Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Fiction, #Crime, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective, #General
A Poisonous Plot
Susanna Gregory
was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant, doing fieldwork with whales, seals and walruses during seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.
She is the creator of the Thomas Chaloner series of mysteries set in Restoration London as well as the Matthew Bartholomew books, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.
The Matthew Bartholomew Series
A Plague on Both Your Houses
An Unholy Alliance
A Bone of Contention
A Deadly Brew
A Wicked Deed
A Masterly Murder
An Order for Death
A Summer of Discontent
A Killer in Winter
The Hand of Justice
The Mark of a Murderer
The Tarnished Chalice
To Kill or Cure
The Devil’s Disciples
A Vein of Deceit
The Killer of Pilgrims
Mystery in the Minster
Murder by the Book
The Lost Abbot
Death of a Scholar
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A Conspiracy of Violence
Blood on the Strand
The Butcher of Smithfield
The Westminster Poisoner
A Murder on London Bridge
The Body in the Thames
The Piccadilly Plot
Death in St James’s Park
Murder on High Holborn
The Cheapside Corpse
COPYRIGHT
Published by sphere
ISBN: 9781405516839
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Susanna Gregory 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
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Little, Brown Book Group
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Contents
For Brad and Mary Anne Blaine
Barnwell Priory, near Cambridge, September 1358
Nigellus de Thornton eyed the dying Augustinian dispassionately. What had started as a mild fever a month ago had gradually progressed to violent stomach cramps, agonising headaches and a debilitating weakness. Nigellus had been a physician for many years and he knew the signs: John Wrattlesworth would not live to see another dawn.
‘He has eaten nothing for days,’ whispered Prior Ralph de Norton, hovering anxiously on the other side of the bed. He was fond of Wrattlesworth and was distressed by his plight – Wrattlesworth had been a kindly and unassuming presence at Barnwell for nearly three quarters of a century, and Norton had not forgotten the older man’s support and guidance when he himself had first come to rule. ‘And he has drunk nothing but your medicine and our elderflower wine.’
Nigellus winced on Wrattlesworth’s behalf. The Augustinian canons were very proud of the acidic brews they fermented themselves, although few who tasted them thought they had cause to be. ‘How much elderflower wine?’
‘One or two cups a day. The vintage this year is unusually fine, and we hoped a few sips of such sweet nectar would help him rally.’
‘Christ God,’ muttered Nigellus. He cleared his throat. ‘What about the remedies I prescribed? Has he had those?’
‘Of course – every electuary, tonic, infusion and decoction. Yet still he continues to sink.’ Norton’s voice cracked as he added pleadingly, ‘Do you have
nothing
that works?’
Nigellus was affronted. ‘The fault does not lie with my medicines. If they have not done what was expected, it is because they have been improperly applied.’ He raised an imperious hand when the Prior began to object. ‘We shall try Gilbert Water next. However, it is costly – it contains crabs’ eyes, ambergris, ground pearls and other expensive ingredients.’
‘I care nothing for the price, not if it makes him well again. But perhaps we should summon another physician. Cambridge is less than two miles away, and Bartholomew at Michaelhouse or Rougham of Gonville Hall would—’
‘Neither will do anything that I have not already tried,’ said Nigellus shortly. He was tired of hearing about the University’s
medici
and their legendary skills. He had more experience than Bartholomew and Rougham put together, and considered himself by far the superior practitioner. ‘Besides, one is away and the other is far too busy to trail all the way out here.’
Unhappily, Norton watched him write more instructions for the apothecary. Nigellus exuded the arrogant confidence that was often found in members of the medical profession, but Norton was far from convinced that the man’s hubris was justified, and heartily wished one of the College men had been available instead. When Nigellus had finished, Norton escorted him to the gate.
‘I understand you will become a member of the University yourself this term,’ he said, good manners compelling him to make polite conversation, despite the apathy he felt towards the man. ‘You have been offered a post in Zachary Hostel, and will leave our village to take it up.’
‘Yes,’ said Nigellus, gratified that the Prior had heard about his good fortune. After all, what greater acknowledgement of his abilities than to be courted by one of the
studium generale
’s richest and most respected foundations? ‘New patients from the town will flock to me, of course, but I shall not abandon my old ones.’
‘Oh, I am so glad.’ Norton tried to inject a note of grateful enthusiasm into his voice, but did not succeed, and received a sharp glare in return.
Nigellus climbed on his horse. Although Barnwell was tiny, comprising just the priory, a few cottages and a leper hospital, he would never demean himself by making his rounds on foot. He rode to his next patient, a woman with symptoms not unlike Wrattlesworth’s. Olma Birton was the reeve’s wife, a lady who had never enjoyed robust health, and who had taken a downward turn over the past three or four weeks.
‘How is she?’ he asked as he entered the stone-built house that nestled prettily in a copse of ancient oaks. ‘Any better?’
‘Worse,’ replied Birton tersely. ‘And Egbert died last night.’
‘Egbert?’ queried Nigellus blankly.
