Bartholomew rubbed a hand though his hair. ‘We had better visit Stephen then. Unfortunately, being a lawyer, he is unlikely to be tripped up by our questions.’
‘Do not be so sure.’ Determination gleamed in Michael’s green eyes. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, and no sly killer has bested me yet.’
Before they started their enquiries, Bartholomew stopped at King’s Hall, where he was pleased to learn that all seven patients were showing signs of improvement. He started to tell Michael why he thought his Royal Broth was working, but the monk waved his explanation away with an irritable flap of a plump hand, more interested in holding forth about their suspects.
As they walked along the High Street, Bartholomew recalled the stone that had been lobbed at Prior Joliet, just for associating with Michaelhouse, and sensed that it would not be long before someone from the College suffered serious physical harm. It was not a comforting thought, and when they met Thelnetham the Gilbertine, who favoured them with a friendly smile, it was a welcome relief.
‘You cannot still want to be reinstated as a Fellow at Michaelhouse,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘It is a dangerous place to be at the moment.’
‘No worse than any other University foundation,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘And I will take my chances. I hear that Wauter has abandoned you, probably to facilitate the new studium generale in the Fens, so you have a vacancy …’
‘You will not be joining him there?’ asked Michael. ‘To make a cleaner life away from the polluting effects of the town?’
Thelnetham shuddered. ‘Certainly not! It will be damp, uncivilised and full of fanatics. And speaking of fanatics, have you heard that Shirwynk is suing Morys for trespass? Morys invaded his brewery yesterday, apparently, looking for Kellawe.’
Michael groaned. ‘Yet another incident to cause dissent. Will it never end?’
‘Not as long as we enrol undesirables like Kellawe, Morys, Segeforde and Wayt,’ said Thelnetham ruefully. ‘But I am glad we met, Bartholomew, because I have a touch of the debilitas and I am in need of relief.’
‘Deynman said you had been unwell,’ recalled Bartholomew, and regarded the Gilbertine coolly. ‘After he mentioned that you called him an inlitteratus.’
Thelnetham shrugged, unrepentant. ‘I needed a diversion from my discomforts, just as I need one now – I should not have drunk that second cask of apple wine, given that the first made me so ill, but it was a gift from an admirer and I could not resist it.’
‘It was from Deynman,’ said Bartholomew, a little gleefully – he was fond of the dim-witted Librarian, and disliked Thelnetham’s supercilious attitude towards him. ‘To avenge himself for your unkindness. If you are ill, it seems his plan worked.’
Thelnetham was stunned to learn that he was the victim of a scheme devised by Deynman. ‘What a vile thing to do! I shall sue him for damages unless you give me some of your Royal Broth. I feel dreadful – my head is swimming in a most unpleasant manner.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Deynman said the first lot of wine made you silly and drove you to bed for a week. Does that mean your head swam then as well?’
The Gilbertine nodded. ‘In an identical manner. What does–’
‘What about difficulty in sleeping, nausea, headaches and a metallic taste in your mouth?’
‘Yes, but to a lesser degree. I went to Nigellus for a cure, but all he did was calculate my horoscope and advise me to avoid going anywhere near sheep – which is easier said than done when one’s priory lies on a main road, and the creatures are taken to and from market all day.’
‘When you did not recover, did he tell you it was because you had failed to follow his precise instructions?’
‘Yes, he did. Why?’
Bartholomew’s mind was racing as he turned to Michael. ‘Perhaps Nigellus’s diagnoses are not so outlandish after all. Lenne tasted metal in his mouth, Letia was dizzy, Arnold had insomnia, Yerland had headaches, Irby lost his appetite, while others have suffered from nausea, heavy limbs – including foot drop – and stomach pains.’
‘Other than the foot-drop, I have had all those,’ interposed Thelnetham. ‘But the swimming head is the worst – quite distressing, in fact.’
‘The other victims also had one symptom that affected them more severely than the others,’ Bartholomew went on, excitement in his voice as answers blossomed. ‘The rest were there, but to a lesser degree. Rougham was right: they are all indications of the same disease.’
‘Yes – the debilitas,’ said Thelnetham drily.
Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Cew, who has been ill for several weeks, has exhibited all these signs, along with constipation. However, I suspect he was witless long before Frenge jumped out at him, but King’s Hall does not want to admit it – it is better to blame a townsman for his condition than to confess that one of their scholars went mad for no reason.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘But I–’
‘Cew will only eat oysters and soul-cakes – soul-cakes containing sucura.’
‘Containing honey,’ corrected Thelnetham. ‘King’s Hall does not use sucura, because it is illegal. Wayt told me so himself.’
‘He was lying,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Besides, Cew expressed a dislike for honey, so why would one of his two chosen foods contain it? The answer is that it would not.’
‘Are you saying that sucura is responsible for all these ailments?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘If so, you are wrong. We used some in the marchpanes we served after the disceptatio, and no one suffered any ill effects from those. Moreover, I ate some of King’s Hall’s soul-cakes but I am hale and hearty, as you can see.’
‘I doubt a few will be harmful, but Cew has been devouring platefuls of them for weeks. And there was the syllabub at Trinity Hall. I blamed bad cream, but the entire episode was repeated, even though fresh ingredients were used the second time. The culprit was the masses of sucura used to sweeten it – not sufficient to kill, but enough to lay everyone low for a day or two.’
‘Arnold liked sweet cakes,’ mused Michael. ‘So did Letia and Segeforde.’
‘Well, I do not,’ put in Thelnetham. ‘I have the debilitas, but I have never touched sucura. My Prior issued a ban on it when the Sheriff declared it illegal. Your theory is flawed, Matthew.’
‘But you like apple wine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Sweet apple wine, so syrupy that I cannot bear more than a sip. And we have been told that Irby and Lenne loved it, too.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Shirwynk does not add sucura to his wine. If he did, it would be a lot more expensive. You are mistaken, Matt.’
‘I am not,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘The apple wine and the sucura are both responsible for the debilitas, which is why my seven patients in King’s Hall are recovering – they have been told to eat Royal Broth and nothing else. The source of the trouble has been removed, you see.’
‘But the wine comes from Shirwynk, while sucura is whisked through the Fens,’ Thelnetham pointed out. ‘You cannot link them, just because both are sweet.’
‘But they are linked,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘I should have seen it days ago. The sucura is not “whisked through the Fens”, which is why Dick Tulyet has had so little success in tracing it. It comes from the brewery. Look at my tabard – Shirwynk shoved me against one of his tanks earlier, and I came away covered in the stuff.’
He hauled the garment over his head, and pointed at the white dust that still adhered to it, despite Edith’s efforts to brush it off. When Thelnetham and Michael continued to look blank, he produced the packet of sucura that Cynric had given him. It and the dust were identical, and a lick proved they tasted the same as well.
Michael was stunned. ‘So sucura is brewery dust? But it cannot be, Matt! It has been sold in London for years, and I know for a fact that it is imported at great cost from Tyre.’