A Poisonous Plot

‘Of course, we did not part on the best of terms,’ confessed Norton sheepishly. ‘I was fond of Wrattlesworth, and was angry that Nigellus had failed to save him. I am afraid I said some rather cruel things about his competence — things of which I am now ashamed.’

‘Physicians understand grief,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘And we have learned not to take such remarks to heart. Nigellus will not have been offended.’

‘Actually, I think he was,’ said Norton ruefully. ‘Indeed, I believe he still is. I have tried to apologise several times, but he will not give me the time of day.’

The reeve arrived at that moment, a gruff, competent man in middle years with thick-fingered hands and skin that was reddened from time spent out of doors.

‘My wife died the same day as Wrattlesworth,’ he said, when he heard what Bartholomew wanted to know. ‘The day after my Uncle Egbert. Nigellus said it was my fault, because I refused to rub snail juice on Olma’s face, but she was a fastidious woman and would not have liked it. Of course, now I wish I had done as he ordered …’

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew. He did not usually gainsay his colleagues’ opinions, but he did not see why Birton should torture himself with needless guilt. ‘It might even have caused distress in her final hours. You were right to refuse.’

Birton’s eyes filled with tears, and he grasped Bartholomew’s hand gratefully before he took an abrupt leave. Norton watched him go unhappily.

‘Olma was never in good health, while Egbert, Wrattlesworth and Canterbury were elderly. However, the cook and the gardener were in their prime, and should not have been taken from us so soon. They did spend too much time in the kitchen eating — both were very fat — but they had never suffered a day’s illness in their lives until the debilitas struck them down.’

‘How do you know it was the debilitas?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because Nigellus told us,’ replied Norton. ‘Not at the time — he was always rather vague about what was wrong — but he said so a few weeks later.’

‘Did any of them drink from the river? Or eat fish caught in it?’

‘None of us would touch river water,’ said Norton with a moue of distaste. ‘We may live in the marshes, but we are not insane! However, we all eat fish, and Wrattlesworth and Canterbury liked it especially well, particularly when served with a cup of our elderflower wine.’

‘Did Olma and Egbert eat fish, too?’

‘Of course. Nigellus recommends it for anyone who is frail or elderly, because it is easy to digest. Do you think we should avoid it then? I know your sister puts unpleasant things in the Cam, but they will surely be diluted by the time it reaches us?’

‘It might be wise to avoid river-caught foods until we have identified the problem,’ replied Bartholomew, although he felt disloyal to Edith for saying so.

‘Then please do not take too long, Bartholomew. We rely on it in the winter when game is scarce. And our victuals are miserable enough as it is.’

‘Are they?’ Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, given that the priory was comfortably wealthy, and he had always been extremely well fed when he had been invited to dine there.

‘Mealtimes are no longer as enjoyable as they were,’ confided Norton with a sorrowful sigh. ‘You see, the elderflower wine we made this year was the best we have ever produced — pure nectar. You have the honour of drinking the very last cup. Is it not exquisite?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Bartholomew dutifully, although he would not have accepted a refill. Clearly, Norton’s definition of ‘exquisite’ was rather different from his own.

‘But now it is gone, and our older brews are rough by comparison. It was the sun, you see — it ripened the grapes at exactly the right time.’

There was something about the remark that made Bartholomew wonder if he was being told the whole truth, but the Prior asked him to tend two lay-brothers at that point — a sprain and a festering finger — obliging him to turn his mind to medicine. When he had finished, he walked home, thinking about what he had learned.

He had identified two common factors in the six deaths: Nigellus and fish from the river. He was inclined to dismiss the fish, because far more people would have died or become ill if those had been the culprit. Which left Nigellus.

When Bartholomew arrived home, Michael listened carefully to everything the physician had reasoned, then gave a brief account of his own discoveries.

‘Everyone who is ill or who has died of the debilitas was treated by a physician — most by Nigellus, but a few by you, Rougham and Meryfeld. Yet you say there is no such thing as the debilitas — it is a fiction invented by Nigellus.’