Birton scowled at him. ‘My uncle. You came three days ago to calculate his horoscope.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Nigellus recalled an ancient person with wispy white hair and no teeth. ‘He was unable to supply me with the dates I needed for an accurate forecast, and I did warn you that any treatment I prescribed might not be effective.’
‘Well, it failed completely,’ said Birton. ‘So I hope you do better with Olma. The last time you were here, you told me that she and Egbert were suffering from different ailments, but you are wrong. They fell ill within days of each other and—’
‘The timing of their maladies is irrelevant,’ said Nigellus sharply, annoyed that the reeve should dare presume to tell him his business. Did
he
dispense advice about harvesting crops or mending fences? No, he did not, and Birton should mind his tongue.
‘They both had headaches, pains in the innards and weak limbs,’ the reeve persisted. ‘And what about Canon Wrattlesworth? He is suffering from the same symptoms that—’
‘His illness is none of your affair. Now, do you want me to see your wife or not?’
Nigellus could see that Birton itched to send him packing, but the curmudgeonly reeve loved his wife, and would never do anything that might be to her disadvantage. Nigellus was glad: Birton was wealthy, and no physician liked to lose a good source of income. He followed the reeve to a pleasant bedchamber on the upper floor, where Olma lay grey-faced and barely conscious.
‘Did you rub her cheeks with snail juice, as I ordered?’ he asked, laying two fingers on her neck to assess the strength of her life-beat. He could barely feel it at all.
‘No,’ replied Birton in a strangled whisper, gazing at the woman who had shared his life for the past three decades. ‘She would not have liked it. She is a fastidious lady.’
‘Then it is your fault she has slipped into this fatal decline,’ said Nigellus brutally. ‘You promised to follow my orders, but this is the third time you have flouted them. How can you expect her to recover when you withhold the treatment that will save her life?’
Birton hung his head while Nigellus busied himself about the patient, but there was nothing he could do, and it was not long before Olma breathed her last. Nigellus left Birton to his grieving and rode to Cambridge, aiming to inspect his new quarters in Zachary Hostel – they were being redecorated and he was keen to ensure that the right colours were being used. He would collect his fee from Birton the following day: he was not so insensitive as to ask for it while the man was still in a state of shock.
‘I have had a trying morning,’ he sighed when he arrived at Zachary, hoping to find a sympathetic ear in John Kellawe, the hostel’s theologian. ‘Olma Birton died an hour ago, while Canon Wrattlesworth will follow her to the grave tonight.’
Kellawe raised his eyebrows. He hailed from the north, and was noted for his sharp tongue and brusque manners, along with a religious fanaticism that even pious men found alarming. He was an unattractive specimen, with a pugnacious jaw and wild eyes.
‘You lost two patients last week as well,’ he remarked. ‘The Prior’s cook and gardener. That makes four dead – a lot gone in so short a space of time. Especially in a small place like Barnwell.’
‘Five, not four,’ sighed Nigellus. ‘Birton’s uncle is dead, too.’
‘Of the same disease?’ asked Kellawe in alarm. ‘There are rumours that the plague is poised to return …’
‘These patients do not have the plague: they died of completely separate causes,’ declared Nigellus confidently. He glanced up as an exhausted messenger staggered through the door, breathing hard. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Prior Norton needs you again,’ gasped the lad. ‘Another canon is ill, suffering identical symptoms to Wrattlesworth. You must come at once.’
‘“Completely separate causes”, Nigellus?’ asked Kellawe sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure,’ snapped Nigellus, nettled. ‘Norton is not a physician – he is not qualified to say whether the symptoms are identical or not.’
‘Then let us hope you are right,’ said Kellawe grimly.
Cambridge, All Hallows’ Eve 1358
Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the University in Cambridge, had never liked the three-day festival of Hallow-tide. To him, it was a reminder that the warm reds and ambers of autumn were about to fade to the cold grey fogs of November, and that the days would soon grow depressingly short.
No one else at the College of Michaelhouse shared this opinion, however, and an atmosphere of happy expectation blossomed as the Master dismissed his scholars from the breakfast table. There would be a feast that night, and as such extravagance was rare, students, Fellows and servants alike could hardly contain their excitement. All Hallows’ Eve would be followed by All Saints’ Day and then All Souls, the latter of which was particularly important to Michaelhouse, as it was the anniversary of their founder’s death. Usually, they spent the day on their knees, saying masses for his soul, but things were going to be different that year.
‘I am not sure whether to be pleased or worried,’ said Brother Michael to the other Fellows as they repaired to the conclave – the comfortable chamber adjoining the hall that was off-limits to students. Michael was a portly Benedictine who taught theology, and was Bartholomew’s closest friend. ‘On one hand, I am delighted that we won the honour of hosting the reception after the All Souls’ debate this year, but on the other, it will cost a lot of money – money we do not have.’
‘It is an investment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, the Master. He had been chief henchman for an archbishop before deciding that life as a scholar would be more interesting, and still looked more like a warrior than an academic. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was fair and level-headed, and his Fellows had no complaints about his rule. ‘When the town’s wealthy elite see the princely show we put on, they will fall over themselves to give us money.’