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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘The furrier?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Lenne had hacked horribly the previous evening, but he had not appeared to be on his deathbed.

  Joliet nodded. ‘He is Nigellus’s patient – his ailment has something to do with metal, apparently, although I am not sure what. Nigellus’s message said that death was imminent, so you must excuse me – I promised to be with Lenne at the end, and I have a feeling that the lad Nigellus hired was not the quickest. I may already be too late.’

  He hurried away, while Bartholomew recalled Nigellus claiming that his failure to arrive on time at Michaelhouse was due to a dying patient. Bartholomew was unimpressed: Lenne should not have been abandoned by his medicus at such a time. It was unprofessional.

  ‘Did your novices read that extract I set them yesterday, Brother?’ asked Robert, grimacing when his pectoral cross caught on a corner of the book, pulling it tight around his neck. He nodded his thanks when Michael pulled it free for him. ‘Or shall I give my lecture tomorrow instead? I imagine you were all busy preparing for the feast.’

  ‘We were,’ nodded Michael. ‘However, you cannot teach at Michaelhouse today – or paint, for that matter – because the University’s medici are in our hall, showing everyone how to conduct a disputation.’

  Robert regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean Rougham and Nigellus? You let them loose on your students? Heavens! You are brave.’

  Michael laughed. ‘It will keep them occupied while we try to find out what happened to Frenge. And speaking of Frenge, we should inspect the place where he died in daylight. May we visit you later?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Robert. ‘Come at noon and share our dinner. It is nothing like the sumptuous fare at Michaelhouse, of course, but it is wholesome and plentiful.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael, never one to refuse free victuals. Then he scowled. ‘Here come those Zachary men, and not one is wearing his academic tabard. It seems my threats of further fines have gone unheeded.’

  Robert regarded them unhappily. ‘The town resents the way they flaunt their wealth with these ostentatious clothes. If our University were out in the Fens, Zachary would not feel the need to bother, as there would be no women to impress.’

  ‘Lust,’ growled Hamo, the master of the one-word sentence.

  ‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘Lust would not be a problem in the marshes, and Zachary would be more inclined to concentrate on their studies.’

  The Zachary scholars were an imposing sight in their finery, and anyone might have been forgiven for thinking that they were burgesses. They were led by Morys, who wore a different set of clothes that day, but ones that were still reminiscent of an angry insect. Purple-lipped Segeforde was on one side of him, while the fanatical Kellawe was on the other. Their students strutted behind, defiant and gleeful – an attitude that suggested they were out without their Principal’s permission. Michael had been right to warn Irby that Morys aimed to usurp his power.

  ‘It is a holiday,’ declared Morys insolently, as Michael draw breath for a reprimand. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell says we can suspend our membership of the University for Hallow-tide, so do not think of fining us again. We are no longer under your jurisdiction.’

  ‘You cannot opt in and out as the whim takes you,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if Tynkell told you otherwise, then he is sadly mistaken.’

  ‘Well, he issued a writ that entitles us to do as we please anyway,’ said Kellawe smugly. He spoke with a thick northern accent that was difficult to penetrate, and had a habit of jutting out his lower jaw belligerently when he spoke. ‘You may contest it if you like, but by the time lawyers have debated the matter, Hallow-tide will be over, so you may as well not bother.’

  ‘I threatened to write to Tynkell’s mother if he refused my request,’ smirked Morys, ‘so he is unlikely to retract what he has granted. Besides, wearing secular clothes is nothing compared to the harm his sister is doing.’ He stabbed a finger at Bartholomew.

  ‘She has hired whores,’ elaborated Kellawe, his eyes blazing rather wildly. ‘Those dyeworks are nothing but a brothel.’

  He turned and stalked away before Bartholomew could defend her. The others followed, clearly of the belief that they had won the confrontation. Bartholomew started after them – no one abused his beloved Edith – but Michael stopped him.

  ‘Ignore them: they are not worth a quarrel. Unlike Tynkell. What was he thinking to issue such a document? He cannot be permitted to make these decisions without consulting me. Does he want the town to attack us?’

