Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

He crouched next to Bartholomew, but this time the whispered word was even softer.

‘Where is the water?’ cried Joliet, his voice cracking with desperation. ‘Overe!’

Hamo fixed Bartholomew with a bright-eyed stare, and the physician was sure he was trying to convey a message. The dying man held his gaze a moment longer, before giving a brief, conspiratorial nod. Then he closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Joliet began to intone a final absolution in a voice that was unsteady with shock, and one by one, his priests joined in. Some looked around fearfully as they did so, afraid the killer might still lurk, ready to claim another victim.

‘There is no one else here,’ said Michael, the only one who had thought to check. ‘The culprit must have committed his vile deed and fled.’

Resolve filled Joliet’s round face. ‘Our prayers for Hamo’s soul can wait – God will understand. Search the grounds. We cannot let this villain escape. He may kill again!’

Bartholomew went to help, leaving Michael to question those friars who were too old or infirm to join in the hunt. The obvious place to start as far as the physician was concerned was the back gate – Overe assured him that the front one had been locked and guarded all day – so he grabbed a pitch torch and hurried there at once, Robert at his heels. It was ajar when they arrived. Robert tugged it open and pointed at the priory’s boat.

‘We got a better mooring rope after Frenge died,’ he said, and Bartholomew noted that the little craft was now secured to the pier with a serious tangle of knots. ‘The killer cannot have used our boat to cross the ditch this time, so he must have swum across.’

‘Not unless he is a lunatic,’ said Bartholomew eyeing the still, black, stinking waters in revulsion. ‘However, I noticed that the gate was open – I thought you were going to keep it locked after what happened to Frenge.’

‘We meant to mend it,’ said Robert sheepishly, ‘but then other concerns assailed us, and I am afraid and we made the foolish assumption that lightning would not strike twice …’

‘So this is definitely how the culprit came in, then,’ said Bartholomew, sure such an unforgiveable oversight would not have happened at Michaelhouse. ‘He must have taken a boat from somewhere else. It would not be difficult – there are dozens of them further downstream.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Robert miserably. ‘Poor Hamo. How could such a terrible thing happen?’

Easily, thought Bartholomew, when his brethren were so cavalier about security.

News of Hamo’s stabbing spread like wildfire, and the town was soon abuzz with rumours. Bartholomew volunteered to help keep the peace, but first a gaggle of lawyers from Gonville Hall howled insults at him for being kin to the woman who hired whores, then a band of townsmen accused him of encouraging Edith to poison people in order to drum up trade for himself.

‘You are more liability than help, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘But your offer is appreciated, as are the ones from Michaelhouse and the Austins. No one else has bothered, presumably because they would rather be fighting.’

‘Or because they are too frightened to venture out,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael snorted his disbelief at that notion. ‘But I am worried about Wauter. Has he gone to find a nice spot for the University in the Fens? Or is there another, darker reason for his absence?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think that he might have killed Hamo?’

‘Well, he is an Austin, who knows his way around their priory.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe that of him. The killer is more likely to be Hakeney, who has a grudge against the Order.’

‘Against Robert,’ corrected Michael.

‘He is a drunk and the chapel is poorly lit. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.’

‘I doubt that even the most pickled of minds could confuse Hamo with Robert, even in the dark.’ Michael turned when his favourite beadle approached. ‘Well, Meadowman? Will there be a battle between us and the townsfolk tonight?’

‘No, thank God,’ replied the beadle tiredly. ‘But there may be one tomorrow, when the troublemakers use Hamo’s murder to whip up more bad feeling. We are going to be busy if we want to avert a crisis, Brother.’

Bartholomew walked back to College, grateful when Meadowman offered to escort him. The beadle’s burly presence saved him both from a spat with Zachary and from trouble with Shirwynk’s apprentices. It was the role Cynric usually fulfilled, but Bartholomew was glad he had detailed the book-bearer to stand guard over Edith instead.

As it was late, his students were already in bed, but Bartholomew was too unsettled to sleep. He sat in the hall, reading works by Aretaeus of Cappadocia, aiming to learn whether Nigellus had misquoted him. A little after midnight, Michael came to report that the town was quiet – partly because it had started to rain, but mostly because Tulyet had given Dickon charge of a patrol.

‘Which did more to send would-be rioters home than all my beadles and the drizzle put together,’ said the monk. ‘The boy is a hellion. What are you reading?’

Bartholomew told him. ‘I have found nowhere yet that recommends quaffing urine to assess it for sweetness.’

‘And nor will you, I warrant,’ said Michael. ‘But do not stay up too late. We shall have another busy day tomorrow if we are to catch a killer and avert a war.’

Bartholomew was soon absorbed in the book again and time ticked by. He closed his eyes when oily fumes and the flickering light from the lamp gave him a headache, aiming to rest them briefly, so was surprised when someone shook him awake several hours later.

‘You are not supposed to sleep in here,’ said Deynman accusingly. ‘It is a library. What will benefactors think? We shall be banished to the Fens for certain.’

Bartholomew sat up, hand to his stiff neck. ‘Is it time for church?’

‘Not yet, but I was restless, so I thought I would come here to think. It is a good place during the hours of darkness, when there is no one clamouring at me to borrow my treasures. Sometimes, I wish you would all go away and let me do my work in peace.’

‘But we are your work,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You are supposed to lend us books.’

‘Not the way I see it,’ retorted Deynman archly. ‘And there is a nasty tendency in this University to take me for granted – to use me for menial tasks. Well, I am not a messenger-boy – I am a librarian .’ He spoke the word grandly, still delighted by the way it sounded.

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Please do not say a patient asked you to tell me something and you refused. Or forgot.’

‘Not a patient. I would make an exception for those. It was Irby from Zachary – before he died, obviously. He shoved a note in my hand and ordered me to give it to you. I told him I was Michaelhouse’s inlitteratus , and thus above running errands, but he only laughed.’

Bartholomew regarded him wonderingly. ‘ Inlitteratus? ’

‘It is Latin for librarian,’ explained Deynman. ‘Thelnetham told me so.’

‘It means illiterate,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Deynman’s grasp of the language could remain so dismal when he spent his whole life among books written in it. ‘Thelnetham was being unkind, and Irby must have thought you were making a joke.’

Deynman’s face crumpled in dismay. ‘You mean I have been going around telling all and sundry that I am unlettered? No wonder people have looked at me so oddly! How could he?’

‘How indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Do you still have Irby’s letter?’