Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Now what?’ whispered Bartholomew, as the Franciscan dropped to his knees and began to intone a psalm in a loud, important bray that seemed to suggest the Almighty had better forget what else He was doing and listen.

‘Leave it to me,’ Wauter whispered back, and made a show of ‘arriving’ in the church to keep a vigil of his own.

‘You are not needed,’ Kellawe informed him curtly. ‘My petitions will be more effective than yours, because I am a Franciscan.’

‘Very well,’ said Wauter, displaying admirable restraint in the face of such hubris. ‘But come outside and share a flask of wine with me. The night will be long and cold, and you will need something decent inside you if you are to give of your best.’

Kellawe allowed himself to be escorted away, and the moment the door closed behind them, Bartholomew darted towards the bodies, sensing he would not have much time before the opinionated friar declared himself suitably fortified and returned to his self-imposed duties.

It was an unpleasant business, not only rushed and fraught with the fear that Kellawe might decide his devotions were more important than chatting to Wauter, but because of what he was obliged to do for answers: when an external examination of Lenne revealed nothing amiss, Bartholomew embarked on a more invasive one using knives and forceps. What he discovered prompted him to look inside Irby, Yerland and Segeforde as well.

‘Keep your sucura to hand,’ Cynric advised, glancing down as he passed by on one of his prowls, although his eyes did not linger on the body for long. ‘Irby’s spirit will not like you doing that to its mortal coil, so you will need the powder’s protection for sure.’

The remark unsettled Bartholomew even more. He had no idea why, when he had long been of the belief that much could be learned from the dead and that anatomy was a valuable tool for helping the living, but it was a feeling he could not shake. He finished quickly, put all to rights, and left the church with relief. It was not long before Michael, Cynric and Wauter joined him in the graveyard, the latter pale and agitated.

‘Kellawe has some very nasty opinions,’ the Austin said, indicating that Cynric should lead the way home. ‘He will have the entire town in flames before long. Perhaps that alone is reason enough for moving to the Fens – it will spare the town his vitriol.’

By the time they returned to the College, it was almost too late to go to bed. Bartholomew tried to sleep anyway, and passed two very restless hours before the bell rang to wake everyone for church. It was his turn to assist at the altar, and a cold chill ran down his spine when Clippesby passed him the Host and the candles guttered. The rational part of his mind reminded him that it happened all the time – St Michael’s was full of unaccountable draughts – but it did make him wonder anew whether people were right to object to dissection.

‘Tell me again what you discovered,’ instructed Michael, when they were back in the hall, eating a plentiful but slightly peculiar breakfast of barley bread, carrots and nuts.

‘Inflammation of the stomach membranes and damaged livers,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘On all four bodies.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘Meaning that something is wrong, but I cannot tell you what.’

‘But it might indicate that they were poisoned?’

‘It might. All had been ill, but with different ailments: Lenne had lung-rot, Irby complained of loss of appetite, Yerland had head pains and Segeforde had some undefined malaise – the debilitas , for want of a better diagnosis.’

‘I can accept Lenne dying of natural causes, but not the other three. I think Nigellus killed them. And the logical extension of that conclusion is that he poisoned Letia, Arnold and the folk from Barnwell, too.’

‘And Frenge – perhaps in revenge for selling sour ale to Zachary.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael grimly. ‘So I rose before dawn and arrested him. His colleagues are furious, of course, and so is he. He thinks you put me up to it.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘If he is innocent, he will never forgive me.’

‘He is not innocent, and I wish to God that I had acted the moment we found Irby’s note. If I had, Yerland and Segeforde would still be alive. Similia similibus curantur – “like cures like”. Irby knew he had been poisoned, but was too frightened to tell his colleagues lest they ran straight to Nigellus, so he wrote to you instead. It was a subtle yet clear plea for you to find an antidote.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Is that what you think it means?’

‘I am sure of it, and I am only sorry that I did not understand it sooner. Twelve of Nigellus’s patients are dead – thirteen, if you count Frenge – while Trinity Hall has suffered two bouts of serious sickness. This is what happens when medici think they are God, with the power to kill or cure.’

‘He does seem to believe he is infallible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But–’

‘Incidentally, I have issued a statement saying that the corpses of Lenne, Irby, Yerland and Segeforde are exuding deadly miasmas. In the interests of public health, they have been sealed inside their coffins, which is the best way to ensure that no one ever sees what you did to them. It was grisly, even by your standards.’

‘Thank you, Brother. The town and the University would have plenty to say if it became known that I invade churches at night to dissect the dead.’

‘Then perhaps I should tell them,’ said Michael wryly. ‘It is something on which the two sides will agree, and common ground is in desperately short supply at the moment.’

When the meal was over, Langelee came to demand an update on their investigations, and the other Fellows clustered around to listen. After Michael had obliged, the conversation turned to the rumours that were circulating.

‘I do not want to go to the Fens,’ the Master grumbled. ‘There will be no taverns, no women and no wealthy benefactors. How can we enlarge our endowment if we are not here to impress the people who matter?’ He gestured to the mural. ‘And this will have been wasted.’

‘It might have been wasted anyway,’ said William glumly. ‘Folk are not exactly lining up to shower money on us.’

‘I am not ready to concede defeat just yet,’ said Langelee. ‘Suttone, Clippesby and I will visit a few burgesses today, and tell them that they might be slaughtered in their beds if the town explodes into violence, so they should consider their immortal souls. And what better way than a benefaction to a College that will pray for them in perpetuity?’

‘Do not phrase it in quite those words,’ begged Michael. ‘They may interpret them as a threat.’

Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘Leave it to me, Brother – I know what I am doing. You concentrate on restoring the peace. Bartholomew will help.’

‘But I have not given a lecture in days,’ objected Bartholomew, ‘and my students are–’

‘The Austins are coming to tell my lads about the nominalism-realism debate today,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Yours can join them, which means you are not needed here.’

‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael. ‘That debate is central to all current scholarly thinking, and Prior Joliet is sure to have new insights. Your students will learn a great deal, Matt.’

‘Only if they listen,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Which they will not do unless someone is here to keep them in line – and most of the Fellows plan to be out.’

‘Not William and Wauter,’ said Langelee. ‘They will prevent mischief.’

A flash of irritation crossed Wauter’s face. Bartholomew did not blame him: it would not be easy to convince a lot of lively lads to listen to a multi-hour lecture on metaphysics, and Wauter would not be able to relax for an instant.