‘Your porter told me that Cew was dying,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly.
‘He is,’ averred Wayt. ‘Every day that passes sees more of his mind destroyed – and it is all Frenge’s fault. Cew was the greatest logician our College has ever known, but now look at him.’
‘He thinks he is the King of France,’ elaborated Dodenho. ‘The bowl is a crown, and the poker and apple his sceptre and orb.’
‘Have you come to pay homage to your monarch?’ demanded Cew in a booming voice that he would never have used had he been well. ‘Then kneel before us.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, watching Bartholomew push a table under the window so that he could stand on it and help Cew down. ‘He has been like this ever since Frenge startled him?’
Wayt nodded. ‘I have heard that a violent fright can turn a man’s wits, and that is what happened when Frenge hid behind a buttress and leapt out. I saw it happen, and I witnessed the terror on Cew’s face. It was a wicked thing to do.’
Bartholomew climbed on the table and offered Cew his hand. With great solemnity, Cew gave him the apple to hold while he made his descent. When he was down, he reclaimed the fruit and went to sit by the hearth, where he recited a list of all the French barons who had lost their lives at Poitiers, complete with a description of the armour they had worn. Unlucky chance had put Bartholomew at that particular battle, so he was able to say with certainty that Cew’s analysis was uncannily accurate.
‘He is very pale,’ he observed. ‘Has he been eating properly?’
‘He will only accept oysters and soul-cakes,’ replied Dodenho. ‘He says those are all that is fit for the royal palate.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But they block his innards, and he has not been to the latrine in days.’
‘We summoned Nigellus the day Frenge did this terrible thing to Cew,’ Wayt went on, ‘because he is the most expensive of the University physicians and therefore must be the best. He spent hours calculating a horoscope, then told us that Cew would only recover if we took him to stand under an oak tree in the light of the next full moon.’
‘But it was raining on those particular nights,’ added Dodenho. ‘And Cew refused to leave his rooms anyway. He thought the Prince of Wales might be out there, and he is wary of him after what happened at Poitiers. Do you have any advice, Bartholomew?’
Bartholomew was tempted to say that he had, and that it was never to hire Nigellus again. But diplomacy prevailed and he kept his opinion of the Zachary medicus to himself.
‘Ailments of the mind are a mystery to me, I am afraid, and you are already doing what I would recommend – making sure his needs are met, and preventing him from harming himself.’
‘These rumours about Frenge,’ said Wayt, turning to Michael. ‘Are they true? Is he dead in the Austin Priory?’
Michael nodded. ‘He was poisoned – murdered.’
‘I do not believe that, and neither should you,’ scoffed Wayt. ‘I imagine he broke in intent on mischief, but was struck down for his audacity – God had obviously had enough of him. There was a tale that he planned to raid us again tonight, so I cannot say I am sorry he is no longer a threat.’
‘Do not blame Frenge’s death on the Almighty,’ warned Michael sternly. ‘If you do, we shall have even more trouble with the town.’
‘I do not care. If they do not want a war, they should not have applauded Frenge’s crime.’ Wayt rounded on Bartholomew. ‘And speaking of crime, can you do nothing to stop your sister from killing us all? Her dyeworks are poisoning the river.’
‘It is true, Matthew,’ said Dodenho. ‘All the fish are dead, and I am sure she was responsible for that bout of sickness at Trinity Hall last week. After all, it happened after they drank ale made with water from the river and—’
‘That ale was from Frenge’s brewery,’ interrupted Wayt. ‘Doubtless he and Edith conspired together to bring Trinity Hall low.’
‘Actually, the culprit was a syllabub,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Which had nothing to do with my sister or Frenge. I tasted it myself and the cream was bad – not to mention the fact that it was so sweet as to be unpleasantly cloying.’
‘Probably because it was stuffed full of sucura,’ said Dodenho.
‘Sucura?’ queried Bartholomew.
‘The sweet powder from Tyre that Sheriff Tulyet has recently deemed illegal,’ replied Wayt. ‘It is smuggled through the Fens to avoid import tax, so you will not see any in King’s Hall.’