  He released Bartholomew and stamped towards St Mary the Great, Shirwynk temporarily forgotten. Bartholomew stared at the retreating figure of Kellawe for a moment, tempted to go after him anyway, but Michael was right – the Franciscan was not worth the trouble. He followed Michael instead, catching up just as the monk marched into Tynkell’s office.

  Tynkell was a meek, timid man who had never wanted high office, and who had been as astonished as anyone when a technicality had seen him elected Chancellor. He was thin, wan, and had an unfortunate aversion to hygiene, which meant his chamber was rarely a pleasant place to be. He was sitting at a table that was piled high with documents representing the more tedious aspects of running a studium generale, work that had been delegated to him by Michael.

  ‘You have some explaining to do,’ the monk began without preamble. ‘Regarding Zachary Hostel’s—Oh, you have company.’

  The ‘company’ was Stephen the lawyer, a fox-faced man with sly eyes. It was Stephen who had told Edith how to circumvent the laws regarding noisome industries, and who had disappointed Michaelhouse by electing to give his much-coveted collection of books to Gonville.

  ‘We were discussing architecture,’ said Stephen pleasantly, unperturbed by the monk’s whirlwind entry. ‘I should have liked to have been an architect, but my tutors thought my mind was better suited to law. However, I retain a deep interest in the subject.’

  ‘So do Michaelhouse’s students,’ retorted Michael pointedly. ‘And they had hoped to read some books about it.’

  ‘Then I am sorry, but Gonville is more likely to be here in ten years’ time than your College,’ explained Stephen. ‘It is nothing personal, and I must consider my own needs first.’

  Michael blinked. ‘What are you talking about? We are by far the most secure College in the University. We own lands in Suffolk, Staffordshire and Norfolk, and we were granted a huge benefaction earlier this year from no less a person than the Archbishop of York.’

  He was grossly exaggerating the value of the College’s holdings, but Stephen remained unconvinced even so. ‘I have made my decision and I will not change my mind. The matter is closed.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Michael, the curt tone of his voice suggesting that if Stephen had come to beg a favour, it would be refused.

  ‘To give you some friendly and well-intentioned advice – that King’s Hall should drop their case against Frenge’s estate.’

  Tynkell frowned. ‘But it was you who told them that death is no excuse in the eyes of the law, and that Frenge’s brewery will still be liable to pay their claims for damages.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Stephen silkily. ‘But that was before Shirwynk hired me. Now I am recommending that King’s Hall settles the case out of court, before they lose a lot of money.’

  ‘Money is not the issue here,’ said Michael, making no attempt to hide his distaste for the lawyer’s duplicity. ‘Our relationship with the town is – so I shall speak to Wayt and ask him to withdraw in the interests of peace. None of us want a war. Well, some of us do not: I am not sure that is true of the man who allowed Edith to build her filthy dyeworks.’

  Stephen shrugged. ‘It was all perfectly legal, I assure you. But to return to the matter in question, Shirwynk wants compensation for the distress he has endured. I am sure we can reach a mutually acceptable arrangement.’

  Michael gaped at him. ‘You want King’s Hall to pay Shirwynk? Have you lost your reason? He is lucky
not to lose half his brewery – assuming I can convince King’s Hall to do as I suggest, of course. They may decline.’

  ‘Then on their head be it,’ said Stephen, standing and making a small bow before aiming for the door. ‘And yours.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Tynkell, when he had gone. ‘He changes sides like the wind. I never know whether he is for us or against us.’

  ‘Whichever will make him richer,’ said Michael sourly. Then he glared at the Chancellor. ‘But I did not come here to talk about him. I came to discuss Zachary.’

  Tynkell grabbed a handful of parchments from the table, and clutched them to his thin chest, as if he imagined they might protect him. ‘My mother has recently married into Morys’s family, and she told me to accommodate him in any way I could, so I had to accede to his requests.’

  ‘How can you be frightened of your mother?’ asked Michael contemptuously. ‘She must be well into her seventh decade. Or even her eighth.’

  Tynkell nodded miserably. ‘But age has rendered her fiercer than ever, and only a fool would cross her, believe me. Worse, she is a close friend of the Queen, so any infractions on my part will be reported to royal ears.’

