‘And Wauter. I did not believe him when he denied knowing Frenge.’
‘You would take Hakeney’s word over his?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘A drunk, who dislikes all scholars – and Austins in particular, because he thinks one stole his cross?’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Then perhaps Hakeney is our culprit. He and Frenge were friends, but they would not be the first to fall out after copious quantities of ale, and Hakeney would certainly like the University blamed for the murder. And there is Nigellus, of course. Frenge was his patient, as were Lenne, Letia, Arnold and six dead people from Barnwell.’
‘So how shall we proceed?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘By interviewing Nigellus tomorrow, to see what we can shake loose with a few clever questions. I shall want you with me, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew wearily.
CHAPTER 5
The College bell ensured that everyone at Michaelhouse was awake long before dawn the following morning. All Souls fell on Sunday that year, which made it especially holy, and Langelee did not want their founder forgotten in the excitement surrounding the disceptatio.
‘We need him watching over us today,’ he informed his scholars, as they lined up to process to the church. ‘We cannot have him vexed, lest he hardens the hearts of potential benefactors, so I want you all to pray for his soul as fervently as you can. Is that understood?’
There was a murmur of assent, even from the servants who were waiting for Agatha to arrive so they could start preparing the expensive treats that would be served to the guests when the debate was over. Bartholomew’s book-bearer was among them, touching an amulet pinned to his hat. Cynric was the most superstitious man in Cambridge, and would certainly believe that the success of the day depended on the calibre of the rituals performed that morning.
Those Fellows in religious Orders – everyone except Bartholomew and Langelee – had risen even earlier, to prepare the church for the special ceremony. Suttone had decked it out in white flowers, and the sweet scent of them filled the whole building. Michael and Clippesby had dressed the altar in its best cloth, and William had laid out the ceremonial vestments, although he had managed to spill something down the embroidered chasuble he was wearing. It was not clear what Wauter had done, although he was slightly breathless and certainly gave the impression of a spell of hard work.
Unwilling for the occasion to be ruined by a contribution from the Michaelhouse Choir, Langelee had ‘forgotten’ to tell them that the rite was to begin early. Its members comprised people who joined solely for the free bread and ale, and few could sing. They made up for their lack of talent with volume, and prided themselves on the great distances over which they could make themselves heard. The Master was not alone in thinking that the founder’s soul might not like his Mass punctuated by off-key bellowing, and there were relieved glances among Fellows and students alike when the choristers shuffled in too late to participate.
Unfortunately, the choir was not easily discouraged, and began to warble anyway, so the scholars left the church to a resounding Gloria from the basses, and an Easter anthem from the tenors and altos. A good-natured competition followed, as each group tried to drown out the other, and as the music was in different keys, the din was far from pleasant. Langelee increased the pace, but the racket was still deafening in St Michael’s Lane.
Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he walked, savouring the fresh scent of early morning. Then there was a waft of something vile, accompanied by a plume of oily smoke.
‘The dyeworks,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘My beadles reported that a pile of waste had been assembled ready to incinerate. No doubt Edith and her lasses hope their neighbours will not notice if they burn it when most people are still in bed.’
Wauter pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘You really should encourage her to move away from the town, Matt. You must see that such a reek is deleterious to health.’
‘I will speak to her today,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Again.’
‘Good,’ said Wauter. ‘Because our University has no future in a town that chokes us with poisonous gases. If she does not leave, then we shall have to go instead.’
‘We are not going anywhere,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We may not like our secular neighbours, but we need the goods and services they provide – food, fuel, shoes, candles, pots, cloth, beds—’
‘Many great abbeys and priories are self-sufficient,’ argued Wauter. ‘We can be, too.’
‘It takes years – decades, even – to develop that sort of community,’ said Michael testily. ‘What would we do in the interim? Live in tents?’