‘Tell me again what happened when Frenge came and did all that damage,’ ordered Michael, whose refined palate told him that sucura had been in the soul-cakes he had just eaten. However, he was unwilling to waste time on the argument that would follow if he said so.
‘It was a week ago now,’ obliged Dodenho. ‘We were all at table, and did not know he was here until we heard the pigs rampaging in the yard. We hurried out to see Frenge driving them towards our hall. He turned his attention to the geese then, and chased them into the orchard.’
‘We followed, but he managed to evade us,’ said Wayt. ‘Then I saw him hiding behind the buttress. Cew was nearby, but before I could shout a warning, Frenge had ambushed him.’
‘Frenge escaped in the ensuing confusion,’ finished Dodenho, ‘and poor Cew has not been in his right mind ever since.’
‘It was an outrage,’ said Wayt angrily. ‘We are right to sue Frenge for damages.’
‘You cannot sue him now he is dead,’ said Michael. ‘He—’
‘Oh, yes, we can,’ countered Wayt. ‘We shall transfer our claim to his estate – the brewery he part-owned. That will show the town that they cannot get the better of us, not even if they die.’
‘In the interests of good relations—’ began Michael in alarm.
‘No,’ hissed Wayt. ‘We will not withdraw. Frenge did us a lot of harm, and we intend to ensure that he pays for it. His death is irrelevant as far as I am concerned.’
‘There are rumours that King’s Hall murdered him,’ said Michael, also growing angry. ‘If you persist with this lawsuit, everyone will believe them.’
‘Do you think we care what townsfolk believe? Their opinions matter nothing to us.’
‘Well, they matter to me,’ said Michael, controlling his temper with difficulty. ‘And my investigation must be one of which they will approve or we shall have a riot. That means interviewing every member of King’s Hall about the crime, which we shall do at once. Assemble them, if you please.’
‘What, all of them?’ asked Dodenho, startled. ‘This very moment?’
‘If you would be so kind.’
Interrogating every member of King’s Hall was a daunting task, as there were more than forty Fellows, all of whom had at least two students, not to mention an army of servants. Fortunately, the College had held a feast to mark the beginning of Hallow-tide, so most had an alibi for the three-hour window in which Frenge had died.
Michael was thoughtful when he and Bartholomew eventually left. ‘Only three of the Fellows cannot account for their whereabouts: Wayt went to attend urgent College business in his quarters; Dodenho disappeared to practise a lecture; and Cew was left unattended in his quarters, so no one knows whether he stayed there or went a-wandering.’
‘Can you really see any of them invading the Austin Priory to commit murder?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Michael. ‘Very easily, if you want the truth. Wayt is viciously spiteful, Dodenho thinks he is cleverer than the rest of us, while Cew is insane. Or is he? He might be pretending in the hope that we will exclude him from our enquiries. Well? Is it possible?’
‘I suppose so. Can we go home now? It is getting dark, and it is reckless to be out while so many drunken townsmen are spoiling for a fight.’
‘I ordered a curfew for all scholars between dusk and dawn, and it would not do for the Senior Proctor to set a bad example.’ Michael grinned at Bartholomew. ‘Which means I have the perfect excuse to stay in and enjoy tonight’s celebration
s.’
The High Street was teeming, pitch torches bobbing in the gathering gloom as folk gravitated towards St Mary the Great, outside which the procession would start. Many folk were also still traipsing around the homes of friends and relations, and as refreshments invariably included a drink as well as a soul-cake, few were sober. Bartholomew was right: it was no time for two scholars to be abroad without good reason.
‘There are those Zachary men again,’ said Michael irritably. ‘What are they doing out in defiance of my instructions?’
Bartholomew’s stomach lurched when he saw that the scholars in question had gathered in a circle around two women, one of whom was his sister. Without considering the consequences, he surged towards them, shoving them away from her with considerable vigour.