  ‘Then send Morys to me when he comes with his bullying demands,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I do not care what your dam whispers at Court, and his behaviour is unacceptable.’

  ‘I will try,’ mumbled Tynkell. ‘But he is like you, Brother – he just bursts in and starts giving orders. I cannot say I am pleased to call him kin, and dealing with him plays havoc with my nerves. I do not suppose you have any of that soothing remedy to hand, do you, Bartholomew?’

  It was mid-morning by the time Bartholomew and Michael emerged from St Mary the Great, but their journey to the brewery was interrupted yet again, this time by Acting Warden Wayt from King’s Hall who shoved his hairy face into the physician’s and spoke in a snarl.

  ‘Your sister’s whores have filled the river with blue dye, which has stained the wood on our pier. God only knows what toxins were in it. She poisoned Trinity Hall, after all, and it is probably her fault that Cew is so sick as well.’

  ‘You said it was Frenge’s antics that turned Cew’s wits,’ pounced Michael before Bartholomew could respond. ‘If it is the dyeworks, then you cannot sue the brewery.’

  ‘It was Frenge who sent Cew mad,’ Wayt snapped back. ‘But the dyeworks have given him stomach pains, nausea and vomiting.’

  ‘He is worse?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. ‘Would you like me to visit him again?’

  Some of the belligerent anger went out of Wayt, and he nodded, although Michael rolled his eyes. Muttering under his breath, the monk followed them to King’s Hall, where the College continued in a state of watchful vigilance – its gates were barred, armed students patrolled the tops of its walls, and barrels of water had been placed ready to extinguish fires.

  ‘This would not be necessary if you dropped the case against Frenge’s estate,’ said Michael, as Wayt led him and Bartholomew along the maze of corridors to Cew’s quarters.

  ‘Never,’ declared Wayt. ‘I want reparation for the terrible crimes committed against us. That snake Stephen might have defected to Shirwynk for the promise of a larger fee, but we have good lawyers of our own, so he is no loss.’

  ‘His recommendation to sue was seriously flawed,’ said Michael. ‘He was motivated by personal gain, and you cannot trust his advice.’

  ‘He always did have an eye to his own purse,’ Wayt conceded. ‘But—’

  ‘What he failed to tell you was that going ahead will cost you dear, even if you win. You will earn the town’s undying hostility, and will have to pay a fortune in increased defences. None of us want trouble, so abandon this foolery and—’

  ‘I shall not,’ declared Wayt. He glared at the monk. ‘And we are not moving to the Fens either. If the University leaves Cambridge, it will be without King’s Hall.’

  ‘There are no plans to relocate,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Who told you that there were?’

  ‘Weasenham the stationer.’ Wayt held up a hand when Michael started to object. ‘I know he is a gossip and his “facts” are often wrong, but my Fellows have heard the same tale from several other sources, too, so it must be true.’

  ‘Well, it is not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘How could we survive in the Fens without the services a town provides – bakeries, breweries, candle-makers, mills, potteries, clothiers, tanneries, saddlers? I know monasteries do it, but we are different: we would founder within a year.’

  Wayt sniffed. ‘Then make sure you tell the Chancellor so, should he moot the idea.’

  Michael’s eyes narrowed as a servant hurried past carrying a bowl. It was not a very big one, but he carried it with considerable care. It was full of grainy white crystals.

  ‘Sucura,’ he said accusingly. ‘The substance banned by the Sheriff, which you assured me that King’s Hall would never buy, despite the fact that I tasted it in your soul-cakes.’

  Wayt’s expression turned shifty. ‘We did not buy it – it was donated by a benefactor, so it would have been rude to question its origins. Besides, it is for Cew. Soul-cakes are one of the two things he will eat, so we have no choice but to use sucura. Or do you suggest we let him starve?’

  Cew’s peculiar diet had done nothing to help him regain his wits. He sat in his bed with the pewter bowl on his head, and swiped with the poker at anyone who came close. After suffering a nasty crack on the elbow, Bartholomew decided to question him from a distance.

  ‘You cannot ask the King of France about his bowel movements,’ declared Cew indignantly. ‘It is treason. Now go away – unless you can cure our terrible pains.’

