A Poisonous Plot

‘It will not be in here. If Irby has been murdered, the culprit will have taken any toxins away, to ensure that no one ever knows how his victim really died.’

‘We shall see.’

They were silent as they worked, Michael opening cupboards and peering under the bed, and Bartholomew intent on his examination. Unfortunately, it told him nothing. There were no marks of violence, no suggestion of illness — sudden or otherwise — and no indication that Irby had been forced to swallow poison.

‘So what did kill him then?’ asked Michael, exasperated. ‘Not “loss of appetite” surely?’

‘I do not know, Brother. However, Nigellus does not distinguish between symptoms and diseases, so it is possible that Irby complained about not being hungry — a remark that Nigellus then took to be an ailment in itself.’

‘You are too generous. Irby’s lack of hunger was probably caused by some insidious poison. Do you know of any that might have such a terrible effect?’

‘Plenty, although there is no way to tell whether they were fed to Irby — and dissection will not give us an answer, before you suggest it. In short, I cannot tell you why he died, and my official verdict will have to be “cause unknown”.’

‘Damn! Because something untoward is definitely afoot here. For a start, everything in this room belongs to Morys, and there is no sign of that grey and cream cloak Irby always wore. Morys could not even wait for Irby’s corpse to be moved before claiming these quarters as his own!’

‘Does that mean he is the killer, not Nigellus?’

‘Not necessarily — perhaps they did it together. After all, there does seem to be a consensus in Zachary that Irby was too placid.’

‘But we have no evidence. You found no sign that a toxin was used, and neither did I.’

Michael pointed to a jug on the table. ‘The obvious place for it is there — it contains Shirwynk’s apple wine, which we know Irby liked, because he always had a flask of it to hand. But I drank from it just now, and I am still here, so it must be innocent.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You sampled wine in a room where you suspect a man was poisoned? What were you thinking?’

‘That we needed answers,’ replied Michael shortly. Then he looked sheepish. ‘To be frank, I was thirsty, and it did not occur to me that it might be dangerous until I had taken a substantial swallow. But we are wasting our time here, Matt. If Irby was murdered, his killers have covered their tracks too well. We shall have to find another way to catch them.’

Bartholomew was about to open the door when he noticed a piece of parchment adhering to the bottom of the jug — one that might have remained hidden if Michael had not indulged his greedy instincts. It was folded in half, and he was surprised to see his own name written on one side. He opened it, aware of the thudding of his heart. Was it going to be an outpouring of Irby’s fears, naming Nigellus or Morys as the villain and berating Bartholomew for not coming to his aid? But there were only three words, and they made no sense whatsoever.

‘Similia similibus curantur,’ he read aloud. He looked at Michael in puzzlement as he translated. ‘“Like things are cured by like things”. What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that it is time we asked Nigellus a few probing questions,’ said Michael with quiet determination.

‘Why him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And not Morys?’

‘Because of the word cured, which is what physicians do. Or do not do. I imagine Irby left this clue when you failed to answer his plea for help. He would have known that the Corpse Examiner would come, and it is his way of identifying his killer.’

‘You are reading far too much into it, Brother! It might just be the nonsensical ramblings of a dying man.’

‘Perhaps. But let us see what Nigellus has to say for himself.’

They descended the stairs to discover that Nigellus had gone to Trinity Hall, to tend those patients who had not benefited from standing under the full moon in clean underwear. Michael shot Bartholomew a look that revealed exactly what he was thinking: that Nigellus had fled to avoid being asked any awkward questions.

‘I am sure he will not be long,’ the monk said, sitting on a bench and making himself comfortable. The Zachary men exchanged glances of consternation: they had expected him to leave once the Corpse Examiner had finished with Irby. ‘Meanwhile, perhaps you will talk to us.’

Alarm flashed in Morys’s eyes, and he ordered a student to fetch Nigellus back as quickly as possible, which had Michael flinging Bartholomew another meaningful glance, this one asking why the new Principal was unwilling to suffer an interrogation on his colleague’s behalf.

‘We found this.’ Michael handed over the scrap of parchment. ‘Is it Irby’s writing?’

Morys nodded. ‘He must have penned it in his delirium — a nonsense, as I am sure you can tell. Where was it?’

‘Under the wine jug.’