‘It is all right, Matt,’ said Edith quickly, as blades appeared in a dozen outraged hands. ‘We are only discussing a consignment of red cloth.’
‘Were you?’ asked Michael, hurrying over to regard the hostel men archly. ‘Why, when your uniform is grey and cream? And speaking of academic tabards, you seem to have forgotten yours. Where are they?’
‘We decided to dispense with them.’ The speaker was an older man, a master rather than a student. He wore a black and yellow gipon – a knee-length tunic with sleeves. Its colour, coupled with his small size and bristling demeanour, were redolent of a wasp.
‘You cannot dispense with them,’ said Michael irritably. ‘They are—’
‘We do not answer to you, Brother,’ interrupted the man sharply.
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ countered Michael. ‘I am the Senior Proctor.’
‘And I am John Morys, bursar of Zachary and kin to the Chancellor,’ the wasp flashed back. ‘We make the rules for our own scholars, and care nothing for your silly strictures.’
‘Too right,’ agreed the second older man among the throng, who was remarkable for a pair of startlingly purple lips. ‘I am Peter Segeforde, Zachary’s philosopher. What Morys says is true.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘And does Principal Irby agree?’
‘Of course he does,’ replied Segeforde shortly. ‘He is no fool.’
‘Then he is included in the fine I am about to levy,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘A penny from every man in your hostel, for insolence and flouting University rules.’
‘You cannot,’ said Morys coldly. ‘Not without the Chancellor’s agreement – and Tynkell and I have recently become kin by virtue of his mother’s latest marriage. He would never dare cross a member of her new family, because she would skin him alive.’
‘She is Lady Joan de Hereford,’ said Segeforde, puce lips curling into a smirk. ‘Not only is she formidable, but she is also a friend of the Queen, and thus in a position to make life difficult for any man who dares cross her. So go home, Brother, and keep your nose out of our affairs.’
‘I think you will find that Tynkell fears me a lot more than his dam, no matter how ferocious and well-connected she happens to be,’ retorted Michael. ‘Now will you return to your hostel willingly or will you bear the shame of being marched there by my beadles?’
While they argued, Bartholomew turned to Edith. He peered at her in the darkness to reassure himself that she was well – he had not forgotten the depth of her sorrow during the first few weeks of her bereavement.
‘You scholars!’ she whispered, and he smiled when he heard the laughter in her voice. ‘If you are not arguing with us, you are squabbling with each other. I have never known a more quarrelsome horde.’
‘It is because they have too much time on their hands,’ explained the woman who was with her. ‘They would not be so querulous if they did an honest day’s work.’
‘This is Anne de Rumburgh, Matt,’ said Edith. ‘I told you about her the other night.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, then remembered his manners and bowed politely.
Anne favoured him with a smile that was, by any standards, full of sensual promise. She was taller than Edith, and her kirtle was cut to show off the voluptuous curves of her figure; its neckline was lower than was currently fashionable and certainly lower than was decent. Her lips were red and full, and her eyes bright with the suggestion of fun.
But Bartholomew only inclined his head in a brief nod before turning back to Edith. He had suffered some recent mishaps with his love life, which had wounded him deeply, and he was unwilling to risk another encounter with the opposite sex just yet.
‘Yes,’ said Edith, a little crossly. ‘She runs the sales side of the dyeworks for us, and I praised her financial acumen to you for at least an hour. You gave every appearance of listening. Was your mind on something else, then?’
‘Of course not,’ mumbled Bartholomew, although he felt the colour rise into his cheeks at the lie. He had been thinking about his lost loves, Matilde and Julitta, as he always did when he was not occupied with patients or teaching.
‘Good,’ said Edith coolly. ‘Because I have better things to do than chat to myself. The dyeworks are a major undertaking, and there are many issues that require my attention.’
‘You mean like finding ways to avoid tipping waste in the river?’ asked Bartholomew.
Edith shot him a sour look. ‘Such as who to hire. So many Frail Sisters have applied to work with us that we are having to make some very difficult choices.’
