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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Thank God,’ gasped Michael, when they arrived to find the bonfire blazing merrily but the church unscathed. ‘I was sure disaster had struck.’

  Bartholomew nodded as he leaned against a buttress to catch his breath, thinking sourly that there had been no need for the townsfolk to have built their pyre quite so high. Perhaps they did hope it would damage University property, which was galling, as Michaelhouse had tried hard to win their affection. Not only did he physick many of them without charge, but Michael ran a choir that was essentially an excuse to provide the needy with free food, while the other Fellows gave money they could ill afford to charitable causes or said free Masses for anyone who asked.

  ‘People have short and selective memories,’ said Michael soberly, reading his friend’s thoughts. ‘But our church still stands – for now, at least – so we had better visit the brewery to break the news of Frenge’s death before they hear it from someone else.’

  They began to walk along the High Street. It was busy with people who were either ‘souling’ – earning cakes in return for prayers for the dead – or making last-minute adjustments to their bonfires. Those who were to take part in the torchlit procession were beginning to assemble, but the atmosphere was more menacing than celebratory, and both scholars were glad to turn down a road that was devoid of revellers.

  Water Lane, where Frenge’s brewery was located, was one of several alleys that ran between Milne Street and the river. It was fairly well maintained because it was in constant use by the wagons that carried goods to and from the wharf, and boasted a number of fine houses. Some belonged to the merchants whose warehouses stood nearby, but most had been bought by scholars after the plague had emptied the area, and were now hostels. The largest and grandest was Zachary, which had recently been fitted with new window shutters – a gift from one of its many wealthy members.

  Unlike most of the river thoroughfares, Water Lane did not end in a muddy slope and a rickety pier. It finished in a spacious cobbled yard dominated by two very different but equally handsome buildings, and a spanking new jetty. Of the buildings, one was the brewery, while the other was owned by Bartholomew’s sister, Edith Stanmore.

  A few weeks before, Edith had startled her brother and everyone else who knew her by announcing a decision to expand her late husband’s highly profitable cloth business. She had achieved this by entering the dyeing trade, and had acquired premises, equipment and a workforce before anyone had really understood what she was doing – which was unfortunate, as the venture had aroused a lot of ill feeling. There were two main reasons for this: first, dyeing was a noxious process, and generated a lot of bad smells and unwholesome effluent; and second, she had chosen to hire staff from a controversial source.

  ‘Prostitutes,’ said Michael, as two women emerged. ‘I understand Edith wanting to do something good for the town’s downtrodden, but did she have to open her doors to harlots?’

  ‘They are not harlots,’ objected Bartholomew. He loved his sister, who had raised him after the premature death of their parents, and disliked anyone disparaging her. Moreover, helping the women had allowed Edith to think of something other than how much she missed her beloved Oswald, and he was glad to see the sparkle back in her eyes after so many weeks of sorrow. ‘They might have walked the streets once, but now they are gainfully and decently employed.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, although doubt was clear in his face. ‘However, the place reeks and it fouls the river. All dyeworks do, which is why there are laws stipulating that they must be sited well away from any settlement. It is unfortunate she managed to find a way around them.’

  ‘You make her sound sly,’ said Bartholomew resentfully. ‘She is not.’

  ‘Not as a rule. However, she did commission Cambridge’s most slippery lawyer to look for a legal loophole – and Stephen’s contention that dyeworks are clean because they use a lot of water is disingenuous. I am surprised you support her in this, because such disgusting waste must surely be harmful to health.’

  Bartholomew did not reply, because the truth was that he was concerned about the dyeworks’ effluent. He and Edith quarrelled constantly about it, so it was a sore subject for him – he hated being at loggerheads with her, and wished she had never started the scheme in the first place. Oswald Stanmore had not dyed his own wares in the middle of the town, so why did she have to do it? He supposed he would have to try again to persuade her to shut the place down, or move it somewhere out of sight and mind, although it was not a prospect he relished – Edith had thrown herself wholeheartedly into saving ‘her ladies’.

  Seeing the physician was unwilling to discuss it further, Michael marched towards the brewery and rapped on the door. ‘Frenge owns … owned this business with a man named Shirwynk,’ he said. ‘Shirwynk is a very unpleasant individual, and I have had several altercations with him over the last few weeks.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Selling inferior brews, picking fights with scholars, grazing his horses on College land. I hope he does not turn violent when he learns that Frenge is dead.’ Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘And I hope our interview with him does not take long, because I should hate to miss the feast.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You think about your stomach as you are about to deliver news of an untimely death? Not to mention the fact that the town is on the verge of a riot, you have a murder to solve, and there is a bonfire next to our church that may set it alight at any moment?’

  Michael shot him a disagreeable look and hammered on the door again. ‘I notice you say that I, not we, have a murder to solve. I shall need your help if I am to find the culprit.’

