A Poisonous Plot

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.’