‘You are clever, with a keen eye to the University’s interests. I am sure you could find a solution. And then your name would be remembered for all eternity. Masses like the one we have just said for our founder will be sung for you long after your soul is released from Purgatory.’
‘That will happen anyway,’ said Michael loftily. ‘Because I have already done much to put us on an equal footing with Oxford. However, I certainly do not intend to be remembered as the man who took our University from a perfectly good town to a bog.’
Wauter nodded to where a handful of students from Zachary were reeling along with three Frail Sisters. The lads made themselves scarce when they saw the Senior Proctor, so the women turned their lewd attentions to the Michaelhouse men instead, some of whom looked sorely tempted by the activities that were listed as on offer.
‘You would not have to worry about that happening in the Fens,’ said the Austin. ‘Lads in holy orders know how to resist such invitations, but the same cannot be said for our seculars. Your students would be over there in a trice, Matt, and so, I am sorry to say, would Langelee.’
He stepped forward to distract the Master with a discussion about the disceptatio. It was a prudent decision, as Langelee’s lustfully gleaming eyes had been noted by several undergraduates, and it was hardly a good example.
‘Wauter is an excellent teacher, a gifted geometrician and good company in the conclave,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But he is also a liar. I am unconvinced by his claim that he did not know Frenge. Moreover, he disappeared this morning while we were preparing the church, and arrived back hot, dishevelled and unwilling to say where he had been.’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘He said he had been removing debris from the churchyard, so that we would be “perceived as having an unstained soul despite our many blemishes”. Now what is that supposed to mean?’
Bartholomew had no idea, but agreed that it was an odd remark to have made.
The procession arrived back at College to find that the servants had only just started their own breakfast, as Agatha had anticipated that the scholars would be longer at their devotions. They started to rise, but she waved them back down with an authoritative hand, muttering that they would need their strength if they were going to give of their best that day.
‘But I am hungry,’ objected Langelee plaintively.
‘So are we,’ retorted Agatha, and the Master, veteran of battles and performer of unsavoury acts of violence for powerful churchmen, backed away at the belligerence in her voice. ‘We have been working hard this morning, and we need our sustenance. We will attend you as soon as we have eaten.’
Unwilling to waste time, Langelee led the way to the hall, where he and the students set out the tables and benches themselves.
‘If any one of you drops so much as a crumb on the floor this morning, he will answer to me,’ he growled. ‘And wipe the tables with your sleeves when you have finished, because we cannot have greasy fingermarks all over them. Wauter? Go and fetch your Martilogium. Deynman tells me that you still have not brought it to the library.’
‘I have explained why, Master: it is incomplete,’ replied Wauter shortly. ‘We do not want people thinking that we foist unfinished manuscripts on our students.’
‘And I have told you that no one will read it,’ argued Lange
lee. ‘My own contribution is next year’s camp-ball fixtures, which I would never risk being looked at, because they are confidential. But they add to the bulk, and it is the impression that is important here.’
‘I will make sure no one touches anything,’ promised Deynman. ‘Books are far too valuable to be pawed by laymen anyway, no matter how much money they want to give us. Your list of martyrs will be safe with me.’
The hall smelled strongly of polish and the caustic substances that had been used to scour stains from the floor, so Bartholomew opened the shutters to let in some fresh air. It was a pretty morning, with the sun burning away the fog that had dampened the streets earlier. A blackbird sang in the orchard and hens clucked in the yard below. Then the porter’s peacock issued a shrill scream.
‘I want that thing gagged,’ said Langelee. ‘Who will tell Walter?’
As the porter was fond of his pet, and was inclined to be vindictive to anyone who took against it, there were no volunteers.
‘Actually, Master,’ said Wauter, ‘the creature may serve to our advantage. Peacocks are expensive, and there are not many Colleges that can afford to give one to a servant.’
‘Go and inform Walter that his bird is to have its tail on display when our guests arrive,’ instructed Langelee, capitulating abruptly. ‘And it is to screech and attract the attention of anyone who does not notice it.’ He turned to Clippesby. ‘You will repeat my orders to the peacock.’
