Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘If you are here to fine us for improper dress, think again,’ said Morys challengingly. He was wearing another yellow and black outfit, while his students had also dispensed with their uniform tabards in favour of something more colourful, and Nigellus was in red. ‘We are indoors, and can do what we like in the confines of our own home.’

Michael smiled pleasantly. ‘You may, of course. However, my beadles are under orders to stamp down on infractions in the streets, so you might want to change before going out.’

Morys’s expression turned smug. ‘You will never see the fine you levied on Saturday, though. Tynkell has quashed it for us, on the grounds that it was Hallow-tide.’

‘He does not have that authority,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Besides, it has already been entered in our official records, so unless you want “payment refused” put next to it – which means that no Zachary man will graduate until the matter is resolved – I suggest you settle the debt.’

‘You cannot–’ began Morys furiously.

‘I already have,’ said Michael. ‘So what will it be? Payment or a battle you will never win?’

Scowling angrily, Morys counted out the coins and handed them over, while Michael sat at a table to write a receipt. Nigellus made no effort to contribute to the discussion, and went instead to pick up a book and flick through it with studied disinterest. Bartholomew regarded him with dislike, thinking that here was a man who had spent so many years cowing patients with arrogant condescension that he exuded disdain as a matter of course.

‘Do you not consider it demeaning to browbeat a man by telling tales to his mother, Morys?’ asked Michael as he worked. ‘It seems rather a shabby thing to do.’

‘I am perfectly within my rights to write to my new in-laws,’ declared Morys, bristling like an angry insect. ‘It is hardly my fault that Tynkell is frightened of his dam.’

‘If she is as terrifying as he claims, you might have done yourself a serious disservice by summoning her,’ warned Michael. ‘She may have words for you, too.’

Morys drew himself up to his full unimpressive height. ‘Let her try! I am more than capable of standing firm against a woman, even one who counts royals among her friends.’

‘Are you Principal now that Irby is dead, or will there be an election?’ asked Michael, changing the subject abruptly as he scattered sand on the ink to dry it. ‘I imagine you are not the only scholar who would like a stab at the post.’

‘Actually, he is,’ said Nigellus. ‘So there will be no election, because we are all agreed: Morys is the man to lead us forward.’

Morys grinned nastily. ‘Wauter will be sorry he left Zachary when he hears that Irby is dead. He wanted to be Principal himself.’

‘He is happy where he is,’ said Bartholomew sharply.

‘You think being a Fellow is preferable to being a Principal?’ sneered Morys. ‘Wauter will not – he is an ambitious man. Or have you not yet seen that side of his character? Your Langelee should watch himself.’

‘Irby,’ said Bartholomew, declining to pursue such a distasteful discussion. ‘I would like to examine him now. Where is he?’

‘Examine him?’ demanded Nigellus, eyes narrowing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I need an official cause of death to enter in the records,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘As is the case for any scholar who dies.’

‘Nigellus conducted the only examination that is necessary,’ stated Morys. ‘He rested a hand on Irby’s forehead after he died, to test for the presence of his soul.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘He did what?’

‘It is a standard medical technique,’ replied Nigellus loftily. ‘As you would know if you had my extensive experience. Cadavers vibrate if the soul is still within them.’

‘Regardless,’ said Michael, speaking while Bartholomew was still processing the outrageous claim, ‘my Corpse Examiner is duty-bound to look for himself. So where is Irby?’

‘I am not telling you,’ said Nigellus. ‘You have no right to maul–’

‘We have every right,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or is there a reason you want to keep him hidden? Such as the fact that his death is not all you claim?’

‘Of course not!’ snarled Nigellus. ‘Very well – disturb his rest if you must. However, you will do it without me, because I want no part in such a vile desecration.’

‘Good,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Because you would not have been permitted to observe anyway. It is against regulations.’

This was news to Bartholomew, although Nigellus only gave an irritable sigh before returning to his book. This time, there was considerable agitation in his page flicking, so much so that one tore. Muttering under his breath, Morys led the way up the stairs, where Irby occupied the largest room, laid out ready to be carried to church.

‘Will you be long?’ Morys asked curtly. ‘We have sent for a bier, and it will be here soon. We do not want to pay extra because you make the bearers wait.’

‘Your grief for Irby is duly noted,’ said Michael drily. ‘And the answer to your question is that the examination will take as long as is necessary. Now leave us, please.’

Huffing irritably, Morys backed out and closed the door behind him. Michael took a scrap of parchment from his purse and shoved it in the keyhole. He and Bartholomew exchanged wry grins when they heard the new Principal curse softly on the other side.

‘Hurry up,’ Michael whispered, aiming for a large clothes chest, which he flung open. ‘I suspect it will not be long before they devise some pretext to interrupt us.’

‘What are you hoping to find?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him begin to rifle.

‘Poison – which will give us the evidence we need to arrest Nigellus.’

‘It will not be in here. If Irby has been murdered, the culprit will have taken any toxins away, to ensure that no one ever knows how his victim really died.’

‘We shall see.’

They were silent as they worked, Michael opening cupboards and peering under the bed, and Bartholomew intent on his examination. Unfortunately, it told him nothing. There were no marks of violence, no suggestion of illness – sudden or otherwise – and no indication that Irby had been forced to swallow poison.

‘So what did kill him then?’ asked Michael, exasperated. ‘Not “loss of appetite” surely?’

‘I do not know, Brother. However, Nigellus does not distinguish between symptoms and diseases, so it is possible that Irby complained about not being hungry – a remark that Nigellus then took to be an ailment in itself.’

‘You are too generous. Irby’s lack of hunger was probably caused by some insidious poison. Do you know of any that might have such a terrible effect?’

‘Plenty, although there is no way to tell whether they were fed to Irby – and dissection will not give us an answer, before you suggest it. In short, I cannot tell you why he died, and my official verdict will have to be “cause unknown”.’

‘Damn! Because something untoward is definitely afoot here. For a start, everything in this room belongs to Morys, and there is no sign of that grey and cream cloak Irby always wore. Morys could not even wait for Irby’s corpse to be moved before claiming these quarters as his own!’

‘Does that mean he is the killer, not Nigellus?’

‘Not necessarily – perhaps they did it together. After all, there does seem to be a consensus in Zachary that Irby was too placid.’

‘But we have no evidence. You found no sign that a toxin was used, and neither did I.’

Michael pointed to a jug on the table. ‘The obvious place for it is there – it contains Shirwynk’s apple wine, which we know Irby liked, because he always had a flask of it to hand. But I drank from it just now, and I am still here, so it must be innocent.’