  ‘I cannot, Brother. Nigellus and Rougham are coming to put my students through a mock disputation in the morning, so I will be busy.’

  ‘You plan to let Nigellus loose on your pupils?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘Why? The man is an ass, and I would sooner die than call on him for medical assistance.’

  ‘Those are strong words, Brother. What has he done to vex you?’

  ‘He is smug, arrogant, overbearing and as clever as clay. He is probably an Oxford man.’

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘As am I, Brother, in case you had forgotten.’

  ‘Yes, but you had the intelligence to abandon the Other Place and come here as soon as you were qualified, whereas Nigellus has been stagnating at Barnwell for the past forty years. So am I right? Did Nigellus learn his medicine at Oxford?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Followed by practical training in Norwich. Or so he says.’

  ‘You do not believe him?’

  ‘He is probably telling the truth. Unfortunately, he seems to have learned nothing since, and some of his skills could do with updating.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘Zachary should never have recruited him. His abrasive personality does nothing to make our University more popular among the townsfolk.’

  ‘He is not an easy man, which is why I must be there tomorrow, to make sure everything goes smoothly.’ Bartholomew sighed ruefully. ‘And to ensure that he and Rougham do not teach my lads a lot of nonsense. I should have refused when they made the offer, but I did not want to offend the only two other medici in the University.’

  ‘Your boys are more than capable of distinguishing the intelligent from the twaddle, and I need you. Besides, you always object to lending a hand but we both know you will do it in the end. We go through the same charade every time there is a suspicious death.’

  ‘I do not—’ began Bartholomew indignantly.

  ‘Just agree to help me, Matt,’ said Michael testily. ‘It will save us both a lot of trouble.’

  Bartholomew knew the monk was right, although it galled him to admit it. He leaned against the wall and kicked moodily at the cobbles, resenting the loss of precious teaching time. Then there was a loud clatter from the dyeworks, followed by a rank smell that grew stronger with every breath. He detected the distinct tang of old urine, mixed unpleasantly with brimstone and som
ething so powerful that he wondered if it was melting his lungs.

  He and Michael were not the only ones who thought the dyeworks should move away from the town, and dozens of people had gathered to protest when Edith had first opened her doors. Most had given up when they realised the place was there to stay, but a few diehards persisted. That day, they comprised a handful of scholars from the nearby hostels, who claimed the fumes were distracting them from their studies, and an equal number from the town, who objected to the fact that laws had been twisted to allow Edith to start the business in the first place.

  Bartholomew watched them wave their fists as the reek rolled out, although it was not long before the angry voices turned against each other – the two sides might have a common cause, but they still could not bring themselves to join forces. All he hoped was that the dyeworks would not provide the spark that would ignite the latest trouble that was bubbling.

  It was some time before the brewery door was hauled open – by a great bear of a man who wore a sleeveless leather tunic that revealed hairy shoulders; his features were blunt and pugilistic.

  ‘You again,’ he said coolly to Michael. ‘What now?’

  ‘We bring sad news, Shirwynk,’ said Michael kindly. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘If you must,’ replied Shirwynk ungraciously. ‘Although no decent townsman likes having scholar-scum on his property, so say your piece quick and get out.’

  He turned and stalked inside, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to follow as they would. The place smelled strongly but not unpleasantly of barley and yeast, and was full of the huge vats used to ferment ale. A lad of eighteen or nineteen lounged against one. He was unshaven, dour-faced, and he looked like the kind of youth who would find fault with everything. He scowled at the scholars and spat, narrowly missing Bartholomew’s foot.

  ‘My son Peyn,’ said Shirwynk, nodding towards him with obvious pride. ‘He is going to Westminster soon, to work in the Treasury.’

  ‘Is he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Such posts were highly sought after, and the slovenly Peyn did not look like the kind of person who would appeal to the fastidious and exacting officials who ran the country’s finances.

  ‘Yes,’ said Shirwynk tightly, sensing an insult in the response. ‘Now what do you want?’

  ‘It is Frenge,’ began Michael, but then could not resist taking the opportunity to fish for information before breaking the news. ‘Do you know where he might be?’

  ‘We are not his keepers,’ replied Peyn insolently. ‘All we can tell you is that he went out just after terce – five hours ago now – to deliver ale to King’s Hall.’

  Bartholomew did some quick calculations: that left a three-hour window between when Frenge had left the brewery and when the Austins had found the body.

  ‘Why would he go there?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘He hates the place.’

  ‘Perhaps the barrel was a peace offering,’ said Peyn, with the kind of smirk that suggested he thought it highly unlikely.

  Bartholomew experienced a growing sense of unease. Had Frenge done something sly to the ale, something that would lay an entire College low? And if so, had King’s Hall seen through the plot and forced him to swallow the stuff himself? It would certainly explain the bruises on his jaw. But then how had Frenge’s body gone from the College to the Austin Priory?

  ‘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 an
d 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.