A Poisonous Plot

The King’s Head was a sprawling tavern on the edge of the town, famous for strong ale, vicious fights and rabid opinions. Scholars were not welcome, although Bartholomew and Michael were tolerated, one for physicking the poor and the other for running the choir. Even so, both were uneasy as they entered the dark, smelly room with its reek of spilled ale and rushes that needed changing. The clatter of conversation immediately died away.

‘They are with me,’ announced Isnard. ‘Come to disprove these lies about Hakeney.’

‘Good,’ said the landlord, a burly brute with scars. ‘Because he came here shortly after the squabble at the dyeworks and he has not left since. A dozen witnesses will tell you the same. Besides, can you really imagine a skinny wretch like him dispatching a great lump like Hamo?’

‘You would be surprised,’ said Michael. ‘Not all murderers are …’ He waved a vague hand, suddenly aware that if he attempted a description of the classic notion of a killer, any number of men in the room, including the landlord, might take it personally.

Bartholomew left the monk to verify Hakeney’s alibi, while he followed Isnard to the back of the tavern, where the vintner was fast asleep on a straw pallet, one of several thoughtfully provided for those patrons who found themselves unable to walk home. Isnard woke him with a jab from a crutch, and Hakeney sat up blinking stupidly. He wore a knife on his belt, but it was too large to be the murder weapon.

‘Why would I stab Hamo?’ he asked, when Isnard explained what was being said about him. ‘It is Robert who stole my cross.’

‘Perhaps you aimed to deter the Austins from suing you,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Is that a possibility?’ asked Hakeney eagerly, and the physician could see it was a notion that had not occurred to him before. The vintner was not the culprit.

‘Why choose now to snatch the cross?’ asked Bartholomew. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Or did someone encourage you to do it?’

‘I did meet a man who told me I was a fool to let myself be so wronged,’ confided Hakeney. ‘He suggested the best way to get my property back was just to take it.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

Hakeney shrugged, and the red-rimmed eyes and sallow features suggested he would not be a reliable witness anyway. ‘I never saw his face, and the tavern where he got me was one of the dark ones. He was a townsman, though. No scholar would have dispensed such sensible advice.’

‘Give it back, Hakeney,’ said Isnard disapprovingly. ‘You told me last night that Robert’s cross is different from your wife’s. Do the decent thing and admit you made a mistake.’

‘No, I shall keep it,’ said Hakeney, taking it in his hand and staring down at it. ‘It reminds me of Lilith, even if it was never hers in the first place.’

Bartholomew considered grabbing it himself, knowing that the vintner was not strong enough to stop him, but then came to his senses. They were in the King’s Head, and even Isnard would not be able to protect him if he assaulted one of its regulars.

‘The Austins are going to ask the Bishop to decide the case,’ he said instead. ‘It is a good idea — he will be an impartial judge.’

‘Oh, no, he won’t,’ declared Hakeney fervently. ‘I have crossed swords with him before — over a pig that was mine, but which he claimed was his. I will not get a fair hearing from the Bishop of Ely, and I refuse to accept him as an arbiter.’

‘Then stay low until Hamo’s killer is caught,’ advised Bartholomew, sure the sight of the vintner strolling free would infuriate some of the University’s feistier members, and the last thing they needed was another murder. ‘Do you have somewhere to hide?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hakeney, reaching for the jug of wine that he had not finished the previous night and taking a deep draught. ‘Right here. The landlord will not mind.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the tavern, and as they crossed the bridge over the King’s Ditch, the physician stopped to stare down at the sluggish, murky waters. When he looked up again, he saw the top of the Austins’ chapel over the chaos of rooftops in between, while several boats were tied up on the bank below. None were secure, and anyone might have jumped into one, rowed the short distance to the convent and gone in to commit murder.

‘I have been looking for you,’ came a voice at his side. It was Dodenho from King’s Hall. ‘Two more of our students have gone down with the debilitas, and we need another pot of your miraculous Royal Broth. It has eased all Cew’s symptoms, and he is better than he has been in days, although he is still mad, unfortunately. Still, one thing at a time.’