‘Is that why you came, Brother?’ asked Morys icily. ‘To demand yet more money and issue threats? Was not arresting Nigellus enough?’
‘It is an outrage,’ put in Kellawe hotly. ‘You had no right to–’
‘I have every right,’ snarled Michael. ‘His patients are dying like flies, and I would be remiss to ignore it. Yerland, Segeforde and Irby–’
‘Nigellus did not harm them.’ Kellawe was almost screaming. ‘You are a fool to suggest it. And why have you sealed them in their coffins? When I went to pay my last respects, one of your beadles refused to remove the lids.’
‘Because they are expelling poisonous miasmas,’ snapped Michael, although Bartholomew hoped he would not be asked to elaborate, given that he was not very good at telling convincing lies. ‘It happens on occasion, when a person has been fed toxic substances shortly before death. Lenne is similarly affected – another of Nigellus’s clients.’
‘What toxic substances?’ asked Kellawe, his voice dripping disbelief.
‘Ones that are sold to physicians and no one else,’ lied Michael, watching intently for a reaction. The only one he saw was an abrupt shying away from Bartholomew. ‘No, not him! He no longer uses them, on account of them being so dangerous.’
‘Then search Nigellus’s room,’ sneered Kellawe. ‘You will find nothing untoward there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael, although Morys shot the Franciscan an irritable scowl. ‘I will.’
Nigellus’s chamber was luxurious, and every piece of furniture was of the very highest quality. It did not, however, contain much in the way of medical paraphernalia, other than a urine flask that was dusty with disuse, a pile of astrological tables and a jar of liquorice root. If Nigellus had been dosing his customers with something deadly, he did not keep it at Zachary.
‘Or his colleagues have been here before us,’ muttered Michael, finally conceding defeat. ‘They would certainly conceal evidence of a crime to protect their hostel’s reputation.’
‘Would they?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If Nigellus has killed three of their colleagues, they might be wondering who will be next.’
They returned to the hall, where Michael began to put questions to the entire hostel. The atmosphere was glacial – Kellawe had been preaching insurrection while Bartholomew and Michael had been upstairs.
‘Tell us what happened yesterday,’ ordered the monk. ‘Start with Yerland.’
There was a moment when it seemed they would refuse to cooperate, but then Morys spoke.
‘He slept peacefully after Bartholomew gave him that draught. A few hours later, he woke and asked for more. Nigellus thought it too soon and told him to wait. Segeforde reported that Yerland slipped into an uneasy sort of doze thereafter, and died without uttering another word.’
‘So obviously, it was your medicine that sent him to his grave,’ hissed Kellawe. ‘Not Nigellus, who gave him nothing.’
‘How do you know Nigellus gave him nothing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did someone stay with Yerland the whole time, and so can swear to it?’
‘Yes,’ said the Franciscan coldly. ‘Segeforde did.’
‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘So tell us what happened to him.’
‘He shut himself in his room after Yerland breathed his last,’ replied Morys. ‘Nigellus became worried after a while, and found him dead when he went to check on his well-being.’
‘Nigellus did?’ pounced Michael. ‘Fascinating. And Segeforde sleeps alone?’
‘Yes.’ Morys glared at him. ‘But that does not mean Nigellus sneaked in and killed him.’
‘No,’ conceded Michael. ‘Yet it is suspicious that the sole witness to Yerland’s death is dead himself, and that the man we suspect of murder is the one to discover Segeforde’s body.’
‘It is not suspicious at all,’ snarled Kellawe. ‘Nigellus has done nothing wrong, and you know it. He will sue you for wrongful arrest when you release him.’
‘What happened next?’ asked Michael, ignoring the threat.
‘Kellawe suggested taking Segeforde to the church,’ replied Morys. ‘Which was fortunate, given that you say his corpse is leaking nasty vapours. Normally, we would have kept him here.’
‘God told me to remove him to St Bene’t’s,’ said Kellawe smugly. ‘I am one of His chosen, so clearly He wanted to protect me from harm.’
Bartholomew itched to retort that God obviously did not care that much, given that Kellawe had then spent much of the night on his knees next to the bodies, but was afraid that observation might make Kellawe question Michael’s claim. And the last thing he wanted was for the lids to be removed and the victims examined.
‘Are you sure it is not because Segeforde had a better room?’ Michael was asking acidly. ‘And you wanted it empty so you could move into it yourself?’
Kellawe’s face was as black as thunder, especially when several students exchanged amused glances. ‘Perhaps I did lay claim to it this morning, but–’
‘At least you had the decency to remove the body first,’ said Michael.
Morys had the grace to blush.
‘That was helpful,’ said Michael brightly, once they were out in the street. ‘Nigellus almost certainly did give Yerland medicine, and Segeforde was murdered because he witnessed it.’
‘Perhaps, but you cannot prove it,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘I can prove that both victims – and Lenne and Irby, too – consumed something that damaged their livers and stomachs. Or rather, you can.’
‘Yes, but not that Nigellus was responsible. It might have been someone else. Kellawe or Morys, for example.’
‘Kellawe and Morys would not have murdered Lenne,’ argued Michael. ‘Whereas Nigellus was his physician. Moreover, you are forgetting that crucial piece of evidence – the note Irby wrote to you, in which he virtually names Nigellus as his killer.’
‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that the monk was putting far too much store in a message that was ambiguous at best.
Michael sighed irritably. ‘Then we shall visit Lenne’s wife and see what she can tell us. She will not enjoy an invasion from scholars, but it cannot be helped.’
Bartholomew fell into step beside him. They met the Austin friars on Milne Street – they had finished teaching the nominalism-realism debate to Michaelhouse’s students, and were on their way home. Prior Joliet was clutching his elbow, his round face creased with pain, while Robert had a solicitous arm around his shoulders and the burly Hamo toted a thick staff. Wauter was with them, looking angrier than Bartholomew had ever seen him.
‘Someone threw a rock,’ he said tightly. ‘The whole town has gone insane, and not even priests are safe now.’
‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Tell me, and I will arrest him.’
‘I was not there,’ replied Wauter bitterly. ‘I wish I had been, because I would have–’
‘No,’ interrupted Joliet, gently but firmly. ‘We will not sink to violent thoughts.’ He turned to Michael. ‘We did not see the culprit, Brother. I just felt the stone land.’
‘We do not know if the attack was because we are scholars,’ added Robert, ‘or because we were emerging from Michaelhouse, which is home to a physician.’
‘There is a rumour that medici are dispatching their patients, you see,’ explained Joliet, when Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement. ‘One has been arrested for it.’
‘Segeforde,’ grunted Hamo.
‘Yes, let us not forget that damned fool,’ spat Wauter. ‘He assaulted a popular lady in front of dozens of witnesses. And do not say it was an accident, because it was not.’
‘It certainly looked deliberate to me,’ said Joliet. He shook his head tearfully when Bartholomew offered to examine his arm. ‘It is just a bruise, and I would rather not stay out longer than necessary – I want to be safely inside my convent with the gate locked. I dislike the town when it takes against the University.’