A Poisonous Plot

‘He shut himself in his room after Yerland breathed his last,’ replied Morys. ‘Nigellus became worried after a while, and found him dead when he went to check on his well-being.’

‘Nigellus did?’ pounced Michael. ‘Fascinating. And Segeforde sleeps alone?’

‘Yes.’ Morys glared at him. ‘But that does not mean Nigellus sneaked in and killed him.’

No,’ conceded Michael. ‘Yet it is suspicious that the sole witness to Yerland’s death is dead himself, and that the man we suspect of murder is the one to discover Segeforde’s body.’

‘It is not suspicious at all,’ snarled Kellawe. ‘Nigellus has done nothing wrong, and you know it. He will sue you for wrongful arrest when you release him.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Michael, ignoring the threat.

‘Kellawe suggested taking Segeforde to the church,’ replied Morys. ‘Which was fortunate, given that you say his corpse is leaking nasty vapours. Normally, we would have kept him here.’

‘God told me to remove him to St Bene’t’s,’ said Kellawe smugly. ‘I am one of His chosen, so clearly He wanted to protect me from harm.’

Bartholomew itched to retort that God obviously did not care that much, given that Kellawe had then spent much of the night on his knees next to the bodies, but was afraid that observation might make Kellawe question Michael’s claim. And the last thing he wanted was for the lids to be removed and the victims examined.

‘Are you sure it is not because Segeforde had a better room?’ Michael was asking acidly. ‘And you wanted it empty so you could move into it yourself?’

Kellawe’s face was as black as thunder, especially when several students exchanged amused glances. ‘Perhaps I did lay claim to it this morning, but-’

‘At least you had the decency to remove the body first,’ said Michael.

Morys had the grace to blush.

‘That was helpful,’ said Michael brightly, once they were out in the street. ‘Nigellus almost certainly did give Yerland medicine, and Segeforde was murdered because he witnessed it.’

‘Perhaps, but you cannot prove it,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘I can prove that both victims — and Lenne and Irby, too — consumed something that damaged their livers and stomachs. Or rather, you can.’

‘Yes, but not that Nigellus was responsible. It might have been someone else. Kellawe or Morys, for example.’

‘Kellawe and Morys would not have murdered Lenne,’ argued Michael. ‘Whereas Nigellus was his physician. Moreover, you are forgetting that crucial piece of evidence — the note Irby wrote to you, in which he virtually names Nigellus as his killer.’

‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that the monk was putting far too much store in a message that was ambiguous at best.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘Then we shall visit Lenne’s wife and see what she can tell us. She will not enjoy an invasion from scholars, but it cannot be helped.’

Bartholomew fell into step beside him. They met the Austin friars on Milne Street — they had finished teaching the nominalism-realism debate to Michaelhouse’s students, and were on their way home. Prior Joliet was clutching his elbow, his round face creased with pain, while Robert had a solicitous arm around his shoulders and the burly Hamo toted a thick staff. Wauter was with them, looking angrier than Bartholomew had ever seen him.

‘Someone threw a rock,’ he said tightly. ‘The whole town has gone insane, and not even priests are safe now.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Tell me, and I will arrest him.’

‘I was not there,’ replied Wauter bitterly. ‘I wish I had been, because I would have-’

‘No,’ interrupted Joliet, gently but firmly. ‘We will not sink to violent thoughts.’ He turned to Michael. ‘We did not see the culprit, Brother. I just felt the stone land.’

‘We do not know if the attack was because we are scholars,’ added Robert, ‘or because we were emerging from Michaelhouse, which is home to a physician.’

‘There is a rumour that medici are dispatching their patients, you see,’ explained Joliet, when Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement. ‘One has been arrested for it.’

‘Segeforde,’ grunted Hamo.

‘Yes, let us not forget that damned fool,’ spat Wauter. ‘He assaulted a popular lady in front of dozens of witnesses. And do not say it was an accident, because it was not.’

‘It certainly looked deliberate to me,’ said Joliet. He shook his head tearfully when Bartholomew offered to examine his arm. ‘It is just a bruise, and I would rather not stay out longer than necessary — I want to be safely inside my convent with the gate locked. I dislike the town when it takes against the University.’

‘Fens,’ growled Hamo, gripping the stave. ‘Good.’

‘You are right, Hamo,’ said Robert, wincing when a group of passing apprentices took the opportunity to howl abuse. ‘Because as soon as one problem is solved in this place, another raises its head. Like my cross — Hakeney stole it today.’

‘How do you know it was him?’ asked Michael tiredly.

‘Because he raced up to me, tore it from my person and danced away laughing,’ replied Robert sourly. He rubbed his neck. ‘And it hurt.’