Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Sucura?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘But the Sheriff is coming, and I have just told him that we do not have any.’

‘He dislikes sweet food,’ said Wauter, who was folding tablecloths. ‘So I doubt he will find out. However, sucura is a sign of wealth, and if we fail to flaunt it, people will think we are poor – which defeats the whole exercise.’

‘Then make sure no one offers Dick a marchpane or he may think we are so rich that we can afford to pay a fine for defrauding the King of his taxes,’ said Michael, not much comforted.

‘Who bought the stuff?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘I am not at liberty to say,’ replied Agatha haughtily, although the physician was sure Michael had made some sly signal to her behind his back. ‘Lest someone decides to tattle and we are made an example of – which would be unfair, as we only have a few grains, while places like King’s Hall buy it by the bucket-load.’

‘Hakeney the vintner,’ said Michael to Wauter, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘He told us today that you knew Frenge.’

‘Did he?’ asked Wauter, startled. ‘Then he is mistaken. I might have exchanged nods with Frenge on occasion – as I do with many people – but I did not know him.’

‘So Hakeney was lying?’

Wauter smiled. ‘I imagine we Austins all look alike in our habits, so perhaps he thought I was someone else.’

‘He identified you as an ex-member of Zachary Hostel,’ Michael persisted, ‘which suggests he can tell you apart from the others.’

Wauter raised his hands in a shrug. ‘It still does not alter the fact that I did not know Frenge. Of course, Hakeney likes a drink, and his wits are somewhat pickled.’

‘True,’ conceded Michael. ‘Which is a pity, as we have no idea why Frenge should have died in the Austin Friary, and information from you would have been most welcome.’

‘I wish I could help, Brother, but I know nothing about it. Yet the whole business concerns me greatly, and makes me feel that the University should leave the town and resettle in the Fens. I have heard that you and the Chancellor are considering such a move, which is excellent news.’

‘It is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘A tale started by misinformed gossips. Pay it no heed.’

‘Really?’ asked Wauter, disappointed. ‘That is a pity. I dislike the ill-feeling we engender among townsmen, and I have no wish to antagonise anyone unnecessarily – if they want us gone, we should accede to their wishes and leave them in peace. How is Cew, by the way? Any better? It is a terrible thing when a gifted man loses his mind.’

‘It is,’ agreed Michael soberly. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘Not very well, but I spent many an evening with him, debating points of logic.’

‘You did not enjoy the intellects of your Zachary comrades? Kellawe, Irby, Nigellus, Morys and Segeforde. All charming men, I am sure.’ Michael’s dour expression made it clear he was not.

‘Irby is a fine man,’ replied Wauter. ‘But Kellawe is quarrelsome, Morys an ass, and Segeforde dull company. And as for Nigellus, I moved here before he was officially installed at Zachary, so he was never a colleague.’

‘Wauter!’ called Langelee, hurrying up with bustling urgency. ‘Deynman tells me that you have not put your Martilogium in the library, and it is a work that must be displayed to our visitors tomorrow. Fetch it at once!’

‘I cannot, Master,’ said Wauter, a little testily. ‘It is not finished.’

‘No one will know.’ Langelee turned to Bartholomew. ‘And you must exhibit that treatise on fevers you have been writing for the past five years. Its size alone will impress, although we must make sure no one opens it – Deynman tells me it contains some very nasty illustrations.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, as the Master dashed away hauling Wauter with him. ‘We must present ourselves as active scholars, and Deynman has all my academic scribblings. Yet I shall be glad when tomorrow is over. We have made scant progress with Frenge, and the disceptatio is a distraction we could do without.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Although at least we have some suspects: Shirwynk, Peyn, Rumburgh and the three men from King’s Hall.’

‘And Wauter. I did not believe him when he denied knowing Frenge.’

‘You would take Hakeney’s word over his?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘A drunk, who dislikes all scholars – and Austins in particular, because he thinks one stole his cross?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Then perhaps Hakeney is our culprit. He and Frenge were friends, but they would not be the first to fall out after copious quantities of ale, and Hakeney would certainly like the University blamed for the murder. And there is Nigellus, of course. Frenge was his patient, as were Lenne, Letia, Arnold and six dead people from Barnwell.’

‘So how shall we proceed?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘By interviewing Nigellus tomorrow, to see what we can shake loose with a few clever questions. I shall want you with me, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew wearily.

The College bell ensured that everyone at Michaelhouse was awake long before dawn the following morning. All Souls fell on Sunday that year, which made it especially holy, and Langelee did not want their founder forgotten in the excitement surrounding the disceptatio .

‘We need him watching over us today,’ he informed his scholars, as they lined up to process to the church. ‘We cannot have him vexed, lest he hardens the hearts of potential benefactors, so I want you all to pray for his soul as fervently as you can. Is that understood?’

There was a murmur of assent, even from the servants who were waiting for Agatha to arrive so they could start preparing the expensive treats that would be served to the guests when the debate was over. Bartholomew’s book-bearer was among them, touching an amulet pinned to his hat. Cynric was the most superstitious man in Cambridge, and would certainly believe that the success of the day depended on the calibre of the rituals performed that morning.

Those Fellows in religious Orders – everyone except Bartholomew and Langelee – had risen even earlier, to prepare the church for the special ceremony. Suttone had decked it out in white flowers, and the sweet scent of them filled the whole building. Michael and Clippesby had dressed the altar in its best cloth, and William had laid out the ceremonial vestments, although he had managed to spill something down the embroidered chasuble he was wearing. It was not clear what Wauter had done, although he was slightly breathless and certainly gave the impression of a spell of hard work.

Unwilling for the occasion to be ruined by a contribution from the Michaelhouse Choir, Langelee had ‘forgotten’ to tell them that the rite was to begin early. Its members comprised people who joined solely for the free bread and ale, and few could sing. They made up for their lack of talent with volume, and prided themselves on the great distances over which they could make themselves heard. The Master was not alone in thinking that the founder’s soul might not like his Mass punctuated by off-key bellowing, and there were relieved glances among Fellows and students alike when the choristers shuffled in too late to participate.

Unfortunately, the choir was not easily discouraged, and began to warble anyway, so the scholars left the church to a resounding Gloria from the basses, and an Easter anthem from the tenors and altos. A good-natured competition followed, as each group tried to drown out the other, and as the music was in different keys, the din was far from pleasant. Langelee increased the pace, but the racket was still deafening in St Michael’s Lane.