A Poisonous Plot

‘I still do not understand,’ snapped Michael. ‘Explain.’

‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘When I am sure myself.’

A servant conducted them to the pleasant room at the back of the house, where the lawyer was lying full length on a cushioned bench. The number of pots and packets on the table besides him suggested that he had been frantically dosing himself with all manner of medicines from the apothecary. He was pale, frightened, and the room had the unmistakeable odour of sickness.

‘You came fast, Bartholomew,’ he whispered with pathetic gratitude. ‘I thought you might refuse, given that I have aggravated the situation between town and University with my lawsuits, and our last meeting was less than amiable …’

‘Scholars are not vindictive men,’ averred Michael, before Bartholomew could remark that he had not received a summons. ‘But before Matt helps you, tell me whether you advised Shirwynk to sue Morys for trespass.’

Stephen paled even further. ‘Yes, but it is not for me to judge the ethics or wisdom of such cases, Brother. All I do is apply the law.’

‘Speaking of asinine counsel, did you urge the drunken Hakeney to steal Robert’s cross?’ asked Michael. ‘An honest answer, please, or you will get no cure from Matt.’

Stephen licked dry lips. ‘We have been through this, Brother — I had a letter from a well-wisher, saying that if Hakeney stole the almoner’s crucifix, I might win myself another client …’

‘That is not what I asked,’ said Michael sharply. ‘I want to know if you sneaked into a tavern wearing a disguise and incited Hakeney to commit a crime.’

‘You would have worn a disguise, too, if you had been obliged to enter that particular inn,’ retorted the lawyer, which Michael supposed was as close to an admission of guilt that they were likely to get. ‘And then I offered the Austins my legal services, as I told you yesterday.’

‘Who sent you this letter?’

‘I do not know, but it was good advice, because I did win myself another client.’ Stephen turned terrified eyes to Bartholomew. ‘I have answered your friend’s questions, so now you must help me. I have no strength in my wrists, and I feel dreadful. I hear you have cured several King’s Hall men, so do the same for me.’

‘How much sucura have you had recently?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Sucura? Me? Do I look like the kind of man to buy illegal substances?’

Bartholomew eyed him in distaste. ‘I cannot make an accurate diagnosis if you lie to me.’

Stephen gulped. ‘Well, then, perhaps a few grains do slip into the pastries I enjoy before I go to bed at night. They taste so much better than when made with honey, and it is difficult to deny oneself when the stuff is so freely available. If the Sheriff does not want us to have it, then he should restrict its import.’

‘He tries,’ said Michael. ‘But he is hampered by the fact that arrogant folk with money undermine his efforts to stamp the business out.’

While the monk went to fetch some Royal Broth from Agatha — although not before he had extracted a substantial fee to cover the cost of the ‘expensive ingredients’ — Bartholomew examined Stephen. It did not take him long to ascertain that the lawyer was suffering from all the same symptoms as Thelnetham, although he was most concerned about the weakness in his wrists.

‘May I consult your books while we wait for Michael to return?’ Bartholomew asked.

Stephen winced at what he mistakenly thought was a bald reminder of past shabby dealings. ‘Cure me, and I will willingly donate them to Michaelhouse. But you cannot blame me for withdrawing the original offer.’

Bartholomew went to the shelves and ran his finger along the displayed spines. The problem was that De architectura comprised ten volumes, and he could not recall in which one he had seen the section he wanted to check. While he began to look, Stephen continued to talk.

‘Blame the letters I was sent, warning me that Michaelhouse aims to move to the Fens. I asked Rougham about it, and he said the tale was true, but that Gonville would never leave, so I decided to favour them instead — until I had a message saying that they were going, too.’

‘The sender was lying — neither foundation has any intention of uprooting.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Did you tell anyone else that our Colleges might be relocating?’

‘I might have mentioned it to one or two people.’ The lawyer’s cagey response told Bartholomew that he had probably gossiped to anyone who would listen. ‘However, the story is true, because some scholars have already left. Not from Michaelhouse or Gonville, perhaps, but from other foundations. And more are set to follow.’

‘Your rumour-mongering is probably responsible for that — the notion that two powerful Colleges might be on the verge of departure is rather different than the defection of a handful of malcontents from the hostels. Where are these messages? Do you still have them, or did you throw them away?’ Like the priors had done, Bartholomew thought.