A Poisonous Plot

Although he complained about the unhealthy atmosphere, it was not bad as such places went. There were vents to supply fresh air, and the beadles kept it fairly clean. The food was often better than what was served in Michaelhouse, and there were reasonable arrangements for sanitation. Nigellus had been provided with a lamp, books, parchment, pens and blankets. He was writing when the beadle unlocked the door, taking the opportunity to prepare lectures for the following week — underlining the fact that he expected to be free to give them.

‘Have you come to release me?’ he asked archly, when Michael and Bartholomew entered. ‘If so, do not bother with apologies. You have offended me so deeply that only financial restitution will salve my distress. You will be hearing from Stephen first thing in the morning.’

‘We are here for answers,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed; Bartholomew leaned against the doorframe. ‘The matter is far from over, I am afraid. At least a dozen of your patients are dead, and if your feathers are ruffled in our search for the truth, then so be it.’

‘I am surprised at you, Bartholomew,’ said Nigellus coldly. ‘You are a colleague, and I had expected your support. How can you betray me in this manner?’

‘Shall we begin with Barnwell?’ asked Michael, ignoring the remark. ‘And the six people who died within days of each other while under your care?’

‘Three very elderly men, two servants who did nothing but sit around and eat, and a woman with a wasting sickness,’ replied Nigellus dismissively. He glanced archly at Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think these are folk you might have saved?’

‘Then what about Frenge?’ demanded Michael. ‘He was your patient, and he was neither ancient, fat, nor cursed with poor health.’

‘Yes, but his last visit to me was more than a week ago. You cannot lay his fate at my door.’

‘You have seen him since,’ countered Michael. ‘We have witnesses who say you argued with him over the sour ale he sold Zachary. Please do not lie: it will only make matters worse.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Nigellus shortly. ‘I had forgotten — it was an unmemorable event. I did inform him that selling us inferior wares was unacceptable, but that is not a crime. However, I had nothing to do with his demise. Or do you imagine that I lurk in convents waiting to strike my victims?’

‘I am not in a position to say — yet,’ replied Michael. ‘Now tell me about Letia.’

‘Shirwynk summoned me too late to save her,’ said Nigellus, treating the monk to an unpleasant look. ‘Personally, I think he did it deliberately, because he wanted her dead. When I arrived, she was so dizzy that she barely knew her name.’

‘You mean she was delirious?’ asked Bartholomew.

Nigellus shot him a disdainful glance, and when he spoke, it was as if he was addressing an annoying and particularly stupid child. ‘No, because she was not suffering from hallucinations. You cannot have one without the other. Surely you know that?’

‘Actually, it is perfectly possible to be in an acute confused state without delusions,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Nigellus might think otherwise. ‘What were her other symptoms?’

‘She was hot and she had vomited, but those were irrelevant to my diagnosis. Dizziness is a serious and often fatal condition, and it was obvious to me that she was going to die.’

Bartholomew did not bother to argue. ‘And Lenne?’ he asked.

‘Metal in the mouth, a disease described by Hippocrates. I prescribed garlic, not only to remove the taste, but to rebalance the humours. Garlic is hot and wet in the second degree, as I am sure you know.’

Bartholomew knew no such thing, and was also sure that Hippocrates would never have considered ‘metal in the mouth’ a disease. He regarded his colleague intently, trying to decide whether Nigellus was simply a terrible physician, or a very clever one attempting to conceal his crimes with a show of bumbling ineptitude.

‘Brother Arnold,’ he said eventually. ‘You claimed he died of insomnia.’

‘Yes, which can be deadly in elderly patients, as the Greek physician Xenocrates says. If they do not have access to the rejuvenating powers of sleep, they sicken and die. And before you ask, Irby was suffering from a loss of appetite, another dangerous disease.’

‘It takes longer than a few hours for a loss of appetite to prove fatal,’ said Bartholomew, whose only knowledge of Xenocrates was that the infinitely more famous and trustworthy Galen had criticised him for making ‘remedies’ out of particularly unpleasant ingredients.

‘Irby had a pre-existing condition that required a regular intake of nutrients,’ Nigellus flashed back. ‘When he failed to eat, he fell into a torpid state, and that was the end of him.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand what might actually have happened. ‘Did he suffer a sudden loss of weight, accompanied by excessive urination and-’

‘Hah! You do know of the ailment. Your training is not as flawed as I was beginning to fear. His urine was sweet on my tongue, and was obviously abnormal.’