A Poisonous Plot

Edith confirmed Rumburgh’s tale, which meant that he — and Anne — had alibis for Frenge’s murder. Bartholomew was thoughtful. Had the burgess witnessed the quarrel that had led one man to poison another, and he and Michael need look no further than the Acting Warden of King’s Hall for their culprit?

A little later, Bartholomew saw Rougham, and supposed he had better apologise for what had happened the previous day. He was surprised to see him talking to Nigellus, though, because no one else from Zachary had accepted Langelee’s invitation. As Bartholomew seriously doubted that Nigellus was a more gracious loser than the rest of his colleagues, he was instantly suspicious.

‘I hope your lads learned something useful yesterday, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham pleasantly. ‘Nigellus and I certainly put them through their paces. Indeed, there were several instances when they were stunned into silence by the beauty of our logic.’

Bartholomew breathed a silent prayer of relief that Rougham was so full of hubris that he had failed to realise what was really happening. ‘They told me they had enjoyed themselves,’ he replied ambiguously.

‘You can thank me by explaining why Stephen has withdrawn his offer to give Gonville his books,’ said Rougham. ‘I saw you talking to him earlier. Did he mention it?’

‘I know why.’ Nigellus spoke before Bartholomew could answer. ‘Because Michaelhouse made such a fuss about you having them that Stephen decided to disinherit both Colleges.’

Rougham eyed him coldly. ‘Do not try to stir up hostility between Bartholomew and me, Nigellus. It is unbecoming. And speaking of unsavoury antics, I am unimpressed with Zachary’s fervour for decanting to the Fens as well. It is a stupid notion, and you would be wise to drop it.’

‘On the contrary,’ growled Nigellus, ‘it is the most sensible idea I have heard since I enrolled in the University. But do your objections mean you will not be coming with us?’

‘They do,’ averred Rougham. ‘I am not going anywhere, and neither will Michaelhouse, King’s Hall, Bene’t College or any other quality establishment. Your new studium generale will comprise nothing but a lot of ruffians from the lowest kind of hostel.’

‘Is that so?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Well, we shall see. However, I am delighted to learn that we shall soon part company permanently. To be frank, I do not respect either of you as medici.’

‘There speaks the Junior Physician,’ scoffed Rougham. ‘However, it is not we who have lost so many patients of late — Letia, Arnold, Lenne, six clients from Barnwell …’

‘None of them would have died if they had followed my advice,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘I calculated their horoscopes with great precision, and outlined exactly what they needed to do to save their lives. Is it my fault that they elected to ignore me?’

‘You mean they declined to take the medicines you prescribed?’ probed Bartholomew, thinking of the arsenal of potentially toxic ingredients that was available to physicians, many of which would not be detectable even if the victim was dissected.

‘I do not prescribe medicine,’ replied Nigellus haughtily. ‘If a patient needs some, then he is past saving and it would be a waste of his money.’

‘Lies!’ cried Rougham, while Bartholomew regarded the Zachary man askance. ‘You do dispense cures, because I saw you at the apothecary’s shop only today.’

‘Yes — buying liquorice root for sweetmeats,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘Not that it is any of your concern. Irby has a fondness for them, and I thought they might cheer him up. He is a colleague, you see, so I am prepared to go the extra mile for him.’

‘How is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing some of Nigellus’s clients were listening, as he was sure they would defect to another practitioner if they knew their current one did not consider them worthy of his best efforts.

‘Ill,’ replied Nigellus shortly. ‘He has lost his appetite.’

Bartholomew waited for a fuller report, and when none came said, ‘What ails him exactly?’

Nigellus regarded him askance. ‘I have just told you: loss of appetite. It is a nasty disease.’

‘It is not a disease,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘It is a symptom.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Nigellus. ‘But I expect him to die of his malady, and then we shall have Morys as Principal. I cannot say I am sorry. Zachary needs a strong man at the helm, and while Irby is a kindly soul, he is hardly what you would call an inspiring leader.’

‘Would you like Rougham or me to visit him?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. Irby had not been in good health when they had last met, but he had certainly not been dying. Did it mean that Nigellus was the killer, and was in the process of claiming yet another victim — one whose death he had just said would suit him very well?

‘I do not. He is my patient, and I shall thank you not to meddle.’

Bartholomew went on the offensive. ‘You claimed that Letia died of dizziness, but-’

‘Dizziness?’ blurted Rougham. ‘I have never heard that ever given as a cause of death.’