A Poisonous Plot

‘And we shall be needing it soon,’ added Kellawe, eyes gleaming. ‘Scholars will not stand mute for much longer while the town abuses us. And the biggest insults of all are the dyeworks and their scheming whores.’

Bartholomew did not often feel like punching anyone, but he experienced a very strong desire to clout the Franciscan. Michael pushed him towards the door before he could do it, informing the Zachary men curtly that he would be back with more questions another time.

‘Damn Tynkell!’ Michael hissed, once they were outside. ‘And damn Morys, too! The town will see Kellawe’s licence as a deliberate move against them. It was a stupid, wicked thing to have done when we are on the brink of serious trouble.’

‘If Kellawe insults my sister again, he will be absolving me from an act of violence,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘But what are we going to do about Irby? Just because we found no evidence against his colleagues does not mean they are innocent of harming him.’

Michael nodded. ‘So we shall ask Stephen if Irby said anything significant as he lay dying.’

The lawyer lived on the High Street in one of the best houses in the town. A maid led Bartholomew and Michael to an elegant room filled with sunlight, where her master was reading. Books stood in regimented rows on shelves that lined one complete wall, so numerous that Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping — books were expensive, given that each had to be handwritten, a task that might take a scribe several years.

‘My library,’ explained Stephen proudly. ‘Mostly tomes on architecture.’

‘You promised them to Michaelhouse,’ recalled Michael. ‘Then to Gonville Hall.’

‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘But I have decided to keep them for myself. They mean a great deal to me, and I do not want them to go to a place that is on the brink of collapse.’

‘Michaelhouse is a very stable foundation,’ lied Michael, then added spitefully, ‘although I cannot say the same about Gonville. Its Master has been in Avignon for years, and shows no sign of returning.’

‘Actually, I was referring to the University as a whole,’ said Stephen, ‘which is about to decant to the Fens, where it will not survive. Of course, I shall not mind seeing its lawyers go — it will mean more work for me.’

‘There is no truth in that silly rumour,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why would we abandon Cambridge when we have everything we need here?’

‘Because many of your scholars are weary of the discord between them and the town, and are delighted by the notion of a fresh start.’

‘Well, we are not going anywhere,’ averred Michael between gritted teeth. ‘How many more times must I say it?’

‘The town will be disappointed. It is looking forward to being shot of you.’

Michael scowled at him. ‘Relations might be easier if you did not dispense inflammatory advice — such as urging King’s Hall to sue Frenge, and encouraging Edith to open a dyeworks. Both have set town and University at each other’s throats.’

‘I suppose they have,’ acknowledged Stephen carelessly. ‘But it could not be helped.’

‘I understand you were with Irby yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly before his dislike of the man could start to show. ‘When he was ill.’

‘Yes, I sat with him for two or three hours. He was a good man and will be missed.’

‘Did he say anything at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or write messages to anyone?’

‘He was asleep most of the time. I stayed until his colleagues returned from the disceptatio, then came home. He thanked me when I went, but those were the only words he spoke. And he certainly did not pick up a pen.’

‘Why did Zachary ask you to do the honours?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Or do you have secret nursing skills?’

‘There is little nursing required for a man in slumber, as your pet physician will confirm. However, I volunteered to help because Irby was a friend, and I did not want him to be left alone while the others went out.’

‘Did you know he was dying?’ asked Bartholomew, manfully resisting the urge to insult Stephen back.

‘No — Nigellus told me that Irby was suffering from loss of appetite, which did not sound very serious, so I was stunned when I later heard that he was dead. Unfortunately, I think I caught something from him, because I do not feel well today. Nigellus says I have the debilitas.’

‘The what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘The deb-il-i-tas,’ repeated Stephen, enunciating pedantically. ‘The poor have flux, fleas and boils, but the rich have the debilitas. Nigellus says he would not sully his hands with common sicknesses, but the debilitas is another matter.’

‘Would you like me to examine you?’ offered Bartholomew, to avoid giving an opinion on such an outlandish claim.

‘No, thank you.’ The lawyer eyed the physician’s shabby clothes with open disdain. ‘I bought a horoscope from Nigellus, and he assures me that if I avoid onions and cats, I shall feel well again in no time at all.’