A Poisonous Plot

Joliet shook his head. ‘Parchment is expensive, so we scraped it clean and used it for something else. Why? Is it important?’

‘Possibly,’ sighed Michael. ‘But the reason we came was to ask after Wauter. Robert offered to find out if any of you know where he might have gone.’

‘Robert did question us,’ said a portly, balding Austin named Overe. ‘But all we could tell him is that Wauter likes the Fens. Perhaps he went there in search of serenity — something that is sadly lacking in Cambridge at the moment.’

‘Without telling anyone?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘That does not sound very likely.’

‘Then maybe he went to find a good place for the University to settle,’ suggested Robert. ‘He would not be the first. The Dominicans have sent out a party, and the Carmelites plan to do likewise.’

‘They are wise,’ said Joliet softly. ‘I sense that the town will soon make our position untenable, and we should have some idea of where to go when they drive us out.’

‘No one will drive us out,’ said Michael firmly, but his words carried little weight when they were followed by a sudden clash of arms from the High Street. The friars exchanged grim looks.

‘You look harried, Brother,’ said Joliet kindly, ‘and in need of the peace that only communion with God can bring. Will you join us for vespers? Hamo is already preparing the chapel, so we can start straight away.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, and began to walk there, although Bartholomew knew it was more for the opportunity to quiz Hamo about the anonymous letter than to pray.

Night was approaching fast, and the precinct was full of shadows. All the brothers were uneasy, and each time there was a yell or a clatter from outside, they jumped in alarm. Several stopped in the little cemetery that held Arnold, though, declining to let their nervousness interfere with their obligations to a colleague’s soul.

‘Do you really think Nigellus killed him?’ asked Joliet softly. ‘He was old and in poor health, and I cannot imagine why anyone would want to dispatch a man with so little time left.’

‘The ways of felonious minds are not for us to fathom,’ replied Michael, as a roundabout way of saying that he had no answer.

They entered the chapel, the Austins carefully stacking their ‘weapons’ in the porch first. It was very dark inside, the only light coming from a candle burning on the altar. Suddenly, a huge shadow loomed, causing Robert to squawk in shock and the others to scatter in alarm.

‘Hamo!’ exclaimed Joliet, hand to his chest. ‘You frightened the life out of us! Why have you not set the altar? What have you been doing all this time?’

Hamo made no reply, and simply stood with his huge hands dangling at his sides.

‘Hamo,’ said Robert sharply. ‘The Prior asked you a question.’

‘There is something wrong!’ Bartholomew darted forward, and just managed to catch the hulking friar before he fell. He staggered under the weight. ‘Bring a lamp, quickly!’

The feeble glow from the lantern that was produced showed Hamo’s face to be unnaturally pale. It also revealed a spreading stain on the floor. Hamo had been stabbed.

‘Save him!’ cried Joliet, while the other Austins clamoured their horror and disbelief. ‘You must save him!’

But the wound, although small, had sliced deeply into Hamo’s lung, and Bartholomew could hear that it had already filled with blood. There was nothing he or anyone else could do, and he read in Hamo’s eyes that he knew it.

‘He needs last rites,’ he said to Joliet, hating to see the Austins’ instant dismay.

Hamo took a handful of Bartholomew’s tunic and tugged, indicating that he wanted to speak. Bartholomew put his ear close to the dying man’s mouth, but what emerged was so low as to be virtually inaudible. When he sat back, the others clamoured to know what had been said.

‘I am not sure,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It sounded like “all”.’

‘All what?’ demanded Michael.

‘Perhaps he was beginning a prayer,’ suggested Robert, white-faced with shock. ‘Almighty God, have mercy upon me …’

‘Or he wanted to say aliteum,’ added Overe. ‘Meaning a crime — because one has certainly been committed here.’

‘Fetch some water,’ ordered Joliet urgently. ‘It may unlock his throat. Hurry!’

‘Who did this to you, Hamo?’ asked Michael, ignoring the panicky confusion that ensued as the friars blundered around in a frantic attempt to locate a cup. ‘Did you see?’

He crouched next to Bartholomew, but this time the whispered word was even softer.

‘Where is the water?’ cried Joliet, his voice cracking with desperation. ‘Overe!’

Hamo fixed Bartholomew with a bright-eyed stare, and the physician was sure he was trying to convey a message. The dying man held his gaze a moment longer, before giving a brief, conspiratorial nod. Then he closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Joliet began to intone a final absolution in a voice that was unsteady with shock, and one by one, his priests joined in. Some looked around fearfully as they did so, afraid the killer might still lurk, ready to claim another victim.