A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘You mean that list of martyrs that you have been compiling for the last twenty years?’ asked Langelee eagerly. ‘That is generous, man!’

  Wauter shot Suttone a weary glance. ‘Yes, I confided my intentions to you. That means you were meant to keep them secret until I was ready to make a general announcement.’

  ‘Oh,’ mumbled Suttone guiltily. Then his expression became pained. ‘Lord! I remember why you told me now! To cheer me up after what Stephen the lawyer said – that he plans to leave his collection of tomes on architecture to Gonville Hall instead of us.’

  ‘Does he?’ cried Langelee, dismayed. ‘I thought I had persuaded him that they would be more appreciated here.’

  ‘You did,’ said Suttone. ‘But he changed his mind. Personally, I suspect it was Zachary’s doing – to disconcert us before the disceptatio.’

  ‘It will have been Kellawe,’ said William viciously. ‘I cannot abide him – he is a fanatic.’

  ‘But he is a Franciscan,’ Suttone pointed out, while the others supposed that the Zachary man must be zealous indeed to have drawn such condemnation from William, who was no moderate himself. ‘A member of your own Order.’

  ‘He should never have been allowed to join,’ declared William hotly. ‘He should have gone to the Dominicans instead. They are the ones who love heretics.’

  There followed a lengthy diatribe, during which William listed all Kellawe’s failings. His colleagues were wryly amused to note that every one of them was echoed in himself – arrogance, inflexibility, dogmatism and stupidity.

  ‘What will the Saturday Sermon be about today, Suttone?’ asked Langelee, eventually tiring of the tirade and so changing the subject. ‘It is your turn to preach.’

  Suttone’s regarded him in horror. ‘Is it? Lord, I forgot, and I have nothing prepared! Perhaps we all can listen to the mock disputation that Matthew has organised instead. I know it will be about medicine, but that cannot be helped.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Langelee. ‘What is the subject, Bartholomew? And do not worry about what Nigellus and Rougham will think when informed that their audience will be ten times the size of the one they are expecting – they will be delighted, as both love being the centre of attention.’

  Bartholomew hoped he was right. ‘Whether scrofulous sores in the throat can—’

  ‘Oh, no,’ gulped Langelee with a shudder. ‘I do not want to listen to that sort of thing today, thank you very much. We shall change it to something less grisly.’

  ‘What about one of Aristotle’s medical questions?’ suggested Suttone. ‘Such as my personal favourite: why do women have softer bodies than men?’

  ‘I hardly think our theologians will want to hear the answer to that, Father,’ said Wauter primly. ‘Moreover, our seculars will become inflamed with lust, and we shall have trouble.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘Medical debates necessarily involve mention of human parts, and I am sure we can trust Rougham and Nigellus to be genteel. Besides, our clerics can always stuff their fingers in their ears if anything too shocking is aired.’

  He rubbed his hands together gleefully, although Bartholomew thought that if he was expecting anything enjoyably lewd from those particular medici, then he was going to be sorely disappointed.

  When the meal was over, the servants began to remove dirty dishes and fold away tables, turning the hall from refectory to auditorium. Bartholomew went to wait by the gate, aiming to warn Rougham and Nigellus about the revised itinerary, so they could escape if they wanted. The rest of Michaelhouse might not care about offending their sensibilities, but Bartholomew was obliged to work with them, and did not want them irked.

  ‘I have not attended a good debate in ages,’ came a cheerful voice. It was Rob Deynman, who had been a medical student himself before Langelee had ‘promoted’ him to the post of Librarian. He had been accepted to study because his father was rich, but the unfortunate truth was that he had no academic talent whatsoever and everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had agreed to care for books rather than people. ‘Now we shall have two in as many days.’

  ‘Do you plan to take part tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew, a little uneasily. Michaelhouse would be unlikely to impress potential donors if he did.

  ‘No, because Brother Michael says it would be beneath a Librarian’s dignity,’ replied Deynman. ‘So I shall just listen, and nod sagely in all the right places.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, supposing he would have to be placed where no one could see him.

