Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘… pacem et concordiam … burble, burble,’ he intoned, rifling through to hunt for the end, ‘ defunctis requiem … more burble, et nobis peccatoribus vitam aeternam . Amen. Oh, and we had better observe the rule of silence today, given that chatting might bring us bad luck.’

He sat, took his knife in one hand and his spoon in the other, and raised his eyebrows at the waiting servants. They hurried forward with their cauldrons, while the startled Bible Scholar, who had not anticipated that he would be needed quite so quickly, scrambled to take his place at the lectern. For several moments, all that could be heard was muted cursing and the agitated rustle of pages as he endeavoured to find the right reading for the day. He managed eventually, and soon the hall was filled with a monotonous drone that encouraged no one to listen.

‘Just a moment,’ cried Michael, his voice shockingly loud. ‘This is pottage! Where is all the lovely food left over from the feast? It is not good enough to serve to our guests this afternoon, obviously, but it will certainly suffice for us now.’

‘Gone,’ replied Agatha shortly. ‘Eaten.’

‘By her and the servants,’ muttered William, although not loud enough for Agatha to hear.

‘I was looking forward to a decent breakfast after all my labours in the church,’ whined Michael. ‘And pottage is hardly the thing.’

‘Well, I am sorry,’ said Agatha, although she did not sound it. ‘But Doctor Bartholomew says it is dangerous to keep leftover food too long, so we took it upon ourselves to dispose of it.’

All eyes turned accusingly on the physician, who marvelled that she had contrived to put the blame on him so adroitly. He started to explain that some foods were more susceptible to decay than others, but no one except his students were interested, and he did not try long to exonerate himself – and he was not so rash as to claim that Agatha had quoted him out of context.

‘What is happening with King’s Hall?’ asked Langelee, blithely forgetting his injunction against chatter that morning. Or perhaps he had simply decided that half a meal taken in silence was enough. ‘I hear they plan to sue the brewery now that Frenge is unavailable. Is it true?’

‘Shirwynk will not like that,’ averred Wauter. ‘He hates the University with a passion.’

‘But it is Shirwynk’s fault that Frenge invaded King’s Hall in the first place,’ said Clippesby, who sat with a hedgehog in his lap. ‘Him and his son Peyn. The water voles heard them egging Frenge on, even though Frenge thought it was a bad idea.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael keenly. He had learned that although Clippesby had peculiar ways of dispensing information, his habit of sitting still and unnoticed for hours at a time meant he often witnessed incidents that were relevant to the Senior Proctor’s enquiries. Moreover, Hakeney had also claimed that Frenge had been encouraged to invade King’s Hall by ‘false friends’, although he had not named the culprits.

The Dominican nodded. ‘As Wauter says, Shirwynk hates our studium generale , and the raid was his way of striking a blow with no risk to himself.’

‘But it saw his business partner dead,’ William pointed out. ‘So there was a risk, and it has left him running the brewery alone.’

‘Quite,’ said Clippesby. ‘He is now sole owner of a very lucrative concern, and he will be able to hire someone to do Frenge’s work at a fraction of the cost. At least, that is what this hedgehog told me. He lives in Stephen’s garden, you see, and Shirwynk went to consult him. To consult Stephen the lawyer, I mean, not the hedgehog.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘ When did the hedgehog hear this? Before or after Frenge died?’

Clippesby bent towards the animal, as if soliciting its opinion, and Bartholomew saw Wauter look away uncomfortably, embarrassed by the Dominican’s eccentricity.

‘After,’ Clippesby replied. ‘While you were at the Austin Friary examining the body. However, he also says that the news of Frenge’s demise was out by that time, so it is not necessarily suspicious.’

‘I shall make up my own mind about that, thank you,’ said Michael, giving the animal a superior glance.

‘Be careful if you plan to challenge Shirwynk, Brother,’ advised Wauter. ‘He is not a nice man, and I should not like to accuse him of murder. Stephen is not very pleasant either. I saw him emerging from Anne de Rumburgh’s house very early one morning, when her husband was away.’

‘Well, well,’ murmured Michael. ‘Perhaps Stephen did not like the competition, so dispatched Frenge to rid himself of a rival. Our list of suspects is growing longer, Matt.’

Once breakfast was over, Bartholomew went to visit patients, leaving his colleagues to finish beautifying the hall. When he returned – sombre, because a burgess he had been treating for lung-rot had died in his arms – the students were standing in neat rows, clad in their best clothes, while Langelee inspected them. Several were ordered to shave again, while others were rebuked for dirty fingernails or muddy shoes. Suttone prowled with a pair of scissors, and anyone with overly long hair could expect an instant and not very expert trim.

‘I shall be glad when it is all over,’ said William, who wore a habit that, while not smart, at least did not look as though it could walk around the town on its own.

‘So will I,’ sighed Michael, watching Bartholomew emerge from his room in new ceremonial robes, a recent gift from his sister. They were in Michaelhouse’s livery of black, but with the red trim that denoted a doctor of the University, and his boots shone with the dull gleam of expensive leather. He had managed a closer shave than most, being in possession of sharp surgical knives, and one of his customers had offered to cut his hair in lieu of a fee. In short, he looked uncharacteristically elegant and a credit to his College.

‘Edith will have to buy you some more finery soon,’ said William, looking him up and down approvingly. ‘Langelee plans to change our uniform from black to green.’

‘Does he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because Edith told him it would make us stand out from the rabble,’ explained Wauter. ‘And because it will look as though we have money for such vanities.’

‘Regardless, I hope we win this disceptatio ,’ said William worriedly, then glared at Bartholomew and Wauter. ‘But if we lose, it will be because you refused to tell our students what the topic will be.’

‘We refused because we have been sworn to secrecy,’ objected Wauter. ‘Or would you have Michaelhouse adopt a less than honourable approach?’

‘Of course, if it means us winning,’ retorted William. ‘But will you tell them now? Then at least they will be able to glance through the necessary books during Chancellor Tynkell’s introductory speech. It is not much of an advantage, but it is better than nothing.’

‘The committee has yet to make its decision,’ said Wauter coolly. ‘However, Principal Irby will not be joining us today, because he is ill. Nigellus told me earlier.’

‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if the Zachary Principal was one of Nigellus’s patients – and if so, whether he was in any danger.

‘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.’