Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Because many of your scholars are weary of the discord between them and the town, and are delighted by the notion of a fresh start.’

‘Well, we are not going anywhere,’ averred Michael between gritted teeth. ‘How many more times must I say it?’

‘The town will be disappointed. It is looking forward to being shot of you.’

Michael scowled at him. ‘Relations might be easier if you did not dispense inflammatory advice – such as urging King’s Hall to sue Frenge, and encouraging Edith to open a dyeworks. Both have set town and University at each other’s throats.’

‘I suppose they have,’ acknowledged Stephen carelessly. ‘But it could not be helped.’

‘I understand you were with Irby yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly before his dislike of the man could start to show. ‘When he was ill.’

‘Yes, I sat with him for two or three hours. He was a good man and will be missed.’

‘Did he say anything at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or write messages to anyone?’

‘He was asleep most of the time. I stayed until his colleagues returned from the disceptatio , then came home. He thanked me when I went, but those were the only words he spoke. And he certainly did not pick up a pen.’

‘Why did Zachary ask you to do the honours?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Or do you have secret nursing skills?’

‘There is little nursing required for a man in slumber, as your pet physician will confirm. However, I volunteered to help because Irby was a friend, and I did not want him to be left alone while the others went out.’

‘Did you know he was dying?’ asked Bartholomew, manfully resisting the urge to insult Stephen back.

‘No – Nigellus told me that Irby was suffering from loss of appetite, which did not sound very serious, so I was stunned when I later heard that he was dead. Unfortunately, I think I caught something from him, because I do not feel well today. Nigellus says I have the debilitas .’

‘The what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘The deb-il-i-tas ,’ repeated Stephen, enunciating pedantically. ‘The poor have flux, fleas and boils, but the rich have the debilitas . Nigellus says he would not sully his hands with common sicknesses, but the debilitas is another matter.’

‘Would you like me to examine you?’ offered Bartholomew, to avoid giving an opinion on such an outlandish claim.

‘No, thank you.’ The lawyer eyed the physician’s shabby clothes with open disdain. ‘I bought a horoscope from Nigellus, and he assures me that if I avoid onions and cats, I shall feel well again in no time at all.’

‘You had two visitors on the day that Frenge died,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could comment on Nigellus’s peculiar advice. ‘First, Frenge himself …’

‘Yes – he came to ask whether Anne de Rumburgh might prefer marchpanes or a bale of cloth as a token of his esteem.’ Stephen’s face was impossible to read.

‘He sought the opinion of a man who slept with her once ?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Or are we to conclude that you know Anne rather better than you would have us believe?’

‘You may conclude what you like, Brother.’ Stephen smiled blandly. ‘But Frenge respected my wisdom in the matter. What more can I say?’

‘The second visitor was Shirwynk,’ Michael went on. ‘He–’

‘We have already discussed this,’ interrupted the lawyer. ‘He came to hire my services against King’s Hall.’ He stood abruptly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I have important business to attend. Good day.’

There was a powerful stench in the air as they emerged from Stephen’s house, and Bartholomew groaned. How could Edith expect her dyeworks to be accepted when they produced such rank odours every few hours? He started to hurry there, sure the demonstrators would not let the reek pass unremarked and wanting to be to hand if she needed help. Michael followed, but they had not taken many steps before they met Wayt.

‘No, I will not drop my case against the brewery,’ the Acting Warden snarled in response to Michael’s hopeful question. ‘Cew is costing a fortune in horoscopes – Nigellus is expensive – and I do not see why King’s Hall should pay for something that was Frenge’s fault.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘Michaelhouse would not baulk at the cost if one of our members needed specialist medical attention.’

Wayt shot him an unpleasant look. ‘We did not mind at first, but it is a bottomless pit, because Cew is not getting better. Nigellus’s latest advice is to apply cold compresses to the head – ones that contain some very expensive oils.’

‘We have been told that you quarrelled violently with Frenge shortly before he died,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew thought that while Nigellus’s treatment was unlikely to work, at least it would do no harm. ‘Would you care to tell us why?’

Wayt eyed him coolly. ‘If you must know, Frenge said that unless I dropped the case against him, he would tell my colleagues about my … my indiscretion with Anne de Rumburgh, a woman whose husband is generous to King’s Hall.’

‘So he tried to blackmail you, and within hours he is dead?’

Wayt gave a tight smile. ‘What Frenge did not realise is that half the Fellowship have been seduced by that particular lady, so his threat was meaningless. I was angry with him for attempting extortion, but not vexed enough to do him harm. And now, if there is nothing else …’

He stalked away, and loath to chase after him when it was clear he was unlikely to elaborate on his answer, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their journey to the dyeworks. The smell grew stronger with every step, and people glared at the physician as he passed, knowing him to be kin to the woman responsible for it.

When they arrived, a spat was in progress. Anne was at the heart of it, skimpily dressed even by her standards, bodice straining to contain her bulging bosom. A semicircle of Frail Sisters stood with her, hands defiantly on their hips, while behind them was a gaggle of rough men – the former clients who had rallied to protect them.

As usual, the crowd was made up of two factions. The first comprised scholars led by Kellawe, whose finger wagged furiously as he made all manner of points that no one heard over the noise of the second group, who were townsmen. Shirwynk and Peyn watched the altercation from the brewery, and their satisfied smirks suggested that they may well have aggravated the trouble. Rumburgh stood nearby. He took a sweetmeat from his scrip, and Bartholomew could tell by the way he chewed it that eating pained his sore gums.

‘Thank God you are here,’ said Edith, hurrying up to Michael. ‘Will you tell your scholars to go away? They say they do not like the smell, but we cannot get rid of it as long as they are out there bawling and shrieking. Even Anne cannot reason with them, and she is good with men.’

‘They have a point,’ said Michael. ‘You have stunk out the whole town, and it cannot be allowed to continue. Matt says it is only a matter of time before it kills someone.’

‘I never–’ began Bartholomew.

Edith silenced her brother with a look that would have blistered metal. ‘It is a lot of fuss over nothing. No one will notice the aroma once they get used to it.’

‘But we do not want to get used to it,’ objected Michael. ‘It is–’

He broke off when two Zachary scholars darted forward to engage in a fisticuffs with a pair of apprentices. With an exasperated sigh, he strode towards the mêlée. Unfortunately, his intervention meant that people stopped haranguing each other to watch, and Kellawe used the sudden silence to make an announcement.