Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Let us consider Frenge’s last movements again,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘He claimed he was bringing ale here, to King’s Hall. Your porters say such a delivery was never made, but you were seen arguing with him shortly before he died – about Anne Rumburgh allegedly, with whom you both had relations.’

‘How many more times must I repeat myself? First, if Frenge claimed he was supplying us with ale, he was lying: we have never done business with his brewery and we never will. And second, yes, he threatened to tell my colleagues about Anne, but his attempt to blackmail me failed: they already know, because most of them have had her themselves.’

‘Was it your colleagues he threatened to tell?’ probed Michael. ‘Or the wronged husband?’

Wayt smiled without humour. ‘He could hardly take that sort of tale to Rumburgh when he was enjoying Anne’s favours himself!’

‘But he did not stand to lose princely benefactions from an indignant donor,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I would say the power lay with him in this disagreement, and that you had very good reason to want him silenced.’

Wayt’s face turned pale with anger. ‘How dare you! We are the victims here. It was our pigs and geese who were set running amok in his foolish japes, and our colleague who was frightened out of his wits.’

Michael folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure there is not another dark secret in King’s Hall? One Frenge discovered when he came raiding?’

Alarm flared in Wayt’s eyes: Michael had hit a nerve. He began to lash out defensively. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about. Now come with me, both of you. At once!’

‘Go with you where?’ asked Michael, not moving.

‘To see Frenge’s victim. Then you will see who is in the right and who is in the wrong.’

He stalked out, so Bartholomew and Michael followed him along a corridor to where curious hooting sounds could be heard. It seemed the King of France had been replaced by an ape.

Bartholomew was shocked by the decline in Cew. The logician was no longer able to walk, as he had lost control of his left foot, which dragged whenever he tried to raise it. He loped about on all fours instead, making animal-like grunts while Dodenho tried in vain to persuade him back to bed.

When the Michaelhouse men approached, Cew bared his teeth, and Bartholomew saw a thin grey line around the top of them. It was identical to the one he had seen in the student the previous day, and similar to the problem suffered by Rumburgh. But there was no time to ponder its significance, because Cew began to gibber in a manner that made Dodenho back away in alarm.

‘Garlic and onions. Put them in my soul-cakes. List the syllogisms – Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio. Dodenho does not know them. Garlic in the oysters, onion in the pastries.’

‘You see?’ snapped Wayt, although there was more sorrow than anger in his voice. ‘Now tell us why we should care about the man who did this to him.’

‘He will not eat oysters now.’ Dodenho sounded sad and frustrated in equal measure. ‘Just soul-cakes. God knows why – they are far too sickly for me.’

‘You sweeten them with sucura,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Dodenho had let slip the last time they had met.

‘Not any more,’ averred Wayt. ‘We use honey instead.’

‘Honey is not a syllogism,’ babbled Cew. ‘Baroco, Bocardo. Nasty, sticky stuff to dissolve my orb and sceptre. I hate honey, so give me onions. Onions and garlic.’

‘He keeps asking for those,’ said Dodenho worriedly. ‘But he cannot mean it.’

Bartholomew was about to agree when he remembered Rougham quoting Galen the night before, about the body knowing what it needed. Nigellus had mentioned it, too, at a meeting of the consilium , when he and Bartholomew had argued about the importance of a balanced diet. But before he could suggest that they give Cew what he wanted, Wayt tried to propel him and Michael towards the door. Outraged that anyone should dare lay hands on the august person of the Senior Proctor, Michael resisted with a snarl, so Wayt ordered Dodenho to see the Michaelhouse men off the premises, loath to risk his dignity in a shoving contest he would not win.

‘He means no harm,’ said Dodenho apologetically, once they were in the yard. ‘Although I shall be glad when Master Shropham comes home. Can you help Cew, Bartholomew? Or did Wayt not allow you sufficient time to judge?’

Suspecting Dodenho might baulk if anything as vulgar as onions and garlic was recommended for the patient, Bartholomew mumbled something about a remedy he kept at home.

‘I will prepare it now and bring it as soon as it is ready,’ he promised.

Leaving Michael to visit Stephen alone, Bartholomew hurried back to College, where he solicited Agatha’s help. Together, they produced a stew that contained plenty of onions and garlic, along with barley and sundry other vegetables. When they were soft, he mashed them to a paste, which he coloured with saffron left over from Hallow-tide, aiming to disguise the mundane ingredients with an exotic splash of colour. Then he added boiled water to turn the concoction into a smooth soup. Agatha grinned when he asked her to keep the recipe secret, delighted to indulge in a conspiracy with a Fellow.

He returned to King’s Hall, where Dodenho was waiting anxiously. He was whisked quickly to Cew before Wayt could see him, and was pleased when the patient gulped down a whole bowl.

‘What is it?’ asked Dodenho curiously, as Cew indicated that he wanted more.

‘Royal Broth,’ lied Bartholomew, smiling encouragingly at Cew. ‘It is full of expensive ingredients that only monarchs can afford.’

The logician wolfed down a second helping, after which he curled up and went to sleep.

‘We shall have some of this Royal Broth for our ailing students as well,’ declared Dodenho, watching in relief. ‘Nigellus calculated their horoscopes, but we are not sure we can trust those now that he stands charged with murder.’

‘What else did Nigellus do?’ probed Bartholomew. ‘What medicines did he prescribe?’

‘No medicines,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Only advice – mostly about foods that should be avoided when the moon and stars are in certain positions. It was all very complicated, and I am not surprised our lads made mistakes – it is not always easy to see where these celestial bodies are at specific times, and we cannot spend all night gazing at the sky.’

‘He gave them nothing at all to swallow?’

‘No – just a long list of instructions about the ascendancy of Venus and that kind of thing. When he first arrived in Cambridge, he confided in his cups that he planned not to accept any sick clients, and that he aimed to acquire a practice comprised solely of healthy ones.’

‘Well, a lot of them are sick now,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘And some have died.’

‘He should have realised that no one stays hale and hearty for ever, and his was an impractical aspiration. He must be livid that the debilitas has come to haunt us, given that he is not very good at curing it. Unlike you with your magical Royal Broth. What did you say was in it?’

To ensure that Dodenho continued to feed it to Cew, Bartholomew took a leaf from Nigellus’s book and became haughty. ‘I am afraid I cannot share my professional secrets with laymen. Suffice to say that it contains a wide variety of costly and efficacious compounds.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Dodenho pleasantly, and handed him a shilling, a fee far in excess of what the physician had intended to charge. ‘Is that enough, or do you require more?’

Bartholomew wanted to refuse it, feeling that to accept would be tantamount to theft. However, if he did, Dodenho would probably be suspicious, and he was loath to risk Cew’s well-being over a few pennies. He took the coin with a sheepish nod of thanks.