Michael nodded. ‘He is the tenth of Nigellus’s patients to die – the eleventh if we count Frenge. It cannot be coincidence, and he did say that Irby was not the leader he wanted for Zachary. I imagine we will find motives for the other deaths, too, if we dig deep enough.’
‘We might.’ Bartholomew was still racked with guilt for not going to Irby’s assistance.
‘But why kill them?’ Michael went on. ‘He must realise that people will notice if he loses more clients than other medici. Then the surviving ones will desert him, which he will not appreciate, given how much he loves the fees they pay.’
‘He practised at Barnwell for years before coming here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could not have dispatched those customers at this sort of rate, or the whole village would be in their graves. We must be wrong, Brother. He is a physician – a healer.’
‘Of sorts – even I can tell that he is barely competent. Hah! Now there is a thought …’
‘What is?’
‘Perhaps he dispatched them to conceal evidence of his ineptitude – his failure to cure them. After all, if he used poison, who would know? You detected signs of a corrosive substance on Frenge, but there was nothing on Letia, so perhaps he learned from his mistake. Meanwhile, Arnold and the Barnwell folk are buried, so unless we exhume them …’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly.
‘Then maybe the dyeworks are responsible,’ said Michael. He held up his hand when Bartholomew started to object. ‘Even you cannot deny that it produces some very foul substances, and I dread to think what is slyly dumped in the river when Edith’s ladies think no one is looking. You can ask when we visit her today.’
‘We are going to see Edith? Why?’
‘To warn her that I have received a lot of complaints about her reeking enterprise, and that she needs to find a way to eliminate the problem before there is serious trouble. But we had better visit Zachary first, to ascertain exactly what happened to Irby. Shall we go now?’
Bartholomew scribbled a list of passages from Galen’s De ossibus for Langelee to read to his classes, and followed the monk across the yard to the gate, where they met Prior Joliet, Almoner Robert and Hamo, coming to put some finishing touches to the mural.
‘Well?’ asked Joliet pleasantly. ‘Did Michaelhouse secure a wealthy benefactor last night?’
‘Negotiations are under way with several interested parties,’ lied Michael, and quickly changed the subject before they could press him for details. ‘I heard you did rather well, too.’
Joliet’s round face split into a grin of delight. ‘Yes! We have been commissioned to paint King’s Hall’s library and Peterhouse’s refectory. They said they had never seen more lifelike leaves than the ones on our oak tree.’
‘And the mayor would like to see what can be done for the guildhall,’ put in Robert, wincing as he tried to free his long white hair from the chain that held his pectoral cross. ‘Not to mention a couple of enquiries from private individuals.’
‘Good occasion,’ mumbled Hamo, apparently deeming it worthy of a rare two-word sentence.
‘The only unpleasant bit was when Hakeney made a scene,’ said Robert, wincing. ‘The man is deranged, and I wish he would find someone else to hound.’
‘I shall buy him a new cross when Michaelhouse pays us at Christmas,’ declared Joliet, all happy generosity. ‘Wayt has offered to get one when he next visits London.’
‘We had better go,’ said Robert. ‘The sooner we finish here, the sooner we can move to our next project.’ That notion brought a sudden smile. ‘The poor will not want for bread this winter!’
‘It is not fair,’ muttered Michael when the Austins had gone. ‘We went to all that trouble for Michaelhouse, not our hired artists.’
‘Yet it is hard to begrudge their good fortune. They aim to use the profits for alms.’
‘I know,’ said Michael irritably. ‘But that does not mean I have to like them raking in money when we still have nothing.’
They met Tulyet at the end of St Michael’s Lane. Dickon was in tow, his face even brighter than it had been the previous day, suggesting the brat had contrived to acquire a private supply of dye and had reapplied it. His hair ‘horns’ were gone, though, no doubt a condition of being allowed to accompany his father out. Regardless, he was still attracting a lot of uneasy attention.
‘His mother was keen for him to stretch his legs,’ said Tulyet, when Michael enquired tentatively whether it might not have been advisable to leave him at home. ‘And I am reluctant to waste good training time anyway. There is a lot to learn about being Sheriff.’
‘I hope he will not be stepping into your shoes too soon,’ said Michael, aware that Dickon would be a disaster for the University, and probably not very good for the town either.
‘Father says I am already showing a firm hand,’ said the boy with a malignant grin. ‘Did you hear that I stopped that sot Hakeney from stealing your spoons yesterday? He started to shove them up his sleeve, but I told him that I would chop off his fingers if he did not put them back.’
‘A crime was averted,’ said Tulyet proudly. ‘One that would have caused more bad feeling between the town and the University had it succeeded. I am delighted by Dickon’s vigilance.’
‘Have you learned anything new about Frenge?’ asked Michael, unable to bring himself to praise the child. ‘My own enquiries are frustratingly slow.’
‘I have had scant time for anything other than keeping the peace.’
‘There was a big fight last night, see,’ interjected Dickon gleefully. ‘I was there, so I joined in. I stabbed two scholars as hard as I could, and I bit another.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Do they need medical attention?’
‘He exaggerates,’ said Tulyet, shooting his son a warning glance. ‘He did manage to corner a trio of lads from Zachary, but they ran away before any real harm was done. Do you have a few spare moments to talk? I would like to hear what you have learned in more detail.’
‘A few,’ replied Michael, while Bartholomew thought it said a good deal about Dickon’s fearsome reputation that he was able to rout three lads twice his age. ‘But then we must visit Zachary to find out exactly why Irby died.’
He was hungry after the meagre victuals at breakfast, so suggested repairing to the Brazen George, where the landlord kept a room for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant chamber, overlooking a pretty yard where contented chickens scratched among the herb-beds. Landlord Lister came to serve them in person, chatting amiably as he regaled them with the latest gossip, although he was careful to keep well away from Dickon.
‘Did you hear that everyone in Trinity Hall was ill again yesterday?’ he asked. ‘And do not blame the syllabub this time, Doctor – they bought it from me, and the cream was fresh.’
‘Did Nigellus tend them?’ asked Michael casually.
‘I believe he did offer his services, although even he could not calculate horoscopes for everyone, so he told them all to don clean nether garments and stand in full moonlight for an hour.’
‘That does not sound too deadly,’ murmured Michael. ‘But I shall visit Trinity Hall later, to ensure he did not prescribe anything else.’
‘My wife was ill during the night as well,’ said Tulyet. ‘So was Dickon, although he has recovered, thank God. It must have been something they ate.’
‘Not at Michaelhouse,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘None of us were unwell.’
‘Suttone was,’ contradicted Bartholomew. ‘He called me at midnight with stomach cramps, and so did one of William’s students.’
‘Because they overindulged,’ countered Michael sharply. ‘I sampled everything on offer, and I was not ill.’
Tulyet took the opportunity to ask Lister a few questions about sucura and how it might be smuggled into the town, but while the landlord was willing to confide in an old and trusted customer like Michael, sharing confidences with the Sheriff was another matter entirely. He mumbled a vague reply and fled.