A Poisonous Plot (35 page)

‘Hakeney did
not
kill Hamo,’ he declared. ‘It is a vicious lie – one put about by the Austins, probably, so we will all support their legal case against him. Well, it will not work.’

‘Who told you this tale?’ demanded Michael irritably.

‘Dozens of folk,’ replied Isnard, and began to list them. ‘Landlord Lister, Noll Verius, Thelnetham of the Gilbertines, Dickon Tulyet, Peyn and Shirwynk the brewers—’

‘What makes you so sure that Hakeney is innocent?’ interrupted Michael, seeing the recitation would continue for some time if he let it.

‘Because he was with me in the King’s Head when Hamo was stabbed,’ replied Isnard. ‘We were there all night, and he is still there now. I am his alibi, and you know you can trust me.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, aware that Isnard was not always conscious after visiting that particular tavern, and Hakeney could have wandered out, committed a dozen murders and returned to his tankard with the bargeman none the wiser.

A hurt expression suffused Isnard’s face when he saw what Michael was thinking. ‘I barely touched a drop all night, Brother. We kept clear heads for making plans, see.’

‘What plans?’ asked Michael in alarm.

‘Me and some of the choir aim to stop the University from slinking off to the Fens,’ replied the bargeman. ‘Our musical evenings would not be the same without you, Brother, and we want you to stay.’

‘I am glad someone does.’

‘It might be dangerous to intervene,’ warned Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what wild and reckless scheme the patrons of the King’s Head might have hatched, regardless of whether they had stayed sober. ‘Please do not—’

‘We care nothing for danger,’ declared Isnard grandly. ‘Not when we are doing what we believe is right. Do not worry – we will not let the fanatics in the town drive you away.’

‘I am more concerned about the fanatics in the University,’ muttered Michael. ‘But leave the matter to me, Isnard. I have no intention of leaving Cambridge.’

‘But some of you have already gone,’ Isnard pointed out worriedly. ‘Wauter yesterday, Gilby and others this morning, with more set to follow tonight. It is the beginning of the end.’

‘It is not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I repeat: leave the matter to me. Now, you say Hakeney is in the King’s Head still?’

‘Yes, lying on the floor. Do you want a word with him? Then I had better accompany you, to make sure you come to no harm.’

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.’

Loath to dispense a remedy, even vegetable soup, without examining the patients first, Bartholomew offered to accompany him to King’s Hall while Michael went to question the Austins again. As they walked, Dodenho regaled the physician with opinions, one hand on the sword he wore at his side. Bartholomew was grateful for his martial presence, given the amount of hostility he himself was attracting.

‘If the University does go to the Fens, we shall not join it,’ Dodenho declared. ‘It would be a bleak and impoverished existence, and our scholars are all from noble households, so they expect a degree of comfort. I imagine you feel the same, given the luxury in which you live.’

Bartholomew gave a noncommittal grunt, thinking that Langelee’s ruse had been successful indeed if even the elegant King’s Hall was convinced of Michaelhouse’s affluence.

When they arrived, Wayt gave reluctant permission for Bartholomew to examine the men who were ill. There were seven in total, exhibiting symptoms as varied as nausea, stomach pains, headaches, insomnia and dizziness. One lad, who had been ill longer than the rest, showed Bartholomew how his foot dropped when he tried to walk, a peculiar problem that had afflicted Cew, too.

Cew, on the other hand, was considerably improved. His gait was back to normal, there was colour in his cheeks, and he seemed much stronger. Unfortunately, he was again convinced that he was the King of France.

‘The metal has gone,’ he confided. ‘We cannot taste it any longer. It must have been in the oysters. They were brought here on the river, you see, and we all know the Seine is poisoned.’

‘He means the Cam,’ put in Dodenho helpfully. ‘The Seine is in France.’

‘Our sucura is imported via the Seine,’ Cew went on. ‘Our courtiers adore sweet things, and it is our pleasure to indulge them, especially as they put extra in our own soul-cakes as a reward. King’s Hall is awash with it, although Wayt will tell you otherwise. But Frenge knew.’

Bartholomew glanced at the Acting Warden, and when he saw the expression of weary exasperation on the hirsute face, something suddenly became abundantly clear.

‘You lied!’ he exclaimed. ‘You did not argue with Frenge about Anne the day he died – you quarrelled about sucura.’

