A Poisonous Plot

‘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 where 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?’