‘I shall be glad when it is all over,’ said William, who wore a habit that, while not smart, at least did not look as though it could walk around the town on its own.
‘So will I,’ sighed Michael, watching Bartholomew emerge from his room in new ceremonial robes, a recent gift from his sister. They were in Michaelhouse’s livery of black, but with the red trim that denoted a doctor of the University, and his boots shone with the dull gleam of expensive leather. He had managed a closer shave than most, being in possession of sharp surgical knives, and one of his customers had offered to cut his hair in lieu of a fee. In short, he looked uncharacteristically elegant and a credit to his College.
‘Edith will have to buy you some more finery soon,’ said William, looking him up and down approvingly. ‘Langelee plans to change our uniform from black to green.’
‘Does he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’
‘Because Edith told him it would make us stand out from the rabble,’ explained Wauter. ‘And because it will look as though we have money for such vanities.’
‘Regardless, I hope we win this disceptatio,’ said William worriedly, then glared at Bartholomew and Wauter. ‘But if we lose, it will be because you refused to tell our students what the topic will be.’
‘We refused because we have been sworn to secrecy,’ objected Wauter. ‘Or would you have Michaelhouse adopt a less than honourable approach?’
‘Of course, if it means us winning,’ retorted William. ‘But will you tell them now? Then at least they will be able to glance through the necessary books during Chancellor Tynkell’s introductory speech. It is not much of an advantage, but it is better than nothing.’
‘The committee has yet to make its decision,’ said Wauter coolly. ‘However, Principal Irby will not be joining us today, because he is ill. Nigellus told me earlier.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if the Zachary Principal was one of Nigellus’s patients – and if so, whether he was in any danger.
‘Loss of appetite, apparently. I hope he recovers soon. Not only is he a friend, but he has promised to help me finish my Martilogium.’
‘Langelee says that we must clean the hall when the guests have gone,’ grumbled Suttone, slouching up and cutting into the discussion. ‘He wants to avoid paying the servants overtime. So no wandering off when the event is over, if you please.’
He looked hard at Bartholomew and Michael, the ones most likely to have business elsewhere, then went to take his place in the procession. The others followed in order of seniority – William directly behind Langelee, Bartholomew and Michael side by side, Suttone and Clippesby together, and Junior Fellow Wauter bringing up the rear.
‘We must interview all our suspects again as soon as we have a free moment,’ said Michael, while they waited for Langelee to set off. ‘I have little new to ask, but if they are guilty our questions may make them nervous – and nervous men make mistakes.’
Bartholomew listed them. ‘Rumburgh, Shirwynk, Peyn, Hakeney, Stephen, the three men from King’s Hall and Nigellus.’
‘And possibly Wauter,’ added Michael in a low voice. ‘But you should have put Nigellus first. Not only for his nine dead clients, but I learned last night that he was at Trinity Hall when everyone there was poisoned. He was not ill himself, and his advice to the sufferers was to stand on their heads to let the bad humours drain out. When that failed, they called you.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘His “remedies” beggar belief sometimes.’
‘You should be pleased by the news – if he is the culprit, your sister’s dyeworks will be exonerated. And there is another thing …’
‘Yes?’
‘The only people who have died of late have been wealthy: Letia, Lenne, the Barnwell folk, Arnold and now your burgess. There is not a pauper among them. Do you not find that odd?’
Bartholomew supposed that he did.
There was to be an academic parade through the town before the disceptatio, although many scholars thought it should have been cancelled, given the town’s current antipathy towards them. Luckily, it was only along a short section of the High Street, and the hope was that it would be over before any serious protest could be organised.
Unfortunately, the town was only part of the problem, and trouble broke out between rival factions within the University before anyone had taken so much as a step. Peterhouse thought they should lead the way, because they were the oldest foundation, but King’s Hall had been built by royalty, which they claimed made them more important. Their antagonism sparked quarrels between other Colleges and hostels, and it was not long before a dozen spats were in progress.
‘It is Tynkell’s fault,’ grumbled Michael, watching his beadles hurry to intervene. ‘He should have published the order of precedence in advance, so there would have been no surprises. I reminded him to do it, but he claims he forgot.’
‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would have given resentment longer to fester, and feelings would have been running even hotter.’
Michael sniffed, unwilling to admit that he might be right. ‘There is Peyn,’ he said, looking to where the brewer’s son was standing with his father. ‘Is he about to lob mud at King’s Hall?’
He was, and the missile sailed forth. Fortunately, Wayt chose that particular moment to adjust his shoe, so the clod sailed harmlessly over his head. Michael stalked towards Peyn, Bartholomew at his heels, but Shirwynk hastened to place himself between scholars and son.
‘You would be wise to take him home before he spends the rest of the week in the proctors’ gaol,’ growled Michael.
‘For what?’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘Accidentally flicking up a little dirt? You will have a riot on your hands if you try to arrest him for that.’
‘I am surprised to see you merrymaking when your wife is barely cold,’ said Michael, going on an offensive of his own. ‘Why are you not praying for her soul?’
‘My parish priest is doing that,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘A man with no connections to your University, because I would not want a scholar near her.’
He stared hard at Bartholomew, who wondered with a pang of alarm whether the brewer somehow knew that Letia had been examined without his consent. Or was it a guilty conscience that prompted another warning to stay away?
‘She and Frenge died on the same day,’ said Michael, apparently thinking likewise, and so launching into an interrogation. ‘That is an uncanny coincidence, do you not think?’
‘Not uncanny – cruel,’ said Shirwynk. ‘King’s Hall knew exactly how to inflict the maximum amount of distress on me. Thank you for the invitation to dine with you after this silly debate, by the way. However, I would sooner jump in the latrine than accept.’
‘You were asked?’ blurted Bartholomew.
‘By Wauter,’ replied Shirwynk coolly. ‘Many of my fellow burgesses will demean themselves by setting foot on University property, but I shall not be among them.’
‘My father sent me to ask if all is well,’ came a voice from behind them. It was Dickon, resplendent in new clothes, and carrying a sword that was larger than the one he usually toted. However, what really caught their attention was his scarlet face and the fact that he had contrived to shape his hair into two small points just above his temples.
Peyn promptly turned and fled. Shirwynk followed with more dignity, treating the scholars to a final sneer before he went, leaving Bartholomew astonished that a boy with a dyed face and hair-horns could achieve what the formidable figure of the Senior Proctor could not. Dickon set off in pursuit and Michael opened his mouth to call him back, but then had second thoughts.