  ‘I am sorry that Stephen is giving his architecture books to Gonville,’ Deynman went on, his amiable face creasing into a scowl. ‘He promised them to us, and I built special shelves to house them. I imagine Rougham did something sly to make him change his mind.’

  ‘I do not think—’ began Bartholomew, but Deynman was already stamping away, having thoroughly outraged himself with the notion.

  ‘Ah, Matt,’ said Wauter, emerging from his room. ‘I keep meaning to ask you about your sister’s dyeworks. Are you sure they are safe? My former colleagues at Zachary are extremely worried by the stench. As am I.’

  Bartholomew was in a quandary. He did not want to betray Edith by voicing his concerns about the venture, but nor could he bring himself to issue false assurances.

  ‘I will try to monitor what they do,’ he hedged, although he was aware that Edith would not take kindly to such interference.

  ‘Good,’ said Wauter, smiling. ‘But here comes Rougham, so I shall make myself scarce. I cannot see him being very pleased to learn that his opinion on scrofulous sores is no longer required, but that Michaelhouse is instead eager to hear what he thinks about the softness of women’s bodies.’

  Rougham was effectively Master of Gonville Hall, because the real one had gone to see the Pope in Avignon some years before and had not bothered to come back. He was a plump, smug man who hated anything that smacked of innovation, even if it worked. Bartholomew went to greet him, but Nigellus arrived before he could speak, glorious in a green gown and scarlet cloak that were certainly not part of Zachary’s sober uniform of grey and cream.

  ‘I am a few moments late because I was with a dying patient,’ Nigellus declared importantly. ‘I felt obliged to linger a while, lest he asked for another horoscope, but I think he is past caring about his stars now.’

  ‘A wealthy patient?’ queried Rougham, ready to be sympathetic to an inconvenient loss.

  ‘Naturally, or I would not have answered his summons.’

  Bartholomew tried to mask his distaste by informing them of the change of plan. He was surprised when Rougham clapped his hands together in delight and Nigellus actually smiled.

  ‘Do not be sorry, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham, eyes gleaming. ‘It will be a lot more enjoyable than scrofulous sores, which I have never found particularly interesting anyway. I shall go first, naturally. After all, Nigellus is the Junior Physician, and so must take second place.’

  Nigellus scowled. ‘Call me that once more and I shall savage you in this debate. And do not think I cannot do it – I know a great deal about women’s bodies, despite the fact that I have never had the opportunity to couple with one.’

  Bartholomew blinked, astonished by the bald confidence, but Rougham, who had a long-standing arrangement with one of the town’s most popular prostitutes, smirked superiorly. ‘Then let the most experienced man win.’

  ‘So this is your home,’ said Nigellus, shoving past Bartholomew to stand in the yard and gaze around disdainfully. ‘It is much smaller than I expected, and you must be terribly crowded. Thank God I chose Zachary instead.’

  Resisting the urge to point out that Nigellus had never been offered a place at Michaelhouse, Bartholomew led the way towards the hall. For the first time, he saw the College through the eyes of an outsider. Algae ran in streaks down the walls, while the steps were worn and narrow. The hall was pleasant, but too small for the number of students currently enrolled, and it suffered from havi
ng no glass in its windows. The rushes on the floor needed changing after what had been dropped or spilled in them the previous night, and someone had lobbed a dish of brawn at the founder’s coat-of-arms above the dais, where it had lodged.

  He introduced the speakers, noting that the eyes of students and Fellows alike were bright with the prospect of vulgar entertainment, while the servants loitered behind the serving screen, pretending to work but clearly hoping to hear something rude.

  ‘No,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly, when Bartholomew announced his intention to preside. ‘Your non-medical members will not want three physicians holding forth, so we shall have someone else instead. Father William, perhaps. He accused my colleague Kellawe of being a narrow-minded fool, so let us see his intellect in action.’

  William surged to his feet. ‘Very well. And then you can tell that stupid oaf how a real scholar performs in the debating chamber.’