  ‘I might, if you let me examine you,’ said Bartholomew crossly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Cew, capitulating abruptly. ‘But do not touch our crown. Now hurry, because we shall be sick soon.’

  Unfortunately, even a lengthy examination did not tell Bartholomew what was wrong with Cew. He prescribed a mild anti-emetic of chalk and herbs, and recommended that the oysters and cakes were replaced with a simple barley broth.

  ‘We will try,’ said Wayt. ‘But he is shockingly mobile for an invalid, and will simply get what he wants from the kitchens himself if we do not oblige. I suppose we could lock him in …’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘It would cause him distress and might hinder his recovery. Just watch him as often as you can.’

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Wayt, uncharacteristic tenderness suffusing his hirsute face. ‘He is one of our own, and we look after those. He shall have whatever he needs.’

  Michael and Bartholomew reached the brewery eventually, where they found business in full swing, despite the deaths of Frenge and Letia. Apprentices moved among the great vats, stirring or adding ingredients, while Shirwynk sat at a table dictating letters to his son. A quick glance told them that the brewer was illiterate – if he had been able to read, he would have ordered Peyn to redo them, as the lad’s grammar left much to be desired, while his writing was all but illegible.

  ‘Why must we talk about Frenge again?’ demanded Shirwynk, when Michael told him what they wanted. ‘It is obvious what happened: King’s Hall poisoned him, and deposited his body in the Austin Priory to confuse you. Of course, they need not have bothered with such a complicated ruse – you will never find a scholar guilty, no matter how compelling the evidence.’

  ‘I have found scholars guilty in the past,’ said Michael icily. ‘I could cite a dozen examples.’

  ‘Then arrest Wayt and his cronies,’ snapped the brewer. ‘Frenge was perfectly healthy when he left here to take ale to King’s Hall yesterday.’

  ‘Was he?’ pounced Michael. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because he was singing. People do not sing if they are ill. Is that not so, physician?’

  ‘I imagine it depends on the person,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously.

  Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look and turned back to Michael. ‘He
was warbling happily as he loaded the dray with ale and wine. Right, Peyn?’

  ‘Wine,’ mused Michael. ‘I have been meaning to ask you about that. You are a brewer, not a vintner, so you have no right to produce wine. How do the town’s vintners feel about you treading on their professional toes?’

  ‘There is only one vintner in Cambridge, and he is a sot who would rather drink his wares than sell them,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘Peyn suggested that we expand into wine earlier this year, and the venture has been very successful.’

  ‘Which is why King’s Hall refuses to drop its case against Frenge,’ elaborated Peyn. ‘Our fine apple wine has made us rich, and they itch to relieve us of our profits.’

  ‘Do you keep toxic substances here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps for scouring—’

  He stepped back quickly when Shirwynk rounded on him with a face as black as thunder, while Peyn fingered the knife he wore in his belt.

  ‘You think to accuse us of Frenge’s death,’ the brewer snarled. ‘Well, you can think again – we would never harm a friend. But look around, if you must. You will find no poisons here.’

  Bartholomew took him at his word and began to explore. However, although he peered inside every vat, pot and cupboard, he saw nothing that could have caused the burns in Frenge’s mouth. Of course, that was not to say that Shirwynk and Peyn were innocent – wise killers would already have taken steps to dispose of incriminating evidence.

  ‘Your ale-making operation is impressively hygienic,’ he said when he had finished. ‘But where do you ferment the wine?’

  Still scowling, Shirwynk led the way to the back of the brewery, where three large lead tanks had been placed in a line.

  ‘We bought these from the Austin Friary,’ explained Peyn, leaning against one and beginning to pare his nails with the dagger. ‘They needed money to buy bread for the poor, so we got them cheap. We fill them with the juice from crushed apples, add yeast, and nature does the rest. This batch is ready for decanting. You may taste it if you like.’

  He filled a cup from a barrel. Bartholomew took a very small sip, but it was far too sweet for him, and he was glad to pass the rest to Michael. The monk sniffed it, carefully inspected its colour, then took a large gulp, which he swished noisily around his teeth.