A Poisonous Plot

Morys pulled a face. ‘Ah, yes, the apple wine he loved so much. Personally, I would never touch anything made by Shirwynk. His hatred of our University is unnatural, and he cannot be trusted not to piss in it — or worse.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully: did the remark arise from the perfectly understandable caution of a man who hated scholars? Or was he trying to shift the blame for Irby’s death on to an innocent party?

‘You assumed the mantle of responsibility very quickly, Morys,’ remarked Michael. ‘Was Irby even cold before you took possession of his room?’

‘Nigellus said Irby’s soul had left his body, so where lay the harm?’ shrugged Morys. ‘However, I can see what you are thinking, and you are wrong. No one at Zachary would have harmed Irby. He was weak, but we liked him, and we are sorry he has gone.’

‘Where are his belongings?’ asked Michael, his cool expression suggesting that he did not believe a word of it. ‘We need to examine those as well.’

‘Why?’ asked Morys suspiciously, then shrugged again when the monk’s eyebrows drew down in an irritable frown. ‘They are in the shed, ready to be sent to his kin.’

A student conducted them there, but although Michael and Bartholomew went through Irby’s things with the utmost care, they found nothing to help their investigation. Bartholomew paid special attention to the wineskin, but it was empty, and if it had contained something to hasten its owner’s end, there was no sign of it now.

They returned to Zachary’s hall, where Michael once again made himself comfortable, and Bartholomew stood behind him, tense and alert for trouble.

‘What happened last night?’ the monk asked. ‘We know Irby tried to summon Matt.’

Morys rolled his eyes to indicate his irritation at being questioned again, but answered anyway. ‘He had been unwell for two weeks or more, but woke feeling worse yesterday. Nigellus recommended that he stay in bed and told me to take his place on the consilium. A little later, the rest of the hostel joined us at the disceptatio.’

‘You left a sick man alone?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed.

‘No — Stephen the lawyer offered to sit with him. When we came home, Irby was fading fast. He asked for you, but then Nigellus arrived back, so you were not needed. Irby died shortly after. Of loss of appetite, as I am sure you discovered. Now is there anything else? I have work to do.’

Michael smiled enigmatically. ‘Then do it. Matt and I will not disturb you.’

Bristling with indignation, Morys busied himself with pens and parchment, but the presence of the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner was a distraction, and although he made a good show of being inundated with important business, he did little more than shuffle documents into random piles.

Eventually, the door opened and Nigellus stalked in. The student had evidently decided that reinforcements were needed, because he had brought Kellawe and Segeforde as well, a sight that lit Morys’s waspish face with relief. The Franciscan muttered something in his thick northern accent that might have been a greeting, but that might equally well have been an insult. His voice was hoarse, indicating that he had been ranting, almost certainly at the dyeworks. But it was Segeforde who caught Bartholomew’s attention: the man’s thick purple lips were stark against an unnaturally white face, which shone with sweat.

‘Go to see if Yerland is better, Segeforde,’ instructed Morys. ‘Then lie down yourself. You are exhausted after the effort of preparing … our students for yesterday’s debate … drilling them in the art of disputation, I mean. Not making them learn chunks of legal tract verbatim.’

‘We lost because Michaelhouse cheated,’ snarled Kellawe, and out went his pugnacious jaw, all bristling antagonism.

‘What is wrong with Yerland?’ asked Bartholomew, treating the ridiculous claim with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it.

‘A headache,’ replied Nigellus. ‘I told him he would feel better if he recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards, but he refuses to do it on the grounds that he cannot concentrate. Fool!’

‘Perhaps Bartholomew has a remedy,’ said Segeforde, the hope in his voice suggesting that if so, he would have a dose of it himself.

Bartholomew made for the door. ‘Where is Yerland? Upstairs?’

‘Yes, but there is no need for you to see him,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘Just give me what you usually prescribe for severe pains in the head, and I will make sure he swallows it.’

‘I cannot prescribe anything without examining him first,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Nigellus should think he might. ‘Headaches are symptomatic of all manner of conditions, and it would be reckless to dispense medicine without making a proper diagnosis first.’

Nigellus scowled. ‘Very well, if you must, although you are wasting your time. Segeforde will take you to him, while I stay here with Morys and Kellawe. They can help me answer the Senior Proctor’s questions, which I imagine will be deeply stupid.’