Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Now that would be useful,’ acknowledged Wayt. ‘Oysters are expensive, while soul-cakes should not be baked outside Hallow-tide.’

‘They also contain sucura, which is risky to buy with the Sheriff on the warpath about it,’ added Dodenho, then flushed sheepishly when he realised that he had just admitted to breaking the law. He changed the subject hastily. ‘I hear Nigellus has been arrested for killing Frenge. Pity. It would have been better for the University if the culprit had been a townsman.’

‘Fortunately, he has not been a scholar for very long,’ said Michael. ‘He was a resident of Barnwell until a couple of months ago – a fact we shall be sure to emphasise.’ He turned to Wayt. ‘Are you sure it was your relationship with Anne de Rumburgh that Frenge threatened to expose unless you dropped the lawsuit against him? Not something else?’

‘Of course,’ replied Wayt, curtly enough to be suspicious. ‘And now, if you will excuse us, we have business to attend.’

‘You are going the wrong way,’ said Michael, stepping in front of him. ‘St Mary the Great is in the opposite direction.’

‘We have another matter to attend first,’ explained Dodenho. ‘Namely asking if Stephen will change his mind about representing us. We have our own lawyers, of course, but none of them have his experience or cunning.’

Michael watched them go, then he and Bartholomew resumed their walk to the Lenne house.

‘King’s Hall has all manner of nasty secrets,’ he said, ‘illicit supplies of sucura among them. But we have no time to explore that now, so I shall leave it for later.’

‘Will you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was under the impression that you were willing to turn a blind eye to that particular crime.’

‘I turn a blind eye if the culprits are discreet, but Wayt is brazen and arrogant. Indeed, if I did not think it would cause more trouble than it was worth, I would tell Dick Tulyet about him.’

Bartholomew had expected a frosty reception from Isabel Lenne, so he was startled and wary when she smiled warmly at him. Her cordiality was quickly explained, though.

‘It was good of you to give Will a free coffin, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I always thought you did not like him, because of his sour temper and sharp tongue.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably, feeling the colour rise into his cheeks. Michael poked him hard, warning him against declaring that the ‘gift’ had had nothing to do with him.

‘It is not the fanciest of caskets,’ she went on, ‘but it would have suited Will’s simple tastes.’

‘It is our pleasure, Mistress Lenne,’ the monk said smoothly.

‘He went in the ground this afternoon,’ sighed Isabel. ‘Which you will know, of course. That is why you are here – to offer your condolences.’

‘Yes,’ lied Michael. ‘Nigellus tells us that your husband died of metal in the mouth.’

She nodded. ‘Which is a common symptom of the debilitas , apparently. Nigellus says it occurs most frequently in men who swear a lot, and Will did love to curse.’

‘Nigellus said that?’ Bartholomew could not keep the astonishment from his voice.

She nodded again. ‘But Will’s suffering did not last long. After the metal came a recurrence of his old apoplexy, which is what carried him off.’

‘So he died of an apoplexy?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Not the debilitas ?’

She flushed. ‘It was the debilitas , but it manifested itself in apoplexy-like symptoms. I will not have it said that Will died of anything vulgar.’

‘What happened exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to comment.

Isabel’s voice grew unsteady as she described how Lenne had returned from the tavern feeling ill. He had mentioned an unpleasant taste that Nigellus had diagnosed as metal in the mouth, the remedy for which was to suck raw garlic. Not long after, Lenne had exhibited all the classic symptoms of a major apoplectic attack and had died an hour later. As far as Isabel knew, nothing other than garlic had been recommended, and Nigellus had been the only visitor.

‘Your anatomising should have told us that he died of natural causes,’ said Michael crossly, once they were outside. ‘We could have saved the cost of a coffin.’

‘It is not as simple as that. Perhaps Lenne did die of an apoplexy – Isabel’s testimony certainly suggests it – but what about the damage to his liver and stomach? Moreover, this metal in the mouth is peculiar. I have never heard of it before, and I am puzzled as to what caused it.’

‘So did Nigellus murder Lenne or not?’ asked Michael impatiently.

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, equally irritable. ‘There is no way to tell.’

‘You are no help,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘But you can make up for your inadequacy in the Corpse Examining department by accompanying me to interrogate Nigellus.’

‘No, Brother. I told you: he will think I am there to gloat.’

‘You must – he will try to confuse me with complex medical explanations, and I shall need you to tell me whether they are reasonable. Come on. The sooner we see him, the sooner we can go home. Even I feel vulnerable wandering about today.’

The proctors’ gaol was a nasty, damp building behind St Mary the Great. Bartholomew only visited it when prisoners needed medical attention, and each time he went, he remembered how much he disliked it. The cells were in the basement, on the grounds that this would reduce the risk of the inmates being broken out by indignant cronies.

Although he complained about the unhealthy atmosphere, it was not bad as such places went. There were vents to supply fresh air, and the beadles kept it fairly clean. The food was often better than what was served in Michaelhouse, and there were reasonable arrangements for sanitation. Nigellus had been provided with a lamp, books, parchment, pens and blankets. He was writing when the beadle unlocked the door, taking the opportunity to prepare lectures for the following week – underlining the fact that he expected to be free to give them.

‘Have you come to release me?’ he asked archly, when Michael and Bartholomew entered. ‘If so, do not bother with apologies. You have offended me so deeply that only financial restitution will salve my distress. You will be hearing from Stephen first thing in the morning.’

‘We are here for answers,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed; Bartholomew leaned against the doorframe. ‘The matter is far from over, I am afraid. At least a dozen of your patients are dead, and if your feathers are ruffled in our search for the truth, then so be it.’

‘I am surprised at you, Bartholomew,’ said Nigellus coldly. ‘You are a colleague, and I had expected your support. How can you betray me in this manner?’

‘Shall we begin with Barnwell?’ asked Michael, ignoring the remark. ‘And the six people who died within days of each other while under your care?’

‘Three very elderly men, two servants who did nothing but sit around and eat, and a woman with a wasting sickness,’ replied Nigellus dismissively. He glanced archly at Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think these are folk you might have saved?’

‘Then what about Frenge?’ demanded Michael. ‘He was your patient, and he was neither ancient, fat, nor cursed with poor health.’

‘Yes, but his last visit to me was more than a week ago. You cannot lay his fate at my door.’

‘You have seen him since,’ countered Michael. ‘We have witnesses who say you argued with him over the sour ale he sold Zachary. Please do not lie: it will only make matters worse.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘I had forgotten – it was an unmemorable event. I did inform him that selling us inferior wares was unacceptable, but that is not a crime. However, I had nothing to do with his demise. Or do you imagine that I lurk in convents waiting to strike my victims?’