‘I am afraid Frenge is dead,’ said Michael gently. ‘He was taken ill near the Austin Priory, and although the friars did their best to help him, it was to no avail. I hope you can take comfort from the fact that they are praying for his soul as I speak.’
‘We already heard,’ said Shirwynk. He seemed more irked than distressed. ‘Although it is hard to believe – he was perfectly well earlier.’
‘He was poisoned,’ Michael went on. ‘My Corpse Examiner here–’
‘Your what?’ interrupted Shirwynk, regarding Bartholomew askance.
‘Matt inspects all those who die on University property,’ explained Michael. ‘He–’
‘In that case, I do not want him near Letia,’ said Shirwynk firmly. ‘Not if he has had his hands on cadavers.’
Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Letia?’
‘My wife. Nigellus did her horoscope, see, and he says she will die before tomorrow. I was considering getting a second opinion, but I do not want one from a Corpse Examiner.’
The last two words were spoken with considerable distaste.
‘I am a physician first,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Nigellus had done something more useful for the poor woman than predict the time of her passing.
‘Perhaps,’ said Shirwynk with a shudder. ‘But you will stay away from her – now and when she is dead. Is that clear? Now get out.’
He began shoving both scholars towards the door before Bartholomew could say whether it was clear or not.
‘Wait,’ ordered Michael, resisting. He was a large man, and all but impossible to budge if he did not want to go. ‘Your friend was poisoned, Shirwynk. Surely you must want to help us catch the culprit? You can do it by answering questions.’
‘I already know who is the culprit,’ snarled the brewer. ‘King’s Hall.’
And with that, he gave Michael a push that sent him staggering into the street, a feat that revealed him to be a very powerful man. Bartholomew was thrust out after him and the door slammed closed. Michael straightened his rumpled habit.
‘He was very determined that an expert on death should go nowhere near his ailing wife,’ the monk remarked. ‘It was suspicious.’
Bartholomew agreed, but could hardly insist on seeing the woman against her husband’s wishes, and his immediate concern was King’s Hall. He broke into a run, aware of Michael struggling to keep up, but the monk had enjoyed too many sumptuous meals at University expense, and his girth had expanded accordingly. He was a long way behind by the time Bartholomew reached Cambridge’s largest and most influential College, and rapped on the gatehouse door.
‘Thank God you are here at last, Doctor!’ cried the porter who answered. ‘Come in quickly. Master Cew is dying.’
King’s Hall was proud of its royal connections. It had been founded by Edward II forty years before, and was the College of choice for the kin of barons and high-ranking churchmen. Grateful alumni showered it with gifts, and it occupied by far the most sumptuous buildings in the town, set amid beautifully manicured grounds. Each Fellow had the unthinkable luxury of one or even two rooms to himself, and its table was among the finest in the country.
Bartholomew saw none of the tastefully understated elegance as he hurried through the College on the heels of the porter, but he did notice the students. All wore some form of armour and carried weapons, even though University rules forbade it. A few were in major holy orders, but even these had donned leather jerkins and toted thick wooden staffs.
‘We are expecting trouble,’ explained the porter. ‘There is a tale that Frenge is dead, and we will be blamed, even though we had nothing to do with it. Rough men from the town have been drinking all morning, so it is only a matter of time before they attack.’
‘Have you received a delivery of ale today?’ Bartholomew asked urgently. ‘From Frenge?’
‘We would not have accepted anything from him! He might have spat in it – or worse.’
‘Then what about from another brewer?’
The porter shook his head. ‘The only thing to arrive was a horoscope from Nigellus for Master Cew. Then Acting Warden Wayt said we should not open our doors again – other than to you – because too many townsmen are stupid with drink.’
‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew, sagging with relief. ‘Now tell me what ails Cew.’
‘Impending death,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘Would you like a soul-cake?’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the non-sequitur.
‘A soul-cake,’ repeated the porter, stopping to take one from a platter that stood on a table in the hallway; the air around them was rich with the scent of butter and spices. ‘Then you can say a prayer for my mother, who died last year.’
He turned at the sound of footsteps – Michael had caught up at last. Without a word, the monk snatched the biscuit from the porter’s hand and rammed it into his own mouth.
‘I need nourishment,’ he muttered, spraying crumbs down the front of his black habit as he spoke, ‘if I am to gambol around the town like a spring lamb.’
‘Then take several,’ said the porter, beginning to hurry forward again. ‘It is a shame to waste them, and I doubt we will be giving them to friendly callers this Hallow-tide. Wise scholars will stay home and townsmen will not be welcome. Not if they plan to accuse us of murder.’
‘That is a pity, because these are very nice,’ said Michael, who considered himself an expert on pastries. ‘A little sweet, perhaps, but there is a good balance of cinnamon and nutmeg.’
‘I am sorry Warden Shropham is away,’ whispered Bartholomew as they followed the porter through a labyrinth of corridors and halls. ‘He is much more reasonable than Wayt, and would never have sued Frenge in the first place.’
‘Wayt is a menace,’ agreed Michael, almost indecipherable through his next cake. ‘Shropham should have appointed someone else as his deputy, although from what I understand, Wayt simply announced that he was doing it and Shropham was too taken aback to object.’
Eventually, they reached the library, a huge room with a magnificent hammer-beam roof and purpose-built bookcases. Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement when he saw that Cew was not breathing his last, but standing on a shoulder-high windowsill with a dish on his head, a poker in one hand and an apple in the other. John Cew was a small man in his fifties, and the physician wondered how he had managed to scramble up there.
Two men were pleading with him to come down. One was Acting Warden Wayt, who was distinctive by having an unusually hairy face. The other was Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic prowess was nowhere near as impressive as he thought it was.
‘Your porter told me that Cew was dying,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly.
‘He is,’ averred Wayt. ‘Every day that passes sees more of his mind destroyed – and it is all Frenge’s fault. Cew was the greatest logician our College has ever known, but now look at him.’
‘He thinks he is the King of France,’ elaborated Dodenho. ‘The bowl is a crown, and the poker and apple his sceptre and orb.’
‘Have you come to pay homage to your monarch?’ demanded Cew in a booming voice that he would never have used had he been well. ‘Then kneel before us.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, watching Bartholomew push a table under the window so that he could stand on it and help Cew down. ‘He has been like this ever since Frenge startled him?’
Wayt nodded. ‘I have heard that a violent fright can turn a man’s wits, and that is what happened when Frenge hid behind a buttress and leapt out. I saw it happen, and I witnessed the terror on Cew’s face. It was a wicked thing to do.’
Bartholomew climbed on the table and offered Cew his hand. With great solemnity, Cew gave him the apple to hold while he made his descent. When he was down, he reclaimed the fruit and went to sit by the hearth, where he recited a list of all the French barons who had lost their lives at Poitiers, complete with a description of the armour they had worn. Unlucky chance had put Bartholomew at that particular battle, so he was able to say with certainty that Cew’s analysis was uncannily accurate.