A Poisonous Plot

‘Not a fiction, but a grand term for a whole host of ailments, designed to make the wealthy think they have something more distinguished than stomach cramps, headaches, muscle weakness, constipation and so forth.’ Bartholomew’s expression was wry. ‘I imagine anyone with two pennies to rub together will be claiming to have it soon. It is fast becoming a status symbol.’

‘Then do not tell Langelee, or he will order everyone in Michaelhouse to acquire one.’

They walked to Water Lane, where Zachary’s door was answered by Morys, who was so angry that he seemed to have swollen in size — more hornet than wasp. Meanwhile, Kellawe had slunk home to change his shoes and glared challengingly as the visitors were shown into the hall. The students came to their feet as one, hands resting on the daggers they carried in their belts.

‘There is a statute forbidding the toting of arms,’ said Michael sharply.

‘It is no longer safe to be without them,’ retorted Kellawe. ‘And I have a licence to absolve scholars from violent acts, so protecting ourselves is not a problem.’

‘Your licence might save you time in Purgatory, but it will not protect you from a fine,’ said Michael. ‘And your warlike attitude has just won you one, as has your invasion of the dyeworks.’

‘I never-’ began Kellawe furiously.

‘The drips on your spoiled boots do not match the colours of the murals here,’ snapped Michael. ‘Do not take me for a fool.’

‘I did it for everyone,’ snarled Kellawe, not bothering to deny it further. ‘University and town. The dyeworks are a filthy abomination, and if you will not take steps to close them down, what choice do I have other than to take matters into my own hands?’

‘Five shillings,’ said Michael. ‘That is the fine for burglary. And three more for bearing arms. You will pay by the end of today or you can all enjoy a spell in the proctors’ cells.’

‘Is that why you came, Brother?’ asked Morys icily. ‘To demand yet more money and issue threats? Was not arresting Nigellus enough?’

‘It is an outrage,’ put in Kellawe hotly. ‘You had no right to-’

‘I have every right,’ snarled Michael. ‘His patients are dying like flies, and I would be remiss to ignore it. Yerland, Segeforde and Irby-’

‘Nigellus did not harm them.’ Kellawe was almost screaming. ‘You are a fool to suggest it. And why have you sealed them in their coffins? When I went to pay my last respects, one of your beadles refused to remove the lids.’

‘Because they are expelling poisonous miasmas,’ snapped Michael, although Bartholomew hoped he would not be asked to elaborate, given that he was not very good at telling convincing lies. ‘It happens on occasion, when a person has been fed toxic substances shortly before death. Lenne is similarly affected — another of Nigellus’s clients.’

‘What toxic substances?’ asked Kellawe, his voice dripping disbelief.

‘Ones that are sold to physicians and no one else,’ lied Michael, watching intently for a reaction. The only one he saw was an abrupt shying away from Bartholomew. ‘No, not him! He no longer uses them, on account of them being so dangerous.’

‘Then search Nigellus’s room,’ sneered Kellawe. ‘You will find nothing untoward there.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, although Morys shot the Franciscan an irritable scowl. ‘I will.’

Nigellus’s chamber was luxurious, and every piece of furniture was of the very highest quality. It did not, however, contain much in the way of medical paraphernalia, other than a urine flask that was dusty with disuse, a pile of astrological tables and a jar of liquorice root. If Nigellus had been dosing his customers with something deadly, he did not keep it at Zachary.

‘Or his colleagues have been here before us,’ muttered Michael, finally conceding defeat. ‘They would certainly conceal evidence of a crime to protect their hostel’s reputation.’

‘Would they?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If Nigellus has killed three of their colleagues, they might be wondering who will be next.’

They returned to the hall, where Michael began to put questions to the entire hostel. The atmosphere was glacial — Kellawe had been preaching insurrection while Bartholomew and Michael had been upstairs.

‘Tell us what happened yesterday,’ ordered the monk. ‘Start with Yerland.’

There was a moment when it seemed they would refuse to cooperate, but then Morys spoke.

‘He slept peacefully after Bartholomew gave him that draught. A few hours later, he woke and asked for more. Nigellus thought it too soon and told him to wait. Segeforde reported that Yerland slipped into an uneasy sort of doze thereafter, and died without uttering another word.’

‘So obviously, it was your medicine that sent him to his grave,’ hissed Kellawe. ‘Not Nigellus, who gave him nothing.’

‘How do you know Nigellus gave him nothing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did someone stay with Yerland the whole time, and so can swear to it?’

‘Yes,’ said the Franciscan coldly. ‘Segeforde did.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘So tell us what happened to him.’