Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘They spend all their money on alms,’ said Michael. ‘Unlike King’s Hall, or even Michaelhouse, where security is considered more important. Hit it again.’

‘But if I break it, they will have no way to keep marauders out,’ argued Bartholomew, disliking the notion of vandalising a religious house.

‘A rotten door will provide scant protection anyway,’ Michael pointed out, and when the physician still hesitated, he charged at it himself, causing it to fly to pieces under the onslaught.

‘God’s teeth, Brother!’ hissed Bartholomew, surveying the shattered remnants in dismay. ‘Now we cannot even begin to disguise the damage.’

‘It was more fragile than I anticipated,’ said Michael defensively. ‘And do not blaspheme.’

The priory grounds were empty, but a voice could be heard emanating from the refectory: the friars were eating, listening to their Bible Scholar read aloud as they did so. Rather than waste time in explanations, Michael trotted straight towards the chapel.

The building was shadowy and as silent as the grave, which Bartholomew found unnerving, especially when he remembered that it had been about the same time of day that Hamo had been killed. He glanced around anxiously, half expecting the strategist to leap out at them with his sharp little blade, but the place was deserted. He followed Michael to the altar.

‘There is nothing here,’ said Michael accusingly, whispering because it seemed wrong for loud voices to shatter the building’s peace. ‘You were wrong!’

Bartholomew dropped to his hands and knees, and pushed aside the cloth that covered the table to peer underneath. At first, he thought Michael was right, but then he saw dark smudges in the ancient dust of the floor. He stood, grabbed a candle, and crouched back down.

‘Writing,’ he said excitedly. ‘Or rather letters drawn in blood. Hamo must have put his hand beneath and–’

‘I understand what he did,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘What does it say?’

‘Robert,’ replied Bartholomew, staring up at him.

‘He cannot mean the almoner. He must mean Robert de Hakeney.’

‘Hakeney has an alibi for Hamo’s murder – he was in the King’s Head.’

‘Then perhaps he hired a crony to do it. God knows, there are dozens of men in that rough place who would oblige him.’

‘It costs money to rent a killer, and Hakeney does not have any. Moreover, his behaviour on the night of the murder was not commensurate with a man who had commissioned a crime. I think Hamo did mean his fellow Austin.’

Michael glanced around uncomfortably, although they were still alone. ‘Why?’

‘First, because he wrote this message in a place where it would not be seen by any of his brethren. And second, because he told us , rather than one of them, what he had done.’

Michael made an impatient movement with his hand. ‘You are reading too much into the unfathomable actions of a dying man.’

‘ Think , Brother! Hamo was badly wounded, but did not try to summon help. Why? Because he knew his killer would be among those who came. And why did he not reveal the name of his assailant as he breathed his last? Because Robert was there, and would have found a way to dismiss or explain away whatever Hamo had managed to gasp.’

Michael started to argue, but then stopped and became thoughtful. ‘You said at the time that he was trying to communicate something. Failing that, the message would eventually have been found by whoever changes the altar cloth – the sacristan or his assistants, but definitely not the almoner. But why would Robert kill Hamo? He is a friar, and a good one. Such men do not usually dispatch their colleagues.’

‘Because Robert is the strategist.’ Bartholomew continued quickly when he saw Michael’s immediate disbelief. ‘He is one of those who thinks the University should decant to the Fens.’

‘So does half the University,’ Michael pointed out.

‘But it makes sense! Frenge also died here – in a place that Robert knows. But this is no time to speculate. Our best option now is to go to the refectory and see what Robert has to say about his name written in blood beneath the altar.’

He began to hurry there before Michael could object, arriving to find the friars concluding a modest repast of bread and ale. They were standing and Prior Joliet had just finished saying grace. They all looked up in astonishment when Bartholomew burst in. Robert was not there.

‘Where is your almoner?’ Bartholomew demanded.

Joliet blinked at the abrupt question. ‘He has gone to Michaelhouse. Why? And how did you get in? Our front gate is locked.’

‘Gone to Michaelhouse to do what?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

‘To deliver wine,’ said Joliet, regarding Bartholomew in bemusement. ‘It is a gift from your sister, but the mood of the town is such that she was too afraid to take it herself, so she asked Robert to oblige. I advised him to leave it until tomorrow, but he–’

‘Edith is not in the habit of sending us wine,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘And even if she were, she has a whole household to do her bidding and would not have asked Robert. Moreover, she would not think it necessary for the stuff to arrive tonight, when the town is alive with unrest.’

‘So what does it–’ began Michael.

Bartholomew cut across him. ‘Robert aims to do Michaelhouse harm, no doubt to cause further strife between University and town. Which is more evidence that he is the strategist!’

‘Now just a moment,’ objected Joliet indignantly. ‘Edith probably chose Robert to be her agent because he is an almoner, used to giving things away. He–’

‘ How did she ask him?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Did she come here?’

‘No, she sent a message.’ It was Overe who replied. ‘I have it here.’ He reached into the scrip that hung from his belt and produced a folded piece of parchment.

‘I have seen this writing before,’ said Bartholomew, snatching it from him. ‘Or rather, I have seen letters penned with this nib – it has a nick, which makes all its upstrokes distinctive.’

‘Where have you seen it?’ asked Joliet warily.

‘On letters to Stephen. Two informed him that Michaelhouse and Gonville are on the brink of moving to the Fens, and a third told him to persuade Hakeney to steal Robert’s cross.’

‘ Robert’s cross,’ pounced Michael. ‘He is unlikely to encourage a crime against himself. And why would he bother to forge a note from Edith? He could have just told everyone that she asked him to deliver the wine and no one would know any different. You are wrong, Matt.’

‘He would not have been allowed out without one,’ said Overe. ‘The rest of us would have refused to let him go – on account of the danger – but this letter is very persuasive …’

‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew, scanning it again. ‘It is also nothing Edith would have written. Ergo, Robert penned it himself, aiming to escape the convent and further his nasty plans.’

‘My almoner is a good man,’ said Joliet quietly. ‘Like all my brethren. Indeed, there is only one Austin whose character I would question – the one in your College.’

‘Wauter?’ asked Bartholomew, his stomach churning.

‘Well, he did charge off to the Fens without asking permission,’ Joliet went on. ‘And I am told he took his Martilogium with him, which means he is unlikely to return.’

‘Go to your chapel and lock the door,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am afraid your front gate will no longer protect you. Do not come out until I tell you it is safe to do so.’

‘And if you see Robert, toll the bell,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Michael will send help.’