A Poisonous Plot

Bartholomew felt like wiping his feet when he emerged from Hakeney’s lair, and he certainly wanted to wash his hands. He did so in a horse trough, then went with Michael to search Frenge’s house, a pleasant cottage near St Botolph’s Church. Apart from a dress with a low-cut front that clearly belonged to Anne, they discovered nothing of interest, and there was certainly nothing to suggest that he had poisoned himself, either by accident or design.

When they emerged, it was nearing noon, the time when they had been invited to visit the Austin Priory and examine in daylight the place where Frenge had died.

‘We cannot stay there long,’ warned Michael as he and Bartholomew hurried up the High Street. ‘No matter how fine a repast they provide. Impressing patrons at the disceptatio tomorrow is Michaelhouse’s only hope for the future, so we must be back to help with the preparations.’

Wryly, Bartholomew thought it would not be he who would linger to gorge at the Austins’ table.

They arrived to find Robert waiting for them at the gate. As the almoner waved them inside, Michael pointed to his pectoral cross.

‘Hakeney says you stole that from him.’

Robert winced. ‘I know, but I bought this in London years ago, and I have the bill of sale to prove it. Moreover, the priest who sold it to me wrote a letter confirming my claim.’

Bartholomew reached out to take the crucifix in his hand. ‘Is it valuable?’

‘It is to me. It is crafted from Holy Land cedar and was blessed by the Pope himself.’

‘But it is just plain wood,’ said Michael, squinting at it. ‘No jewels. It would fetch little at the market, and I do not understand why Hakeney is making such a fuss.’

‘Grief,’ sighed Robert. ‘He feels guilty for mislaying his wife’s most prized possession in that pit of disorder he calls home, and thinks that acquiring my cross will make him feel better.’

‘Did Frenge ever raise the subject with you?’ asked Michael.

Robert looked startled. ‘Frenge? Why would he … Oh, I see. He and Hakeney were friends, and they probably discussed it. But no, I never spoke to Frenge about the cross — or anything else, for that matter. Would you like to see my documents? I do not want you thinking that I am a thief.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Michael, ignoring the flash of hurt in the almoner’s eyes.

While they waited for Robert to return, Bartholomew looked around, thinking the Austins’ domain was by far the prettiest of Cambridge’s convents with its grassy yard and attractive chapel. The almoner soon came back, and thrust two pieces of parchment into Michael’s hand. The monk scanned them quickly, then passed them back, nodding to say they were in order.

‘Poor Hakeney,’ said Robert, placing them carefully in his scrip. ‘Prior Joliet thinks I should just give him the cross, given that he is so desperate to have it, but I feel such an act of sacrifice will not help. His obsession with it is a symptom of his unhappiness, not the cause.’

‘Is our food ready?’ asked Michael, cutting to the chase. ‘Or shall we inspect the scene of the crime first?’

‘It is ready, but you must wait a moment, because we are burying Father Arnold. We should have finished by now, but the ceremony had to be delayed — on account of Prior Joliet being called to sit with Will Lenne while he died.’

He led the way to the back of the church, where there was a little cemetery. All the friars had gathered there, and Joliet was intoning the final words of the burial service.

‘What was wrong with Arnold?’ whispered Bartholomew.

‘Insomnia,’ replied Robert. ‘Nigellus told us he would recover if he avoided foods that had fruited when Venus was in the ascendency, but Arnold must have laid hold of some without our knowledge, because he suddenly grew feverish and was dead within hours.’

Michael waited until Robert had gone to help shovel earth into the grave before murmuring, ‘That makes three of Nigellus’s patients to die recently: Arnold, Letia and Lenne. And there were six deaths at Barnwell …’

The same thought had occurred to Bartholomew. ‘Yet it might just be a run of unrelated misfortunes. Last winter, I lost four patients in one day …’

‘Yes, but from causes that were patently obvious even to laymen — there was none of this “dizziness” or “insomnia” nonsense. So we had better make a few discreet enquiries, if for no other reason than Nigellus is a member of the University, and we should be ready with answers if a townsman raises eyebrows at his somewhat alarming mortality rate.’