The two Fellows nodded acquiescence and sped away. There was no more to be done until breakfast arrived, so Bartholomew leaned on the windowsill and gazed absently across the yard. He was not alone with his thoughts for long: his students came to give a report on the mock disputation with Rougham and Nigellus the previous day.
‘It was great fun,’ enthused young Bell. ‘Father William threw open the floor for questions after you left, and I have not laughed so much in all my life.’
‘It was not meant to be amusing,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether he had been wise to disappear. ‘It was supposed to be an exercise in logical analysis and contradiction.’
‘Oh, it was,’ said Melton, the eldest, with a wicked grin. ‘Rougham and Nigellus were excellent examples of how not to argue a case. Even Bell won points, and he has never taken part in a disputation before. You would have been proud of him, sir.’
Bartholomew groaned, not liking to imagine the intellectual carnage that had taken place. ‘You did not offend them?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Not deliberately,’ hedged Melton.
Bartholomew supposed he would have to apologise on their behalf. Rougham and Nigellus were colleagues, after all, and he did not want to be ostracised by men he might need in the future. He turned when Agatha announced that breakfast was ready, and there was the usual scramble as everyone dashed for their places. As it was a special day, Langelee was obliged to read a set grace from a book, which started well, but took a downward plunge when he turned the page and saw how much more was still to come.
‘… pacem et concordiam … burble, burble,’ he intoned, rifling through to hunt for the end, ‘defunctis requiem … more burble, et nobis peccatoribus vitam aeternam. Amen. Oh, and we had better observe the rule of silence today, given that chatting might bring us bad luck.’
He sat, took his knife in one hand and his spoon in the other, and raised his eyebrows at the waiting servants. They hurried forward with their cauldrons, while the startled Bible Scholar, who had not anticipated that he would be needed quite so quickly, scrambled to take his place at the lectern. For several moments, all that could be heard was muted cursing and the agitated rustle of pages as he endeavoured to find the right reading for the day. He managed eventually, and soon the hall was filled with a monotonous drone that encouraged no one to listen.
‘Just a moment,’ cried Michael, his voice shockingly loud. ‘This is pottage! Where is all the lovely food left over from the feast? It is not good enough to serve to our guests this afternoon, obviously, but it will certainly suffice for us now.’
‘Gone,’ replied Agatha shortly. ‘Eaten.’
‘By her and the servants,’ muttered William, although not loud enough for Agatha to hear.
‘I was looking forward to a decent breakfast after all my labours in the church,’ whined Michael. ‘And pottage is hardly the thing.’
‘Well, I am sorry,’ said Agatha, although she did not sound it. ‘But Doctor Bartholomew says it is dangerous to keep leftover food too long, so we took it upon ourselves to dispose of it.’
All eyes turned accusingly on the physician, who marvelled that she had contrived to put the blame on him so adroitly. He started to explain that some foods were more susceptible to decay than others, but no one except his students were interested, and he did not try long to exonerate himself – and he was not so rash as to claim that Agatha had quoted him out of context.
‘What is happening with King’s Hall?’ asked Langelee, blithely forgetting his injunction against chatter that morning. Or perhaps he had simply decided that half a meal taken in silence was enough. ‘I hear they plan to sue the brewery now that Frenge is unavailable. Is it true?’
‘Shirwynk will not like that,’ averred Wauter. ‘He hates the University with a passion.’
‘But it is Shirwynk’s fault that Frenge invaded King’s Hall in the first place,’ said Clippesby, who sat with a hedgehog in his lap. ‘Him and his son Peyn. The water voles heard them egging Frenge on, even though Frenge thought it was a bad idea.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Michael keenly. He had learned that although Clippesby had peculiar ways of dispensing information, his habit of sitting still and unnoticed for hours at a time meant he often witnessed incidents that were relevant to the Senior Proctor’s enquiries. Moreover, Hakeney had also claimed that Frenge had been encouraged to invade King’s Hall by ‘false friends’, although he had not named the culprits.
