A Poisonous Plot

‘There is no one else here,’ said Michael, the only one who had thought to check. ‘The culprit must have committed his vile deed and fled.’

Resolve filled Joliet’s round face. ‘Our prayers for Hamo’s soul can wait — God will understand. Search the grounds. We cannot let this villain escape. He may kill again!’

Bartholomew went to help, leaving Michael to question those friars who were too old or infirm to join in the hunt. The obvious place to start as far as the physician was concerned was the back gate — Overe assured him that the front one had been locked and guarded all day — so he grabbed a pitch torch and hurried there at once, Robert at his heels. It was ajar when they arrived. Robert tugged it open and pointed at the priory’s boat.

‘We got a better mooring rope after Frenge died,’ he said, and Bartholomew noted that the little craft was now secured to the pier with a serious tangle of knots. ‘The killer cannot have used our boat to cross the ditch this time, so he must have swum across.’

‘Not unless he is a lunatic,’ said Bartholomew eyeing the still, black, stinking waters in revulsion. ‘However, I noticed that the gate was open — I thought you were going to keep it locked after what happened to Frenge.’

‘We meant to mend it,’ said Robert sheepishly, ‘but then other concerns assailed us, and I am afraid and we made the foolish assumption that lightning would not strike twice …’

‘So this is definitely how the culprit came in, then,’ said Bartholomew, sure such an unforgiveable oversight would not have happened at Michaelhouse. ‘He must have taken a boat from somewhere else. It would not be difficult — there are dozens of them further downstream.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Robert miserably. ‘Poor Hamo. How could such a terrible thing happen?’

Easily, thought Bartholomew, when his brethren were so cavalier about security.

News of Hamo’s stabbing spread like wildfire, and the town was soon abuzz with rumours. Bartholomew volunteered to help keep the peace, but first a gaggle of lawyers from Gonville Hall howled insults at him for being kin to the woman who hired whores, then a band of townsmen accused him of encouraging Edith to poison people in order to drum up trade for himself.

‘You are more liability than help, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘But your offer is appreciated, as are the ones from Michaelhouse and the Austins. No one else has bothered, presumably because they would rather be fighting.’

‘Or because they are too frightened to venture out,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael snorted his disbelief at that notion. ‘But I am worried about Wauter. Has he gone to find a nice spot for the University in the Fens? Or is there another, darker reason for his absence?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think that he might have killed Hamo?’

‘Well, he is an Austin, who knows his way around their priory.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe that of him. The killer is more likely to be Hakeney, who has a grudge against the Order.’

‘Against Robert,’ corrected Michael.

‘He is a drunk and the chapel is poorly lit. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.’

‘I doubt that even the most pickled of minds could confuse Hamo with Robert, even in the dark.’ Michael turned when his favourite beadle approached. ‘Well, Meadowman? Will there be a battle between us and the townsfolk tonight?’

‘No, thank God,’ replied the beadle tiredly. ‘But there may be one tomorrow, when the troublemakers use Hamo’s murder to whip up more bad feeling. We are going to be busy if we want to avert a crisis, Brother.’

Bartholomew walked back to College, grateful when Meadowman offered to escort him. The beadle’s burly presence saved him both from a spat with Zachary and from trouble with Shirwynk’s apprentices. It was the role Cynric usually fulfilled, but Bartholomew was glad he had detailed the book-bearer to stand guard over Edith instead.

As it was late, his students were already in bed, but Bartholomew was too unsettled to sleep. He sat in the hall, reading works by Aretaeus of Cappadocia, aiming to learn whether Nigellus had misquoted him. A little after midnight, Michael came to report that the town was quiet — partly because it had started to rain, but mostly because Tulyet had given Dickon charge of a patrol.

‘Which did more to send would-be rioters home than all my beadles and the drizzle put together,’ said the monk. ‘The boy is a hellion. What are you reading?’

Bartholomew told him. ‘I have found nowhere yet that recommends quaffing urine to assess it for sweetness.’

‘And nor will you, I warrant,’ said Michael. ‘But do not stay up too late. We shall have another busy day tomorrow if we are to catch a killer and avert a war.’

Bartholomew was soon absorbed in the book again and time ticked by. He closed his eyes when oily fumes and the flickering light from the lamp gave him a headache, aiming to rest them briefly, so was surprised when someone shook him awake several hours later.