was used to angry people ambushing him in the street, and was not in the slightest bit discomfited when the Senior Proctor bore down on him, all powerful bulk and flowing black habit. He smiled with smug complacency, an expression that Michael quickly determined to wipe off his face.

  ‘I understand that you are one of Anne de Rumburgh’s lovers,’ he announced, loudly enough to be heard by several merchants who were chatting nearby.

  Stephen’s smirk promptly became a gape. ‘Who … how …’ he stammered.

  ‘I have my sources. Well? Is it true that you seduced the wife of a fellow burgess?’

  Stephen grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him to where they could talk without an audience. ‘It only happened once,’ he whispered. ‘An isolated incident.’

  ‘Frenge was also one of her conquests,’ said Michael, not believing a word of it. ‘Did he know you were enjoying her favours as well?’

  ‘He was not!’ exclaimed Stephen. ‘She would never have accepted a man like him. The brewery he shared with Shirwynk might have made him wealthy, but he was hardly genteel.’

  ‘So you know her well enough to guess her habits,’ pounced Michael. He raised his hand when Stephen started to argue. ‘Never mind. I would rather hear what transpired when Shirwynk visited you on the day that Frenge died.’

  ‘You already know what transpired,’ snapped the lawyer. ‘Because I told you the last time we met: he asked me to abandon King’s Hall and represent him instead.’

  ‘Why would he do such a thing? Frenge was the one being sued.’

  ‘Yes, but any compensation that King’s Hall won would have come out of the brewery – the business that he and Frenge shared. Of course, he requires good legal advice.’

  ‘You do not consider it unethical to advise one party, then slith
er away to act for the other?’

  Stephen glared at him. ‘I dislike your attitude, Brother. I shall certainly not be giving anything to your College now. Nor Gonville – they are not having my architecture books either.’

  He stalked away before either scholar could ask what Gonville had done to earn his ire. Michael watched him go thoughtfully.

  ‘He said nothing to remove himself from my list of suspects, and neither did Shirwynk and Peyn. As far as I am concerned, any of them might have murdered Frenge.’

  With every University scholar and most wealthy townsmen in attendance, St Mary the Great was packed to the gills. Everyone overheated in the thick robes that comprised their Sunday best, and tempers frayed, especially when rival hostels or Colleges found themselves crushed together. The beadles struggled to keep the peace.

  Bartholomew and Wauter hurried to the chancel, to meet the other members of the consilium. Prior Joliet looked competent and statesmanlike in his best habit, while Nigellus wore robes that would not have looked out of place on a courtier. Irby was absent.

  ‘He is too ill to come,’ explained Nigellus. ‘He is suffering from a loss of appetite.’

  ‘So am I,’ remarked Prior Joliet wryly. ‘Nerves. There is enormous pressure on us to choose the right subject, and I am cognisant of the disappointment we will cause if we err. However, if I can endure it, so can he, so send a messenger to Zachary and tell him to come and do his duty.’

  ‘I am afraid his malady is more serious than yours, so I confined him to bed,’ said Nigellus pompously. ‘Morys will take his place instead.’

  He beckoned his colleague forward. Fierce little Morys was as wasplike as ever in his trademark yellow and black; Bartholomew wondered if he and Nigellus even remembered that Zachary scholars were meant to wear grey and cream.

  ‘No, he will not!’ said Joliet crossly. ‘There are procedures that must be followed before a representative can be changed. It is—’

  ‘There is no time,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly. ‘Or do you suggest that we keep hundreds of people waiting while we go through a host of petty formalities? I am sure Michaelhouse will not object to the substitution, given the immediacy of the situation.’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Joliet of Bartholomew and Wauter. He grimaced. ‘I confess I am worried about the uneasy atmosphere in the church today, so the sooner we start, the less opportunity there will be for trouble. It would certainly make for a quieter life if you agree to Morys’s nomination.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Wauter. ‘I do not mind him in lieu of Irby.’

  Bartholomew did, and wished Wauter had consulted with him before replying. Uncharitably, he wondered whether the geometrician’s loyalties still lay with the hostel that had housed him for a decade, rather than the College that had kept him for a few weeks. And was Irby really ill, or had Nigellus simply decided to exchange a moderate man for one with opinions akin to his own?

  ‘The motion is carried then,’ said Joliet, casting an apologetic glance at Bartholomew, whose opinion did not matter now the majority had spoken.

  ‘Good,’ said Nigellus smugly. ‘Then the subject of the debate will be nemo dat, as I have been suggesting for weeks. Are you in agreement, Morys?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ replied Morys firmly. ‘It is by far the best idea.’

  ‘So there are two votes in its favour,’ said Joliet. ‘Wauter? What do you think?’

  ‘It would make for an interesting—’ began Wauter.

  ‘Three,’ pounced Morys. ‘Which means that the views of Bartholomew and Joliet are now immaterial. I shall inform the Chancellor at once.’

  ‘Now just a moment!’ Joliet put out a hand to stop him. ‘Wauter did not say he was voting for nemo dat – he merely said it was interesting. Besides, I am chairman, Morys, not you, so it is for me to speak to the Chancellor when we make our choice.’

  Morys glared at him. ‘You want Michaelhouse to win because they hire you to teach and paint murals. You are unfairly biased, and should not have accepted a place on this committee.’

  Joliet and Bartholomew gaped at him, astounded by such intemperate accusations.

