Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Frenge,’ Rumburgh muttered resentfully. ‘After all, I did overhear them arguing shortly before Frenge died – Frenge was telling Wayt that if he continued with his lawsuit, he would reveal a nasty secret about King’s Hall.’

‘What secret?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘I did not hear, but Wayt was livid.’ Rumburgh clenched his fists in impotent fury as his wife and the Acting Warden reached the stairs and disappeared from sight.

‘And Frenge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How did he seem?’

‘He yelled like a fishwife.’ Rumburgh lowered his voice. ‘I should not speak ill of the dead, but I could not abide him either. He had designs on my Anne, and she was hard-pressed to repel him on occasion. He was very persistent.’

‘What happened when he and Wayt parted ways?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not know. I could not bear to be in the same vicinity as either, so I walked to the dyeworks, where I listened to Edith and Anne talk about woad balls for the rest of the day.’

Edith confirmed Rumburgh’s tale, which meant that he – and Anne – had alibis for Frenge’s murder. Bartholomew was thoughtful. Had the burgess witnessed the quarrel that had led one man to poison another, and he and Michael need look no further than the Acting Warden of King’s Hall for their culprit?

A little later, Bartholomew saw Rougham, and supposed he had better apologise for what had happened the previous day. He was surprised to see him talking to Nigellus, though, because no one else from Zachary had accepted Langelee’s invitation. As Bartholomew seriously doubted that Nigellus was a more gracious loser than the rest of his colleagues, he was instantly suspicious.

‘I hope your lads learned something useful yesterday, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham pleasantly. ‘Nigellus and I certainly put them through their paces. Indeed, there were several instances when they were stunned into silence by the beauty of our logic.’

Bartholomew breathed a silent prayer of relief that Rougham was so full of hubris that he had failed to realise what was really happening. ‘They told me they had enjoyed themselves,’ he replied ambiguously.

‘You can thank me by explaining why Stephen has withdrawn his offer to give Gonville his books,’ said Rougham. ‘I saw you talking to him earlier. Did he mention it?’

‘I know why.’ Nigellus spoke before Bartholomew could answer. ‘Because Michaelhouse made such a fuss about you having them that Stephen decided to disinherit both Colleges.’

Rougham eyed him coldly. ‘Do not try to stir up hostility between Bartholomew and me, Nigellus. It is unbecoming. And speaking of unsavoury antics, I am unimpressed with Zachary’s fervour for decanting to the Fens as well. It is a stupid notion, and you would be wise to drop it.’

‘On the contrary,’ growled Nigellus, ‘it is the most sensible idea I have heard since I enrolled in the University. But do your objections mean you will not be coming with us?’

‘They do,’ averred Rougham. ‘I am not going anywhere, and neither will Michaelhouse, King’s Hall, Bene’t College or any other quality establishment. Your new studium generale will comprise nothing but a lot of ruffians from the lowest kind of hostel.’

‘Is that so?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Well, we shall see. However, I am delighted to learn that we shall soon part company permanently. To be frank, I do not respect either of you as medici .’

‘There speaks the Junior Physician,’ scoffed Rougham. ‘However, it is not we who have lost so many patients of late – Letia, Arnold, Lenne, six clients from Barnwell …’

‘None of them would have died if they had followed my advice,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘I calculated their horoscopes with great precision, and outlined exactly what they needed to do to save their lives. Is it my fault that they elected to ignore me?’

‘You mean they declined to take the medicines you prescribed?’ probed Bartholomew, thinking of the arsenal of potentially toxic ingredients that was available to physicians, many of which would not be detectable even if the victim was dissected.

‘I do not prescribe medicine,’ replied Nigellus haughtily. ‘If a patient needs some, then he is past saving and it would be a waste of his money.’

‘Lies!’ cried Rougham, while Bartholomew regarded the Zachary man askance. ‘You do dispense cures, because I saw you at the apothecary’s shop only today.’

‘Yes – buying liquorice root for sweetmeats,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘Not that it is any of your concern. Irby has a fondness for them, and I thought they might cheer him up. He is a colleague, you see, so I am prepared to go the extra mile for him.’

‘How is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing some of Nigellus’s clients were listening, as he was sure they would defect to another practitioner if they knew their current one did not consider them worthy of his best efforts.

‘Ill,’ replied Nigellus shortly. ‘He has lost his appetite.’

Bartholomew waited for a fuller report, and when none came said, ‘What ails him exactly?’

Nigellus regarded him askance. ‘I have just told you: loss of appetite. It is a nasty disease.’

‘It is not a disease,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘It is a symptom.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Nigellus. ‘But I expect him to die of his malady, and then we shall have Morys as Principal. I cannot say I am sorry. Zachary needs a strong man at the helm, and while Irby is a kindly soul, he is hardly what you would call an inspiring leader.’

‘Would you like Rougham or me to visit him?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. Irby had not been in good health when they had last met, but he had certainly not been dying. Did it mean that Nigellus was the killer, and was in the process of claiming yet another victim – one whose death he had just said would suit him very well?

‘I do not. He is my patient, and I shall thank you not to meddle.’

Bartholomew went on the offensive. ‘You claimed that Letia died of dizziness, but–’

‘Dizziness?’ blurted Rougham. ‘I have never heard that ever given as a cause of death.’

‘Then you are a poor physician,’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Next you will say that there is no such disease as metal in the mouth, which killed Lenne. Or insomnia, which took Arnold. Or pallor, which carried away so many at Barnwell, although I bested it when it struck Trinity Hall.’

‘But they are not diseases,’ cried Bartholomew. ‘And what is “metal in the mouth” anyway?’

‘I am shocked that you should need to ask,’ declared Nigellus. ‘Call yourself a medicus ? Clearly, you have a very long way to go before you match me in experience and skill. Now, if you will excuse me, there are wealthy burgesses who may need to buy a disease-preventing horoscope.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Rougham, watching him strut away, while Bartholomew supposed the last remark explained why Nigellus had accepted Langelee’s invitation. ‘If I am ever ill, promise you will not let him anywhere near me. I shall do the same for you.’

Bartholomew made the vow with all sincerity. Then Rougham went to refill his goblet, and Bartholomew turned to see that Michael had overheard the entire conversation.

‘Even I know you cannot die of pallor, insomnia and dizziness,’ said the monk. ‘While “metal in the mouth” is a nonsense.’

‘He should not be allowed anywhere near the sick,’ stated Bartholomew. ‘Unless we can believe his claim that he does not bother with medicine.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps we need look no further for our poisoner. But would Nigellus be strong enough to force a fit man like Frenge to swallow something deadly?’