A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘If we had destroyed Lenne’s handiwork, he would just have rebuilt it, and then there definitely would have been harm to our church,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been very crafty: the fire is as close to St Michael’s as it can be, without one twig over the boundary and—’

  He broke off when there was an urgent hammering on the gate. Walter the surly porter emerged grumbling from his lodge with his pet peacock under his arm, a bird that possessed a temper every bit as irascible as his own. He listened to the message that was delivered, then hurried towards the little knot of Fellows.

  ‘Trouble,’ he reported grimly. ‘Frenge has been murdered in the Austin Priory, and the town is saying that King’s Hall did it.’

  Besides being a physician and teacher of medicine, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his responsibility to declare an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for anyone who breathed his last on its property. He was paid threepence for every body he inspected, money he used to buy medicines for his poorest patients. As it had been a busy few weeks and his funds were low, he was grateful for the opportunity to replenish them, and fell into step at Michael’s side with something approaching enthusiasm.

  Unfortunately, the post did nothing for his reputation among the wealthy, who disliked the notion of being treated by a man whose last client might have been a cadaver. The poor were not too happy about it either, but as no other physician was willing to treat them free of charge, they tended to keep their reservations to themselves.

  Rumours about Frenge’s demise were already circulating, and the atmosphere was darker and more menacing than it had been earlier. Scholars no longer walked singly or in pairs, but formed larger groups for protection, while the town’s malcontents gathered in sullen gangs that loitered in doorways or under trees. Then Michael saw that a group of academics had cornered two bakers’ apprentices in St Michael’s churchyard, their antics partially concealed by the wafts of dense smoke that billowed from the bonfire at the back.

  ‘Stop,’ he commanded. The students turned in surprise. They were from Zachary, and their leader was Yerland, the lad who had tried to eavesdrop on the consilium. The bakers’ boys took the opportunity to flee.

  ‘We were only warning them to be mindful of the flames, Brother,’ said Yerland, all wounded innocence. ‘That fire might be on common land, but its sparks are flying towards University property. Look at them!’

  He was right, and Bartholomew noted with alarm that bright cinders were not only dancing over the top of St Michael’s roof, but were flying towards Gonville Hall and Michaelhouse, too. Several townsmen, careful to stay on their own side of the invisible line that marked the boundary, made challenging gestures that turned into jeers when the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner declined to respond. Zachary’s lads bristled, though.

  ‘Ignore them,’ ordered Michael sternly. ‘Brawlers will be fined – as will anyone not wearing his prescribed uniform.’

  The students had flouted the University’s ban on ostentatious displays of wealth, and had augmented their grey and cream livery with fashionably pointed shoes, feathered hats, a plethora of jewellery and multicoloured leggings.

  ‘It is Hallow-tide,’ explained Yerland petulently. ‘The townsmen are wearing their best clothes, so why should we not do the same?’

  ‘Because they are not scholars,’ retorted Michael. ‘Now go home, before your rule-breaking costs you a penny apiece.’

  The lads slouched away, although not without muttering that it was a Michaelhouse ploy to unsettle their opponents before the disceptatio. Michael treated the remarks with the contempt they deserved by pretending he had not heard.

  ‘Perhaps I was wrong to coax Wauter from their fold to ours,’ he sighed. ‘Irby is too gentle to be effective, and struggles to keep order without Wauter’s support.’

  ‘You poached Wauter?’ Bartholomew was shocked: there was an unwritten law in the University that foundations did not steal each other’s members.

  The monk shrugged. ‘We needed to fill the vacancy left by Thelnetham, and I adjudged him to be the best candidate. It was a good decision: he is a fine teacher, an excellent geometrician and his company is a pleasure. Besides, he was glad to escape – Zachary had offered Nigellus a place by then, and Wauter does not like him.’

  Bartholomew hoped such underhand tactics would not cause trouble at the disceptatio. He changed the subject as they walked away, tuning out the taunts from the folk around the bonfire.

  ‘If someone from King’s Hall did murder Frenge, why did it happen in the Austin Friary?’

