Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Yes, if the first mouthful was taken willingly. Then, when Frenge collapsed from the shock, Nigellus could have grabbed his head and poured the rest into his mouth. But why would Nigellus do such a thing? He has no reason to inflict such a terrible death on a client.’

‘Actually, he has – I have just learned that Irby bought ale from Frenge, but it was bad. Several Zachary masters stormed to the brewery to demand a refund, but Frenge refused. The confrontation grew quite heated, by all accounts.’

‘And you think this is sufficient to drive a healer to murder?’

‘I think it is sufficient to drive Nigellus to murder. Apparently, he was most indignant about the wrong that was done to his new hostel. Perhaps it is his way of demonstrating loyalty to the foundation that brought him from a dull country practice to the hub of academia.’

‘He was not the only one who quarrelled with Frenge.’ Briefly, Bartholomew told the monk what Rumburgh had confided, but when they went in search of the Acting Warden of King’s Hall, it was to discover that he had left early. Someone else had left early, too.

‘My wife has gone home,’ said Rumburgh. ‘She found your hall a little too warm.’

‘So did Wayt,’ said Michael. ‘And I imagine they are both busily dispensing with unnecessary clothing as we speak.’

It was late by the time the last of Michaelhouse’s guests went home, leaving their hosts with a mass of dirty goblets and a crumb-strewn floor. Wearily, Fellows and students began setting all to rights, while the servants were packed off to bed before they could claim overtime.

‘That went well,’ said Suttone, whose idea of clearing up was to eat the leftovers. ‘No one will think we are on the brink of bankruptcy now, and benefactors will flock to us.’

‘Have any flocked so far?’ asked Wauter eagerly.

‘Not yet,’ replied Langelee. ‘So we must continue the illusion for a little longer. Our next ploy will be to change the colour of our tabards from black to green.’

‘We cannot buy new cloth for sixty students and Fellows, Master,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘The expense would finish us for certain.’

‘And therein lies the beauty of my plan,’ said Langelee smugly. ‘We will not have new tabards made – we shall dye the old ones. Edith has offered to oblige for a very reasonable price.’

‘But they are black,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘The colour will not take.’

‘I am sure she knows what she is doing,’ said Langelee. ‘She would not have accepted the commission if she did not think she could do it.’

‘Then I hope your trust is not misplaced,’ said Wauter worriedly. ‘Or we shall have no tabards at all, and our students will have to wear secular clothes.’

‘Like Zachary,’ said Father William disapprovingly. ‘Not one was in his uniform today, and if we had lost the disceptatio , I was going to demand that they be disqualified on the grounds of illegal attire. But as we won, I decided to overlook it. Still, I am surprised that Tynkell did not order them home to change.’

‘It is time we were rid of Tynkell and had a proper Chancellor,’ said Suttone harshly. ‘One who is not afraid that Morys might carry tales to his mother.’

‘Incidentally, Irby summoned you earlier,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew. ‘He claimed he was dying and wanted you to visit. I was on my way to fetch you, but Nigellus intercepted me and volunteered to go instead. I did not think you would mind, as they are members of the same hostel.’

Alarmed, Bartholomew grabbed his cloak. ‘I had better go now.’

‘Unfortunately, there is no longer a need,’ said Langelee. ‘There was another message within the hour to say that Irby had passed away. It was very sudden, apparently.’

‘Well,’ breathed Michael, while Bartholomew gazed at the Master in dismay. ‘Yet another of Nigellus’s patients dead in curious circumstances.’

‘We should go there now,’ determined Bartholomew, donning his cloak. ‘Nigellus was very open in wanting to be rid of Irby so that Morys could be Principal. Well, this is one death that will not go unremarked.’

‘Would he have expressed such an opinion if he were the killer?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘It would be reckless, would it not, to announce a motive for murder before the event?’

‘He thinks we are stupid,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He does not fear an investigation, because he believes he can outwit us.’

‘Then he will learn the perils of underestimating the Senior Proctor and his trusty Corpse Examiner,’ vowed Michael. ‘But it is very late, and Irby will still be dead in the morning. I recommend we wait until tomorrow before beginning our assault – when daylight will assist in telling you what really happened to the unfortunate Principal of Zachary Hostel.’

The All Souls’ Day celebrations marked the end of Hallow-tide, and the scholars of Michaelhouse woke the following morning aware that it was time to return to their usual routines. There were groans from Bartholomew’s students when the bell rang to call them to church, and everyone was tardy about assembling in the yard. There were sore heads aplenty, and no Fellow thought it would be a good day for teaching.

It was William’s turn to take the church service, and as he prided himself on the speed at which he could gabble through the sacred words, it was not long before everyone was walking back to College for breakfast. Any food left over from the reception had been eaten by the servants by the time they returned, so they sat down to watery oatmeal flavoured with cockles, cabbage and nutmeg. The dismal fare told them for certain that the holiday was over.

‘I thought about Irby all night,’ said Bartholomew unhappily, setting down his spoon when he found a slug in his bowl. ‘When Nigellus told me that he had confined him to bed, I assumed it was part of the ploy to foist nemo dat on us – to dispense with a member of the consilium who would have voted against it. I wish to God I had gone to see him at once.’

‘I wish you had, too,’ said Michael. ‘Then he might still be alive.’

‘He tried to summon me,’ Bartholomew went on wretchedly, ‘which suggests he was dissatisfied with Nigellus’s care. And with good cause.’

Michael nodded. ‘He is the tenth of Nigellus’s patients to die – the eleventh if we count Frenge. It cannot be coincidence, and he did say that Irby was not the leader he wanted for Zachary. I imagine we will find motives for the other deaths, too, if we dig deep enough.’

‘We might.’ Bartholomew was still racked with guilt for not going to Irby’s assistance.

‘But why kill them?’ Michael went on. ‘He must realise that people will notice if he loses more clients than other medici . Then the surviving ones will desert him, which he will not appreciate, given how much he loves the fees they pay.’

‘He practised at Barnwell for years before coming here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could not have dispatched those customers at this sort of rate, or the whole village would be in their graves. We must be wrong, Brother. He is a physician – a healer.’

‘Of sorts – even I can tell that he is barely competent. Hah! Now there is a thought …’

‘What is?’

‘Perhaps he dispatched them to conceal evidence of his ineptitude – his failure to cure them. After all, if he used poison, who would know? You detected signs of a corrosive substance on Frenge, but there was nothing on Letia, so perhaps he learned from his mistake. Meanwhile, Arnold and the Barnwell folk are buried, so unless we exhume them …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly.