A Poisonous Plot

Michael shoved Bartholomew aside and went to do as he was told. ‘You have won the confrontation,’ he said to Wayt, speaking softly so that no one from the hostels would hear and beg to differ. ‘Now go home before any of your lads are hurt. It is getting late anyway. You must be tired.’

‘Not at all,’ declared Wayt, although Dodenho began chivvying their students away. Few went willingly. Meanwhile, Peterhouse, Bene’t and the Hall of Valence Marie — the Colleges with buildings closest to the Trumpington Gate — offered hospitality to their supporters, which meant that most were not going very far at all.

‘Listen to me, Brother,’ Bartholomew said urgently, pulling the monk away from his duties a second time. ‘Hamo did tell us his killer’s identity. Or rather, he told us where he had left something that will give us the answer.’

Michael shook his head in incomprehension. ‘He said “all”. How can that-’

‘I think I only heard part of the word he was trying to say. He was preparing the chapel for vespers when he was attacked — his killer chose a time and a place when he knew his victim would be alone. Hamo was stabbed in the chancel — we know that because of the blood that spilled there. I think he was trying to say “altar”.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that he left something on or near the altar and he expected us to find it. He believed he had communicated something important with his dying breath, because I saw satisfaction and relief in his face.’

‘What manner of something?’ demanded Michael.

‘We must go to the Austins’ chapel and look. And hope that the strategist has not guessed what Hamo tried to do and has been there before us.’

Tulyet was irked when Michael told him that he was going the Austin Priory, feeling he was being left to handle a potentially explosive situation on his own. The monk promised to return as soon as possible, and left Meadowman in charge in his stead.

‘Then do not be long,’ ordered Tulyet curtly. ‘It will be dark soon, at which point the hostel men will try to slip away under cover of night — and the Colleges will be waiting.’

‘Hopefully, we will return with the news that the strategist is arrested,’ said Michael. ‘That might calm troubled waters.’

‘It is far too late for that,’ said Tulyet bleakly. ‘And while Meadowman is an admirable fellow, he is not the Senior Proctor. Come back as soon as you can.’

Michael and Bartholomew hurried to the convent. At a glance, the streets appeared to be deserted, folk obediently obeying the curfew that had been imposed by Senior Proctor and Sheriff, but there were flickers of movement in the smaller alleys, and doors were ajar in every house as people peered out. Bene’t College’s gates were closed, but a rumble of feisty voices from within indicated that its residents were busily inciting each other to mischief.

‘There is no point speaking to them,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Michael falter, torn between exploring the Austins’ chapel and issuing a warning to a College known for its fondness for brawls. ‘They will not listen, and you will have wasted valuable time.’

The monk knew he was right, and they resumed their journey without a word. It was not long before they arrived. The front gate was locked, and the Austins were evidently not expecting visitors, because no one was on duty to answer their knocks. Fraught with frustration, Bartholomew gave it a heavy thump with his shoulder, and was disconcerted to discover it so rotten that it almost gave way.

‘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!’