  ‘King’s Hall did not kill him,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘At least, I hope not, because it will create a rift that will not be easily mended. So bear that in mind when you make your report, please, Matt: accident or suicide, but definitely not murder. Is that clear?’

  Bartholomew winced. He was not a good liar, and hoped such a deception would not be necessary. He walked faster, wanting the matter resolved as quickly as possible. Moreover, he disliked the uneasy mood in the streets. He was more popular than most members of the University, partly for his care of paupers, but also because he had kin in the town – a sister, who had recently assumed control of her late husband’s cloth business. But there was no point in courting trouble, and the wisest course of action was to go home as soon as possible and stay there.

  They arrived at the Austin convent, which was shielded from the outside world by high walls and two gates: the main entrance on St Bene’t’s Street, and a smaller one at the back, although this opened on to the canal known as the King’s Ditch and could only be reached by boat. They knocked at the front gate, and were admitted by a burly friar named Hamo de Hythe, one of the two Austins who often accompanied Prior Joliet to Michaelhouse.

  Like Joliet, Hamo was also a talented artist, although it seemed impossible that such huge fists could produce such beautifully delicate images. He rarely spoke in more than monosyllables, and was a great mountain of a man who could have done with a much larger habit.

  Inside, the Austins’ domain was much like any other Cambridge convent. Its chapel formed the heart of the community, and huddled around it were dormitory, refectory, kitchen, stable, storehouses and sheds. Most were timber-built with thatched roofs, although the chapel was of stone, an intimate, pretty place pierced by lancet windows and famed for its fabulous murals. The sound of chanting emanated from within.

  Hamo led the way inside, and the clanking of the door made two of the kneeling brethren break off their prayers to greet the visitors. One was Prior Joliet, and the other was his almoner Robert, a tall, rangy man with a shock of long white hair and the eccentric bearing of the dedicated academic. Robert was the other friar Joliet took to Michaelhouse, although to teach rather than paint. He was responsible for distributing alms, which he did with a quiet, kindly compassion that did much to make the Austins the most popular Order in the town.

  ‘We were praying for Frenge’s soul,’ Joliet explained. His round face was pale, and his hands shook as he plucked agitatedly at a loose thread on his sleeve. ‘It seemed the right thing to do, although we have no experience of violence committed on holy ground.’

  ‘The Dominicans, Franciscans and Carmelites are used to it,’ elaborated Robert. ‘But we have always managed to remain aloof from the spats between University and town.’

  ‘“Aloof” is the wrong word,’ said Joliet unhappily. ‘Apart might be better.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Michael, unwilling to waste time on semantics.

  Joliet rubbed his eyes with unsteady fingers. ‘The town feels oddly dangerous today, so just before sext, Hamo went to check that our back gate was shut and found …’ He trailed off.

  ‘Frenge,’ finished Hamo helpfully.

  Robert hastened to supply a bit more detail. ‘The gate was open and Frenge was lying there, dead. The town is saying that he was murdered by King’s Hall, because of his vow that he would never p
ay for the damage he did there.’

  Joliet looked as though he might be sick. ‘When we heard Hamo shout, we raced to see what was the matter. We did our best to revive Frenge, but he was well past any help we could give.’

  ‘When terrible things like this happen, it makes me wonder whether our predecessors might have been wiser to found our University out in the Fens,’ said Robert. He fingered the cross he wore around his neck; it had been carved of wood so dark that it appeared black.

  ‘It would certainly have made for a more peaceful life,’ agreed Michael.

  Joliet led the way out of the chapel to the greasy grey snake of the King’s Ditch, an ancient waterway that had been built to defend the town from attacks from the east. It was as wide as the river but its flow was sluggish, which meant that anything tossed in it tended to stay. As a result, it comprised a reeking, sulphurous sludge of sewage, entrails from the slaughterhouses and miscellaneous rubbish.

  As they approached, they saw they were not the first to arrive. Sheriff Tulyet was already there. Tulyet was slightly built with a boyish face, and more than one criminal had lived to regret making the assumption that youthful looks equalled weakness. He and Michael had worked hard to develop an efficient working relationship, one unblighted by the usual jurisdictional spats.

