Читаем A Poisonous Plot полностью

‘I did tell you it was unsafe,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘You will have to let him go.’

‘Let him go?’ cried Michael, loudly enough to wake the novices who shared his room. They sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. ‘Even if he did not dispatch Irby, his incompetence still made an end of Letia, Lenne, Arnold and God knows how many others.’

‘Did it? I am no longer sure about that. The Prior of Barnwell told me that Nigellus recommended all manner of tonics, infusions, electuaries and decoctions to help the canons who were ill, but nothing worked. Then Nigellus came here, where his “cures” entail eating garlic, wearing certain clothes or standing in the moonlight.’

‘Meaning what?’ asked Michael impatiently. ‘Do not speak in riddles, Matt.’

‘Meaning that I think the Barnwell losses shook his confidence, so when he came here, he elected not to prescribe anything. His diagnoses are outlandish, and he almost certainly has never read Aretaeus of Cappadocia, but I have not encountered a single person who has said that Nigellus has given him medicine.’

‘You are right, sir,’ put in one of the students. ‘I have friends in Ovyng Hostel, and all he did when they had the debilitas was tell them to avoid being looked at by rabbits.’

‘Prior Norton probably contributed to Nigellus’s self-doubt,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘He confessed that he said some cruel things when his people failed to recover.’

Michael stared at him. ‘But Nigellus will sue me if I release him, and we cannot afford yet another source of discord. I will have to keep him until the current trouble is over.’

‘That might be some time,’ said the student. ‘Because the disturbances will not stop until the University has moved to the Fens — and that will not be organised overnight.’

‘We are not going,’ said Michael firmly.

‘That is not what the town thinks,’ said the student, ‘while half our scholars would go tomorrow if they could. Regardless, the trouble will not subside very quickly, if at all.’

Dawn was touching the eastern sky when Bartholomew and Michael left the College, but the streets were mercifully empty, and when they met Meadowman, the beadle reported that it had been a quiet night. The gaol was full, though, of those who had made a nuisance of themselves before the rain and Dickon had driven people home. All would be released later that morning on payment of a fine — or languish until their friends managed to raise the requisite amount.

As the prison was filled to capacity, Nigellus no longer had the luxury of a room to himself, but he had made the most of the situation, and when Bartholomew and Michael arrived he was delivering an acid-tongued sermon to his cellmates. It comprised a poisonous diatribe against everyone who annoyed him: the dyeworks; the folk at Barnwell, whom he claimed had spread lies about him; and medici jealous of his superior abilities.

‘Here comes the Devil Incarnate,’ he sneered when he saw Michael. His hateful gaze shifted to Bartholomew. ‘And his helpmeet. You will both go to Hell for what you have done to me, and I shall sue the University for every penny it has.’

‘Good,’ said a lad from Bene’t College. ‘Because I do not want to move to the Fens, and if you deprive the University of funds, its officers will not have the money to bring it about.’

‘I would not mind going,’ countered a Carmelite novice. ‘There are no Frail Sisters in the Fens, and I shall not find myself tempted by their invitations. I never think about them when they are not around, but when they appear in front of me …’

‘Stand up, Nigellus,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am letting you go.’

There was a resounding cheer and Nigellus smirked. It was an unpleasant expression, designed to annoy, and Bartholomew found himself wishing his colleague had been guilty.

‘I shall see Stephen the lawyer this morning,’ Nigellus declared. ‘My reputation has been severely damaged, and for that you must pay.’

‘On the contrary,’ said the Carmelite. ‘Your reputation is enhanced — you are a martyr for the cause and we all admire you. You will certainly find your practice swollen with new patients now.’

Nigellus shot him a foul look. ‘I do not want new patients. I want compensation.’

He stalked through the door, and made a show of brushing himself off once he was in the street, declaring in a ringing voice that the University had never had any real evidence against him. He had been arrested, he informed passers-by, purely to conceal the fact that Edith was poisoning the town with her dyeworks, aided and abetted by her brother.

‘Edith has harmed no one,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound as though he believed it.

‘You would say that,’ jeered Nigellus. ‘Michaelhouse has become fabulously rich of late — mostly because she is giving you half her profits.’

Bartholomew doubted even that would be enough to save the College from fiscal ruin. ‘No,’ he began. ‘She would never-’

But Nigellus was already stalking away.

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