  ‘Steady on, Morys,’ murmured Wauter. ‘And Joliet is right – I did not vote for nemo dat. I want to hear a few more suggestions before making my final decision.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Nigellus. ‘Morys and I have made up our minds and we will not be swayed. Now, Joliet, will you tell Tynkell or shall I?’

  ‘I recommend that we select a theological or a musical—’ began Joliet, pointedly turning his back on the Zachary men.

  ‘No,’ snarled Nigellus. ‘It is nemo dat or nothing.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Morys.

  ‘Then Joliet, Wauter and I will choose the question,’ said Bartholomew, objecting to their bullying tactics. ‘If we can agree on a subject, you two are irrelevant.’

  Nigellus addressed Joliet in a voice that held considerable menace. ‘Vote as I suggest or I will tell the Sheriff that you bought illegal sucura for Arnold in his final days. All the money you have hoarded to feed the poor this winter will be gone in a fine.’

  Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while the blood drained from Joliet’s face.

  ‘You would never do such a terrible thing!’ breathed the Prior, shocked.

  ‘No?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Just try me.’

  ‘You want nemo dat because your students have been practising it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly, unable to help himself. ‘Do not look indignant – we all know the truth. But there is no glory in a victory won by cheating. Moreover, the Chancellor will not stand by and let you make a mockery of—’

  ‘He will never oppose my wishes,’ interrupted Morys. ‘And if you accuse us of foul play again, I shall sue you for slander. Now, Joliet, what will it be? Nemo dat or poverty?’

  Joliet’s answer was in his silence and bowed head.

  ‘Morys, tell Tynkell that the subject is nemo dat,’ ordered Nigellus, allowing himself a tight, smug smile of triumph. ‘I shall inform our students. No, do not argue, Bartholomew – we have the necessary three votes. The matter is over.’

  He and Morys hurried away. The Zachary students began to cheer when he addressed them, a reaction he quelled with an urgent flap of his hand. It told Bartholomew all he needed to know about the hostel’s sense of honour. Wauter watched for a moment, then ambled away to report the ‘decision’ to Michaelhouse, although given that every moment of preparation counted, Bartholomew thought he should have moved more quickly.

  ‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Joliet wretchedly. ‘But I am afraid we did buy sucura to make poor Arnold smile during his last few days. And as legitimate sources are prohibitively expensive, we were obliged to turn to an illegal one.’

  ‘How did Nigellus know?’ Then Bartholomew sighed and answered the question himself. ‘Because he was Arnold’s medicus, and took a professional interest in his diet.’

  Joliet nodded bitterly. ‘He recommended sucura. Now I know why – not to brighten a dying man’s last days, but to blackmail me. He knew I would opt for the cheapest source – and that the Sheriff would love to make an example of us.’ He looked miserable. ‘I know Tulyet is your friend, Matt, but it is the beggars who will suffer if you tell him what we have done.’

  ‘I will keep your confidence, although I am not sure you can trust Nigellus. Perhaps you should confess before he blabs. Dick is a compassionate and practical man, and will understand why you did it. Probably.’

  Sniffing unhappily, Joliet followed him to where Michael stood with Tynkell, ready to set the disceptatio in progress. The Chancellor was almost invisible inside his sumptuous robes of office, and he looked ill.

  ‘It is strain,’ he said in response to Bartholomew’s polite concern. ‘Morys threatens to invite my mother here unless I do everything he says, while there are rumours that say I am going to lead the University to a new life in the Fens. Half our scholars are delighted and press me for a date; the other half accuse me of being the Devil i
ncarnate.’

  ‘It is just gossip,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Everyone will forget about it in a few days.’

  ‘No, they will not,’ said Tynkell glumly. ‘Because the town is overjoyed by the “news”, and when they realise it is untrue, their disappointment will know no bounds. They will riot.’

  ‘But not today,’ said Michael. ‘Now go and start the debate. The nemo dat principle is not my idea of fine entertainment, but I suppose the consilium knows what it is doing.’

  Michaelhouse’s students rose to the challenge magnificently, and their inability to recite long passages from legal texts meant their observations were sharper and more concise, which put the audience on their side. This encouraged them to even greater mental acuity, and it was quickly clear who was the better of the two participants. Zachary’s dismayed response was to resort to personal insults that lost them marks. With grim satisfaction, Bartholomew saw that Nigellus and Morys had done their pupils a serious disservice by cheating – Zachary would have fared better if they had been left to rely on their wits.

  ‘Deciding the victor has been extremely difficult,’ announced Tynkell when it was over.

  ‘Rubbish!’ cried Wayt from King’s Hall. ‘There was no real contest. And I do not say I support a College over a hostel, because everyone here knows that Michaelhouse sparkled, while Zachary was pompous and dull.’

  ‘You are entitled to your opinion,’ said Tynkell, shooting a nervous glance at Morys, whose eyes were like gimlets. ‘But Zachary is adjudged the winner, because—’

  Cries of ‘shame’ boomed through the church, which Tynkell was unequal to quelling. Michael let them mount until it was obvious that most support was for Michaelhouse – even from the hostels – and only then did he take pity on the beleaguered Chancellor. He ordered silence in a stentorian bellow.

  ‘You did not let me finish,’ bleated Tynkell. ‘Zachary is adjudged the winner in quotes, but Michaelhouse made more convincing arguments. So it is a draw.’