Wayt opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but Cew clapped his hands in delight. ‘You have it! You have it! What a clever fool you are!’

Wayt cast a venomous glare at his colleague, who rocked back and forth, grinning wildly. There was a moment when Bartholomew thought the Acting Warden would attempt to dismiss the claims as the unfounded ravings of a lunatic, but then he threw up his hands in resignation.

‘Very well,’ he sighed irritably. ‘Yes – Frenge threatened to tell the Sheriff that we bought illegal sucura, and King’s Hall cannot afford to be seen breaking the law. However, I did not kill him. I merely informed him that if he ever breathed a word of our doings to another living soul, I would sue him for slander.’

‘You should have told Michael the truth,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘It was—’

‘And risk him betraying us to Tulyet? Do not be stupid! However,
you
cannot go running to him with this tale, because physicians are morally bound to keep their patients’ ramblings quiet. Ergo, anything that Cew brays is confidential.’

‘No one from Michaelhouse would blab about sucura anyway,’ interposed Dodenho. ‘Being so affluent, they purchase it by the bucket load themselves.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. Every College and wealthy hostel in the University had reported cases of the
debilitas
except one: Michaelhouse. Was it because no one there could afford sucura – that it was the illegally imported sweetener that was making everyone ill? Had it become contaminated somehow, perhaps from the dyeworks? Was that why no pauper had been afflicted by the
debilitas
, and why it remained exclusively a ‘disease’ of the rich?

He pulled the little packet that Cynric had given him from his bag, ignoring Dodenho’s triumphant hoot that he had been right, and poured some into his hand. He licked it cautiously. It did not taste as though it would do him harm, but only a fool thought that everything with a pleasant flavour was safe to eat.

‘Your theory is flawed,’ said Wayt, when Bartholomew explained tentatively what he was thinking, careful not to reveal that while Agatha had used sucura in the Hallow-tide marchpanes, all the other cakes had been made using the considerably cheaper honey. ‘Osborne of Gonville Hall has the
debilitas
, but he never touches sweet foods.’

‘The same is true of Lenne and the Barnwell folk,’ said Dodenho. ‘They had the
debilitas
so badly that it killed them, but they never ate sweetmeats either.’

But the more Bartholomew pondered the matter, the more he was sure that sucura had played a central role in the sudden rise of the
debilitas
. He decided to experiment, and sent to Michaelhouse for more Royal Broth. When it arrived, he gave instructions that the sick men were to consume nothing but it and boiled barley water for a week. Assuming they followed his advice, he might soon have the beginnings of a solution.

Michael was waiting for him outside King’s Hall, gloomily reporting that none of the Austins had remembered anything new. The killer had probably entered the convent at dusk, when there had been deep shadows to hide in, and there were no witnesses to the crime – at least, none that he had been able to find.

‘And now Kellawe has disappeared,’ the monk added. ‘Morys came to me in a panic about it an hour ago, although I suspect the fellow has just joined the exodus to the Fens.’

‘Have you checked the dyeworks? He may be making a nuisance of himself there.’

‘Come with me, then,’ said the monk tiredly. ‘Even I do not feel safe walking alone today, but the company of the Hero of Poitiers should serve to protect me.’

Bartholomew winced. Cynric had been with him when the tiny English army had met the much larger French one, and gloried in the fact that he and the physician had played a part in the ensuing battle. Bartholomew’s contribution to the fighting had been adequate at best, although he had been invaluable in tending the wounded afterwards. However, Cynric, with the blood of bards in his veins, had exaggerated their performance to the point where the rest of the Black Prince’s troops might as well have stayed at home.

They arrived to find the dyeworks closed. Unusually, there were no protesters outside, so Water Lane was strangely quiet. Then Edith appeared, Cynric hovering watchfully at her side, with a complex explanation about how long woad needed to soak, and as the previous day’s trouble had caused delays, the next stage of the process could not start until noon. It was midday now, so her women were beginning to trickle in. Anne de Rumburgh was among them, sensuously seductive in a new scarlet kirtle, which was not Bartholomew’s idea of obeying Edith’s instruction to ‘stay in the back and keep a low profile’.

‘We will be busy this afternoon with the first batch of Michaelhouse tabards,’ chattered Edith as she unlocked the door. ‘We dyed them with weld – yellow pigment – yesterday, so now we will overdye them with woad to make them green. Of course, we had to treat them with … certain substances first, because the garments are black.’