  Puzzled, Bartholomew wondered why Joliet had not stayed with him – it was rude to leave a high-ranking official on his own – but the answer soon became clear: Tulyet had brought his son. Dickon was only ten years old, but was already taller than his father, and was a mean-spirited bully. Because he bore no resemblance to either of his parents, in looks or temperament, there was a rumour that he had been sired by the Devil. By rights, he should have been sent to another wealthy household to begin knightly training, but his reputation had gone before him and Tulyet had been unable to find one that would take him.

  ‘This is bad news,’ said Tulyet without preamble. ‘Even if Frenge’s death is natural, the town will assume the worst. Dickon! Do not prod the body with your sword. It is disrespectful.’

  ‘I hope people do not think that we had anything to do with the poor man’s demise,’ said Joliet unhappily, as Bartholomew, one wary eye on Dickon’s blade, knelt next to Frenge and began his examination.

  ‘They will certainly suspect a scholar,’ replied Tulyet. ‘If not an Austin, then someone from King’s Hall.’

  ‘They will deny it,’ said Michael.

  ‘They will,’ agreed Robert. ‘I have already heard several holler that Frenge broke in to make good on his threat to damage more University property, and was struck down for his temerity.’

  ‘The town will not appreciate that being said about one of its favourite brewers,’ said Tulyet. He scowled when Bartholomew jerked backwards suddenly. ‘Dickon! Step away from the corpse and let Matt work in peace. And sheathe your sword this instant!’

  Bartholomew waited until Dickon had complied before resuming his inspection, much happier once there was no longer a sharp weapon waving about so close to his head.

  ‘So why was Frenge here?’ asked Michael of the Austins. ‘Was he visiting or was he intent on mischief?’

  ‘Mischief,’ replied Hamo tersely.

  ‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘As you know, there are only two ways into our grounds: the main gate and this one. Frenge did not come to the front, which means he must have crossed the ditch in a boat – slyly and secretly.’

  ‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Joliet tearfully. ‘We brew our own ale, so we are not among his customers. None of us know him other than by sight – and only then because his spat with King’s Hall earned him a certain notoriety.’

  ‘What about your servants?’ asked Tulyet.

  ‘We do not have any,’ replied Robert, slightly smug. ‘We prefer to channel our resources into alms, rather than catering to our own comforts.’

  ‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew stood. ‘What can you tell us?’

  ‘Frenge has not been dead long,’ replied the physician. ‘The damp mud on his boots indicates that he was walking around in them not long since, and there is a residual warmth in his body, despite the coolness of the day.’

  ‘More importantly, how did he die?’ asked Tulyet.

  ‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There are burns on his mouth and hands, and considerable damage to his throat. I have never seen a clearer case of murder.’

  ‘Damn it, Matt!’ muttered Michael. ‘I thought I told you to declare it accident or suicide.’

  The reeking King’s Ditch was no place for a serious discussion, so once Frenge had been loaded on to a stretcher and taken to the nearest town church, Joliet invited everyone to his house, which transpired to be a modest cottage with spartan furnishings. It was spotlessly clean, though, and the only extravagance was a small collection of theological tomes.

  ‘I agree with Michael,’ said Tulyet, once they were settled with cups of watery ale. The convent did not run to cakes, so pieces of bread dusted with herbs were provided instead. Dickon took one bite, pulled a face and lobbed the rest out of the window, much to his father’s chagrin. ‘We cannot let this be murder: Frenge must have taken this toxin by mistake.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Finger-shaped bruises on his jaws suggest that he was forced to drink it. And even if I am wrong, and he did swallow it willingly, why would he kill himself here? It is not on the beaten track, so I sincerely doubt he just happened to be passing when he was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to commit suicide.’

  ‘He would not have killed himself here,’ stated Joliet firmly. ‘We have done nothing to earn his ire. If he had wanted to make that sort of point, he would have gone to King’s Hall.’