  Presented with a fait accompli, Bartholomew had no choice but to yield, although he did so with considerable reluctance, loath for members of rival foundations to witness the friar in action. The students were sniggering helplessly, while Langelee, Michael, Suttone and Wauter looked pained, and Clippesby, unable to witness what was about to transpire, simply stood and left.

  It was the president’s duty to introduce the subject, and William launched into a detailed account of the differences between the sexes that had everyone gaping their amazement at the depth and breadth of his knowledge. It wiped the smirk from Nigellus’s face, and his own opening statement was repetitive and uninspired. Rougham was not much better, and it was only when the Franciscan stood to summarise their preliminary arguments that matters became lively again.

  ‘I never said that large women find it easier to grow moustaches,’ objected Nigellus in dismay. ‘You have misquoted me, and make me sound like an idiot.’

  ‘You have done that all by yourself,’ retorted William. ‘And you did say it – everyone heard you.’ He addressed his audience. ‘Am I right?’

  There was a resounding chorus that he was, and Nigellus fell silent, folding his arms with a petulant pout. His sulk lasted until William paraphrased what Rougham was alleged to have said about big hips, at which point he released an involuntary snort of laughter.

  ‘I can stand it no longer,’ muttered Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and pulling him away. ‘And we should not be listening to this nonsense when there is a killer at large anyway.’

  Bartholomew was sorry to go. No one would learn anything of medical use from the occasion, but it had certainly been entertaining, and he had been maliciously gratified to see the pompous Nigellus put in his place.

  The two scholars had not taken many steps across the yard before they were hailed. Langelee had followed them out. The Master jerked his head towards the hall, from which angrily raised voices could be heard. They were loud enough that the servants were no longer obliged to lurk behind the serving screen to listen, and were going about their work outside, grinning as the combatants began to make some very outlandish claims.

  ‘We shall have to do this again,’ he said. ‘It is very amusing.’

  ‘My novices do not think so,’ said Michael prudishly. ‘They are mortified.’

  Langelee laughed. ‘Nonsense! They are relishing every moment. But tell me about Frenge and the rumour that King’s Hall murdered him. Is it true?’

  ‘He was poisoned, certainly,’ replied Michael. ‘But we do not know by whom – yet. We are about to visit Shirwynk again. He might have more to say now that he has had a chance to digest the news of his friend’s death.’

  ‘And his wife’s,’ add Bartholomew. ‘I found no evidence of foul play, but it is odd that she and Frenge should die within hours of each other.’

  ‘King’s Hall would not have dispatched Letia,’ averred Langelee. ‘So if it transpires that she has been poisoned, you can eliminate them as suspects – which would be good, as it might calm the bubbling unease between University and town.’

  ‘We need to know for sure, so will you open her up, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘As you did with those murder victims last summer? Your findings then allowed us to bring a killer to justice, and I should not like to think of Letia dispatched with no one any the wiser.’

  Bartholomew winced. He had advocated for years that dissection was the best way to learn about the mysteries of the human body, but when the opportunity had finally arisen to put theory into practice, he had found himself unsettled by the whole business and had no wish to do it again.

  ‘With them, I was fairly sure I would find distinctive lesions,’ he hedged. ‘That is not the case with Letia. Besides, Shirwynk would never allow it.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘And I would rather you did not ask. He is a burgess, and we cannot have him carrying tales of your ghoulish habits to men who may give us money. There must be another way to unearth the truth.’

  ‘We shall have to rely on our interrogative skills, then,’ sighed Michael. ‘And afterwards, I shall inform Chancellor Tynkell that if he cannot bring Zachary Hostel to heel because he is afraid of what Morys might say to his mother, then he should resign now, not next term.’

  ‘Quite right, Brother,’ nodded Langelee. ‘That place’s unscholarly antics will put benefactors off the whole University. Go with him, Bartholomew. He will need help if he is to catch a killer and restore peace between us and the town. Do not worry about your classes – I will take them.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ gulped Bartholomew, knowing that the Master would not read the set texts, but would hold forth about camp-ball, his favourite sport. And what lively young man would not rather discuss fixtures and ratings than learning lists of herbs and their virtues?

  Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Do not fret. Being a scholar is not all about reading books, hearing lectures and learning how to argue, you know.’

  ‘No?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘What else is it, then?’

  Langelee smiled enigmatically and ignored the question. ‘You have my permission to miss meals and church until Frenge’s killer is caught – except for this evening and tomorrow, when you will be needed to help with the preparations for the disceptatio.’

  He strode away, leaving Bartholomew staring after him unhappily, hating the loss of valuable teaching time. There was so much he wanted his students to know, and he was struggling to cram it all in already. Michael tugged on his sleeve, murmuring that the quicker they started, the sooner they would finish.

  They walked through the gate and on to Milne Street, along which was evidence that the previous night’s festivities had been wild. Pie crusts, apple cores and other half-eaten foods were strewn everywhere, along with discarded clothing and smashed pottery. Principal Irby from Zachary was picking his way through it. As usual, he was wearing his uniform grey and cream cloak, the colours of which matched his pale face and the bags under his eyes. He was drinking from a flask, and the smile he gave was wan.

  ‘What a night! I swear people were still carousing until an hour ago – and that includes Michaelhouse. I could hear your celebrations from my bedchamber.’

  ‘We did do ourselves proud,’ said Michael, smiling at the memory. ‘But you must have enjoyed yourself, too: you look decidedly delicate this morning.’

  ‘Because I am ill,’ said Irby coolly. He brandished his flask so vigorously that some splashed on Bartholomew, who tasted its cloying sweetness as he wiped it off his face. ‘But a sip of this will put me right. It is Shirwynk’s apple wine.’

  ‘Is there sucura in it?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering why it was so sickly.

  ‘Certainly not! The Sheriff has deemed that illegal, and I would never break the law.’

  ‘It is a pity your students and masters do not think as you do,’ retorted Michael sourly. ‘Not one of them sees fit to wear his uniform these days.’

  Irby suddenly looked very old and tired. ‘I know, Brother, but Morys says his kinship with the Chancellor exempts him from the rules. And w
here he goes, the others follow.’

  ‘He most certainly is not exempt,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘And you had better find a way to claw back control or he will be Principal and you will be ousted.’ Irby nodded miserably, so the monk changed the subject. ‘When will the consilium decide the topic for tomorrow’s debate?’

  Irby turned to Bartholomew. ‘Nigellus is wrong to insist on nemo dat – it will be tedious, and there are far more interesting issues to debate. A medical question, for example.’

  ‘We had better not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what was currently happening in Michaelhouse. ‘Besides, the last time I discussed medicine with a layman, I was accused of heresy.’

  ‘By Kellawe, I suppose,’ sighed Irby. ‘Who believes that the soul resides in a pouch in the heart. He is wrong, of course. It is much more likely to be a pouch in the head. But a debate with a medical theme will be best, and I shall continue to ponder until the right subject comes to mind.’

  ‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Although you might want to run it past your Senior Proctor first. These occasions can be contentious, and we do not want trouble.’

  ‘You want to know so that Michaelhouse’s students will have time to prepare,’ said Irby, wagging an admonishing finger. ‘But I am afraid you will have to hear it at the same time as everyone else, because no one on the committee will break his silence.’

  ‘He will not,’ murmured Michael resentfully, watching him go. ‘Nor will you, Prior Joliet or Wauter. But Nigellus will cheat for certain. He is that kind of man.’

  As they continued along Milne Street, they met the Austins from the convent. Almoner Robert was struggling to carry the large and very heavy book that he needed for a lecture on Augustine’s Sermones, long white hair undulating in the breeze, while hulking Hamo toted pigments, brushes and boards as though they were made of feathers. Prior Joliet was empty-handed and sombre.

  ‘I cannot stop, Brother,’ he said, as Michael made to intercept him. ‘I am summoned to Will Lenne’s deathbed, so I dare not linger.’