The Dominican nodded. ‘As Wauter says, Shirwynk hates our studium generale, and the raid was his way of striking a blow with no risk to himself.’
‘But it saw his business partner dead,’ William pointed out. ‘So there was a risk, and it has left him running the brewery alone.’
‘Quite,’ said Clippesby. ‘He is now sole owner of a very lucrative concern, and he will be able to hire someone to do Frenge’s work at a fraction of the cost. At least, that is what this hedgehog told me. He lives in Stephen’s garden, you see, and Shirwynk went to consult him. To consult Stephen the lawyer, I mean, not the hedgehog.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘When did the hedgehog hear this? Before or after Frenge died?’
Clippesby bent towards the animal, as if soliciting its opinion, and Bartholomew saw Wauter look away uncomfortably, embarrassed by the Dominican’s eccentricity.
‘After,’ Clippesby replied. ‘While you were at the Austin Friary examining the body. However, he also says that the news of Frenge’s demise was out by that time, so it is not necessarily suspicious.’
‘I shall make up my own mind about that, thank you,’ said Michael, giving the animal a superior glance.
‘Be careful if you plan to challenge Shirwynk, Brother,’ advised Wauter. ‘He is not a nice man, and I should not like to accuse him of murder. Stephen is not very pleasant either. I saw him emerging from Anne de Rumburgh’s house very early one morning, when her husband was away.’
‘Well, well,’ murmured Michael. ‘Perhaps Stephen did not like the competition, so dispatched Frenge to rid himself of a rival. Our list of suspects is growing longer, Matt.’
Once breakfast was over, Bartholomew went to visit patients, leaving his colleagues to finish beautifying the hall. When he returned – sombre, because a burgess he had been treating for lung-rot had died in his arms – the students were standing in neat rows, clad in their best clothes, while Langelee inspected them. Several were ordered to shave again, while others were rebuked for dirty fingernails or muddy shoes. Suttone prowled with a pair o
f scissors, and anyone with overly long hair could expect an instant and not very expert trim.
‘I shall be glad when it is all over,’ said William, who wore a habit that, while not smart, at least did not look as though it could walk around the town on its own.
‘So will I,’ sighed Michael, watching Bartholomew emerge from his room in new ceremonial robes, a recent gift from his sister. They were in Michaelhouse’s livery of black, but with the red trim that denoted a doctor of the University, and his boots shone with the dull gleam of expensive leather. He had managed a closer shave than most, being in possession of sharp surgical knives, and one of his customers had offered to cut his hair in lieu of a fee. In short, he looked uncharacteristically elegant and a credit to his College.
‘Edith will have to buy you some more finery soon,’ said William, looking him up and down approvingly. ‘Langelee plans to change our uniform from black to green.’
‘Does he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’
‘Because Edith told him it would make us stand out from the rabble,’ explained Wauter. ‘And because it will look as though we have money for such vanities.’
‘Regardless, I hope we win this disceptatio,’ said William worriedly, then glared at Bartholomew and Wauter. ‘But if we lose, it will be because you refused to tell our students what the topic will be.’
‘We refused because we have been sworn to secrecy,’ objected Wauter. ‘Or would you have Michaelhouse adopt a less than honourable approach?’
‘Of course, if it means us winning,’ retorted William. ‘But will you tell them now? Then at least they will be able to glance through the necessary books during Chancellor Tynkell’s introductory speech. It is not much of an advantage, but it is better than nothing.’
‘The committee has yet to make its decision,’ said Wauter coolly. ‘However, Principal Irby will not be joining us today, because he is ill. Nigellus told me earlier.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if the Zachary Principal was one of Nigellus’s patients – and if so, whether he was in any danger.
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 12