A Poisonous Plot

‘He should have realised that no one stays hale and hearty for ever, and his was an impractical aspiration. He must be livid that the debilitas has come to haunt us, given that he is not very good at curing it. Unlike you with your magical Royal Broth. What did you say was in it?’

To ensure that Dodenho continued to feed it to Cew, Bartholomew took a leaf from Nigellus’s book and became haughty. ‘I am afraid I cannot share my professional secrets with laymen. Suffice to say that it contains a wide variety of costly and efficacious compounds.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Dodenho pleasantly, and handed him a shilling, a fee far in excess of what the physician had intended to charge. ‘Is that enough, or do you require more?’

Bartholomew wanted to refuse it, feeling that to accept would be tantamount to theft. However, if he did, Dodenho would probably be suspicious, and he was loath to risk Cew’s well-being over a few pennies. He took the coin with a sheepish nod of thanks.

Dodenho spirited him to the students’ dormitory afterwards, both keeping a wary eye out for the bellicose Wayt. When he had examined his new patients, Bartholomew trailed back to Michaelhouse and handed the shilling to a delighted Agatha. She immediately set to work on a much larger pot of ‘Royal Broth’, promising to deliver it to King’s Hall herself when it was ready.

Bartholomew met Michael in the yard. The monk was disconsolate that interviews with Shirwynk, Peyn and Hakeney had yielded nothing of value, while Stephen could not have been as ill as his maid had claimed, because he was still out.

‘I discovered that Cew and Wauter were friends, though. Very good friends.’

‘We already knew that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told us so himself.’

‘No — he told us that he visited Cew to debate points of logic. It is not the same, and by all accounts he is deeply distressed by Cew’s descent into madness. And now he has disappeared.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Frenge’s attack on Cew sent Wauter on a spree of revenge that involves murder and the removal of the University to the Fens.’

‘It does sound outlandish,’ admitted Michael. ‘But we have both encountered stranger motives in the past, and we should not discount this one until we are sure it is wrong. I suggest we visit Zachary now, to see what Wauter’s old colleagues can tell us about him.’

They arrived to find the Zachary students sitting in their hall on benches, while Morys held his lecture notes upside down and Kellawe looked shifty. Bartholomew interpreted this as meaning that the pair had been giving incendiary speeches, but did not want the Senior Proctor to know.

‘We will not talk to you until Nigellus is released,’ stated Morys, to a chorus of defiant cheers. He was wearing hose with yellow and black stripes, a black gipon with an amber belt, and a hat stippled in the same colours. Bartholomew wondered why one of his friends did not do him the kindness of advising him to choose attire that did not scream ‘unpopular stinging insect’.

‘That would be foolish,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It will only prolong his incarceration.’

‘If you are here to suggest we apologise for what Segeforde is alleged to have done to Anne, you have had a wasted journey,’ said Morys. ‘It was an accident, and we are not giving that money-grubbing harlot a penny.’

‘She exposed herself deliberately,’ declared Kellawe, all wild eyes and outthrust jaw. ‘And poor Segeforde was so appalled by the sight that he fell into a fatal debilitas.’

One lad in the front row began to splutter, struggling to turn laughter into a cough when the Franciscan glared at him, while his cronies looked away or pretended to wipe their noses in an effort to conceal their own amusement. Clearly, the late Segeforde had been rather more worldly than Kellawe would have the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner believe.

‘Segeforde’s demise puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he could reveal what his illicit dissection had told him — one of the Zachary men might have an explanation. ‘He was well enough to protest outside the dyeworks and launch himself at Anne. But all of a sudden he is dead.’

‘It was not “all of a sudden”,’ snapped Morys. ‘He had been unwell with the debilitas all day, which you know perfectly well, because you physicked him.’

‘Along with Yerland,’ added Kellawe pointedly. ‘Yet it is poor Nigellus who is locked away accused of malpractice. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, because otherwise it would be you in that cell.’

‘While I am here, you can tell me why you went to the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael, ignoring the accusation and glaring at the students, although Bartholomew took a step towards the door, fearing the situation might turn ugly. ‘You should not have visited a notorious town stronghold.’