  ‘But security has been increased at King’s Hall,’ countered Michael. ‘He may have tried to break in, but failed, so came here instead.’

  ‘But why?’ pressed Joliet. ‘Why not another College? Or better yet, a hostel – few of them have walls or fortified gates.’

  ‘Perhaps he did break into King’s Hall,’ suggested Tulyet soberly, ‘but was caught. Then, keen to avoid trouble, the scholars brought his murdered corpse here.’

  ‘They are not stupid,’ said Michael bitingly. ‘They would have dumped him in the town, not in another part of the University.’

  ‘Assemble our brethren, Hamo,’ ordered Prior Joliet tiredly. ‘Perhaps one of them knows something that will allow us to solve this mystery. I am afraid I have nothing to report – as I said, I knew Frenge by sight and reputation, but I never met him.’

  ‘Nor had I,’ said Robert, watching Hamo shuffle from the room. ‘He never came here for alms. Well, why would he? Brewers are not poor.’

  Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘Tell us about the poison. If we can identify it, perhaps it will lead us to the culprit.’

  ‘It will not,’ predicted the physician. ‘It was the kind of caustic substance that can be found in many homes and businesses – used for cleaning, scouring, killing fleas and dissolving residues. Some everyday solutions are extremely toxic.’

  ‘So it might have been something Frenge owned himself?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘All brewers like to sample their wares, so perhaps he gulped down a jug of this stuff before he knew what he was doing, and staggered here in search of help.’

  ‘Staggered across the town, into a boat and over the King’s Ditch?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That seems unlikely for a dying man.’

  ‘But we cannot allow a verdict of murder!’ said Tulyet irritably. ‘The town will blame scholars, regardless of who is the culprit, because of the bad blood between Frenge and King’s Hall. And then we shall have another of our interminable spats.’

  ‘So what do you suggest, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘That we lie?’

  ‘I have heard worse ideas. And in the interests of keeping the peace …’

  Michael considered for a moment but then regretfully shook his head. ‘We would never succeed in keeping it quiet, not when a whole convent knows wha
t really happened.’

  ‘My friars can be trusted,’ objected Joliet, offended.

  ‘Even so, the truth will out,’ said Michael. ‘It always does. The best we can do is stress that the Sheriff and Senior Proctor will leave no stone unturned in their pursuit of the truth.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Tulyet reluctantly. ‘Although the villain will not be a townsman. This crime has University written all over it.’

  Michael regarded him coolly. ‘I beg to differ, but we shall see. Ah! Here is Hamo with the other Austins. Let us hope they know something useful, because the best way to avert trouble will be to arrest the culprit as quickly as possible.’

  Unfortunately, none of the twenty or so friars could help. No one had been near the back gate that day, because they had either been beautifying the chapel for Hallow-tide, or helping to cook the huge vat of soup they planned to distribute to beggars as a special treat.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Joliet gloomily, after the last one had gone. ‘Obviously, if we knew such a terrible thing was in the offing, we would have been more observant.’

  ‘We had better lock the back gate from now on, Father Prior,’ said Robert worriedly. ‘We do not want this happening again.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Joliet fervently, and then sighed. ‘Perhaps you are right to wish that our University had been founded in the Fens, Robert. I dislike living in a place that does not want me.’

  ‘It is unfortunate,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the town will accept us eventually.’

  ‘Will it?’ asked Joliet bleakly. ‘We have been here for a century and a half, and it shows no sign of welcoming us yet. I am beginning to think it never will.’

  ‘Look!’ cried Dickon with sudden glee, pointing a plump and grubby finger at the sky. ‘Sparks and flames! All coming from St Michael’s Church. It is on fire!’

  CHAPTER 2

  St Michael’s Church was a pretty place, and Michaelhouse revelled in the fact that it alone of the eight Cambridge Colleges actually owned the place where it performed its daily devotions. But it was more than a status symbol to Bartholomew: it was a haven from the hectic round that comprised his life, and the final resting place of many much-loved colleagues. Heart in his mouth, he raced towards it, hating the notion that it might be lost.