Bartholomew experienced a sharp stab of loss. ‘Frail Sisters’ had been Matilde’s term for the town’s prostitutes, and she had championed their cause, organising them into an unofficial guild whereby they united to create better and safer working conditions. Now Edith was a widow, there was no one to tell her that they were unsuitable company for a respectable lady, and she had elected to take up where Matilde had left off. Bartholomew glanced at Anne, wondering whether she was one of them.
‘No,’ said Edith, reading his thoughts. ‘She is the wife of William de Rumburgh the goldsmith. You know him – he is one of your few wealthy patients.’
‘The one with the inflamed gums,’ supplied Anne, seeing Bartholomew rack his brains.
‘Oh, yes.’ The physician was often better at recalling ailments than the people who displayed them. ‘He has trouble eating.’
‘That is the least of his problems,’ said Anne with a grimace. ‘More annoying is that his condition adversely affects his performance in the marriage bed. You suggested ways in which we might remedy the matter, but none have worked. I am now a lonely and desperate woman, especially in the evenings when he is out at the guildhall.’
Another sultry smile came Bartholomew’s way.
‘Are you going to watch the procession, Matt?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject, clearly fearing he might be tempted by Anne’s none-too-subtle invitation.
‘No scholars can go,’ he replied. ‘The University has imposed a curfew.’
‘Ignore it,’ suggested Anne with yet another smouldering look. ‘And come to my house instead – to keep me company until my husband returns. He will be very late and—’
‘You heard him – he is obliged to stay in tonight,’ interrupted Edith sharply. ‘And you had better go home to change, Anne, or you will be late.’
Anne fluttered her eyelashes and sashayed away, hips swaying provocatively.
‘Are you sure it is a good idea to employ her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She does not seem to be your sort of … person.’
‘No,’ sighed Edith. ‘But so many folk want to close the dyeworks down that it is a relief to find someone who not only understands what I am trying to do, but who wants to be part of it. And do not say that you do, because you cannot see past the fact that we sometimes create a few smelly by-products.’
‘It worries me – I do not want you blamed if people become ill. And you have always been a considerate neighbour, so this sudden callous indifference to their health is a mystery to me.’
‘I am not indifferent to it – I just know that my dyeworks will not harm them. Ours is a good scheme, Matt. It has given de
sperate women a new chance in life.’
‘I know that, but—’
‘My ladies now have a regular and assured income that allows them to feed their children,’ Edith continued passionately. ‘They are at home at night, where they belong, instead of risking life and limb on the streets. No one would question the venture if it were being run by nuns – or by scholars for that matter – but because Frail Sisters are involved, it is deemed dirty and toxic.’
‘Can you be sure it is not?’ asked Bartholomew pointedly.
‘Yes,’ replied Edith firmly. ‘But I cannot debate it with you now. I need to go and make sure that all is safely locked up for the night. Good night, Matt. If you visit me tomorrow, I will mend that tear in your tabard.’
Bartholomew fingered the rip, sure it had not been there that morning. As Edith hurried away, his mind turned to the curious case of Rumburgh’s gums, a complaint that he had never seen before, and that might even prove to be—
‘—Matt’s verdict,’ Michael was telling the Zachary men, and mention of his name drew the physician from his medical reverie. ‘He should know: he has inspected hundreds of them.’
‘Hundreds of what?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Michael had not claimed anything too outrageous on his behalf.
‘Corpses,’ replied Michael. ‘I was just telling these gentlemen that we will catch whoever poisoned Frenge, no matter who the culprit transpires to be.’
‘And I was telling him that he will not,’ countered Morys. ‘Because God killed Frenge for daring to invade King’s Hall.’
‘That sort of remark is why the town does not like us,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is inflammatory and certain to cause offence.’
‘Good,’ said Segeforde spiritedly. ‘Then let them challenge us over it. It is high time we taught them a lesson.’
It was now completely dark, but Bartholomew and Michael had not taken many more steps towards home before they met Nigellus, hurrying after his Zachary colleagues.
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 5