‘He is very pale,’ he observed. ‘Has he been eating properly?’
‘He will only accept oysters and soul-cakes,’ replied Dodenho. ‘He says those are all that is fit for the royal palate.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But they block his innards, and he has not been to the latrine in days.’
‘We summoned Nigellus the day Frenge did this terrible thing to Cew,’ Wayt went on, ‘because he is the most expensive of the University physicians and therefore must be the best. He spent hours calculating a horoscope, then told us that Cew would only recover if we took him to stand under an oak tree in the light of the next full moon.’
‘But it was raining on those particular nights,’ added Dodenho. ‘And Cew refused to leave his rooms anyway. He thought the Prince of Wales might be out there, and he is wary of him after what happened at Poitiers. Do you have any advice, Bartholomew?’
Bartholomew was tempted to say that he had, and that it was never to hire Nigellus again. But diplomacy prevailed and he kept his opinion of the Zachary medicus to himself.
‘Ailments of the mind are a mystery to me, I am afraid, and you are already doing what I would recommend – making sure his needs are met, and preventing him from harming himself.’
‘These rumours about Frenge,’ said Wayt, turning to Michael. ‘Are they true? Is he dead in the Austin Priory?’
Michael nodded. ‘He was poisoned – murdered.’
‘I do not believe that, and neither should you,’ scoffed Wayt. ‘I imagine he broke in intent on mischief, but was struck down for his audacity – God had obviously had enough of him. There was a tale that he planned to raid us again tonight, so I cannot say I am sorry he is no longer a threat.’
‘Do not blame Frenge’s death on the Almighty,’ warned Michael sternly. ‘If you do, we shall have even more trouble with the town.’
‘I do not care. If they do not want a war, they should not have applauded Frenge’s crime.’ Wayt rounded on Bartholomew. ‘And speaking of crime, can you do nothing to stop your sister from killing us all? Her dyeworks are poisoning the river.’
‘It is true, Matthew,’ said Dodenho. ‘All the fish are dead, and I am sure she was responsible for that bout of sickness at Trinity Hall last week. After all, it happened after they drank ale made with water from the river and–’
‘That ale was from Frenge’s brewery,’ interrupted Wayt. ‘Doubtless he and Edith conspired together to bring Trinity Hall low.’
‘Actually, the culprit was a syllabub,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Which had nothing to do with my sister or Frenge. I tasted it myself and the cream was bad – not to mention the fact that it was so sweet as to be unpleasantly cloying.’
‘Probably because it was stuffed full of sucura,’ said Dodenho.
‘Sucura?’ queried Bartholomew.
‘The sweet powder from Tyre that Sheriff Tulyet has recently deemed illegal,’ replied Wayt. ‘It is smuggled through the Fens to avoid import tax, so you will not see any in King’s Hall.’
‘Tell me again what happened when Frenge came and did all that damage,’ ordered Michael, whose refined palate told him that sucura had been in the soul-cakes he had just eaten. However, he was unwilling to waste time on the argument that would follow if he said so.
‘It was a week ago now,’ obliged Dodenho. ‘We were all at table, and did not know he was here until we heard the pigs rampaging in the yard. We hurried out to see Frenge driving them towards our hall. He turned his attention to the geese then, and chased them into the orchard.’
‘We followed, but he managed to evade us,’ said Wayt. ‘Then I saw him hiding behind the buttress. Cew was nearby, but before I could shout a warning, Frenge had ambushed him.’
‘Frenge escaped in the ensuing confusion,’ finished Dodenho, ‘and poor Cew has not been in his right mind ever since.’
‘It was an outrage,’ said Wayt angrily. ‘We are right to sue Frenge for damages.’
‘You cannot sue him now he is dead,’ said Michael. ‘He–’
‘Oh, yes, we can,’ countered Wayt. ‘We shall transfer our claim to his estate – the brewery he part-owned. That will show the town that they cannot get the better of us, not even if they die.’
‘In the interests of good relations–’ began Michael in alarm.
‘No,’ hissed Wayt. ‘We will not withdraw. Frenge did us a lot of harm, and we intend to ensure that he pays for it. His death is irrelevant as far as I am concerned.’
‘There are rumours that King’s Hall murdered him,’ said Michael, also growing angry. ‘If you persist with this lawsuit, everyone will believe them.’
‘Do you think we care what townsfolk believe? Their opinions matter nothing to us.’
‘Well, they matter to me,’ said Michael, controlling his temper with difficulty. ‘And my investigation must be one of which they will approve or we shall have a riot. That means interviewing every member of King’s Hall about the crime, which we shall do at once. Assemble them, if you please.’
‘What, all of them?’ asked Dodenho, startled. ‘This very moment?’
‘If you would be so kind.’
Interrogating every member of King’s Hall was a daunting task, as there were more than forty Fellows, all of whom had at least two students, not to mention an army of servants. Fortunately, the College had held a feast to mark the beginning of Hallow-tide, so most had an alibi for the three-hour window in which Frenge had died.
Michael was thoughtful when he and Bartholomew eventually left. ‘Only three of the Fellows cannot account for their whereabouts: Wayt went to attend urgent College business in his quarters; Dodenho disappeared to practise a lecture; and Cew was left unattended in his quarters, so no one knows whether he stayed there or went a-wandering.’
‘Can you really see any of them invading the Austin Priory to commit murder?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Michael. ‘Very easily, if you want the truth. Wayt is viciously spiteful, Dodenho thinks he is cleverer than the rest of us, while Cew is insane. Or is he? He might be pretending in the hope that we will exclude him from our enquiries. Well? Is it possible?’
‘I suppose so. Can we go home now? It is getting dark, and it is reckless to be out while so many drunken townsmen are spoiling for a fight.’
‘I ordered a curfew for all scholars between dusk and dawn, and it would not do for the Senior Proctor to set a bad example.’ Michael grinned at Bartholomew. ‘Which means I have the perfect excuse to stay in and enjoy tonight’s celebrations.’
The High Street was teeming, pitch torches bobbing in the gathering gloom as folk gravitated towards St Mary the Great, outside which the procession would start. Many folk were also still traipsing around the homes of friends and relations, and as refreshments invariably included a drink as well as a soul-cake, few were sober. Bartholomew was right: it was no time for two scholars to be abroad without good reason.
‘There are those Zachary men again,’ said Michael irritably. ‘What are they doing out in defiance of my instructions?’
Bartholomew’s stomach lurched when he saw that the scholars in question had gathered in a circle around two women, one of whom was his sister. Without considering the consequences, he surged towards them, shoving them away from her with considerable vigour.
‘It is all right, Matt,’ said Edith quickly, as blades appeared in a dozen outraged hands. ‘We are only discussing a consignment of red cloth.’
‘Were you?’ asked Michael, hurrying over to regard the hostel men archly. ‘Why, when your uniform is grey and cream? And speaking of academic tabards, you seem to have forgotten yours. Where are they?’