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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘I thought about Irby all night,’ said Bartholomew unhappily, setting down his spoon when he found a slug in his bowl. ‘When Nigellus told me that he had confined him to bed, I assumed it was part of the ploy to foist nemo dat on us – to dispense with a member of the consilium who would have voted against it. I wish to God I had gone to see him at once.’

  ‘I wish you had, too,’ said Michael. ‘Then he might still be alive.’

  ‘He tried to summon me,’ Bartholomew went on wretchedly, ‘which suggests he was dissatisfied with Nigellus’s care. And with good cause.’

  Michael nodded. ‘He is the tenth of Nigellus’s patients to die – the eleventh if we count Frenge. It cannot be coincidence, and he did say that Irby was not the leader he wanted for Zachary. I imagine we will find motives for the other deaths, too, if we dig deep enough.’

  ‘We might.’ Bartholomew was still racked with guilt for not going to Irby’s assistance.

  ‘But why kill them?’ Michael went on. ‘He must realise that people will notice if he loses more clients than other medici. Then the surviving ones will desert him, which he will not appreciate, given how much he loves the fees they pay.’

  ‘He practised at Barnwell for years before coming here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could not have dispatched those customers at this sort of rate, or the whole village would be in their graves. We must be wrong, Brother. He is a physician – a healer.’

  ‘Of sorts – even I can tell that he is barely competent. Hah! Now there is a thought …’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Perhaps he dispatched them to conceal evidence of his ineptitude – his failure to cure them. After all, if he used poison, who would know? You detected signs of a corrosive substance on Frenge, but there was nothing on Letia, so perhaps he learned from his mistake. Meanwhile, Arnold and the Barnwell folk are buried, so unless we exhume them …’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

  ‘Then maybe the dyeworks are responsible,’ said Michael. He held up his hand when Bartholomew started to object. ‘Even you cannot deny that it produces some very foul substances, and I dread to think what is slyly dumped in the river when Edith’s ladies think no one is looking. You can ask when we visit her today.’

  ‘We are going to see Edith? Why?’

  ‘To warn her that I have received a lot of complaints about her reeking enterprise, and that she needs to find a way to eliminate the problem before there is serious trouble. But we had better visit Zachary first, to ascertain exactly what happened to Irby. Shall we go now?’

  Bartholomew scribbled a list of passages from Galen’s De ossibus for Langelee to read to his classes, and followed the monk across the yard to the gate, where they met Prior Joliet, Almoner Robert and Hamo, coming to put some finishing touches to the mural.

  ‘Well?’ asked Joliet pleasantly. ‘Did Michaelhouse secure a wealthy benefactor last night?’

  ‘Negotiations are under way with several interested parties,’ lied Michael, and quickly changed the subject before they could press him for details. ‘I heard you did rather well, too.’

  Joliet’s round face split into a grin of delight. ‘Yes! We have been commissioned to paint King’s Hall’s library and Peterhouse’s refectory. They said they had never seen more lifelike leaves than the ones on our oak tree.’

  ‘And the mayor would like to see what can be done for the guildhall,’ put in Robert, wincing as he tried to free his long white hair from the chain that held his pectoral cross. ‘Not to mention a couple of enquiries from private individuals.’

  ‘Good occasion,’ mumbled Hamo, apparently deeming it worthy of a rare two-word sentence.

  ‘The only unpleasant bit was when Hakeney made a scene,’ said Robert, wincing. ‘The man is deranged, and I wish he would find someone else to hound.’

  ‘I shall buy him a new cross when Michaelhouse pays us at Christmas,’ declared Joliet, all happy generosity. ‘Wayt has offered to get one when he next visits London.’

  ‘We had better go,’ said Robert. ‘The sooner we finish here, the sooner we can move to our next project.’ That notion brought a sudden smile. ‘The poor will not want for bread this winter!’

  ‘It is not fair,’ muttered Michael when the Austins had gone. ‘We went to all that trouble for Michaelhouse, not our hired artists.’

  ‘Yet it is hard to begrudge their good fortune. They aim to use the profits for alms.’

  ‘I know,’ said Michael irritably. ‘But that does not mean I have to like them raking in money when we still have nothing.’

  They met Tulyet at the end of St Michael’s Lane. Dickon was in tow, his face even brighter than it had been the previous day, suggesting the brat had contrived to acquire a private supply of dye and had reapplied it. His hair ‘horns’ were gone, though, no doubt a condition of being allowed to accompany his father out. Regardless, he was still attracting a lot of uneasy attention.

  ‘His mother was keen for him to stretch his legs,’ said Tulyet, when Michael enquired tentatively whether it might not have been advisable to leave him at home. ‘And I am reluctant to waste good training time anyway. There is a lot to learn about being Sheriff.’

  ‘I hope he will not be stepping into your shoes too soon,’ said Michael, aware that Dickon would be a disaster for the University, and probably not very good for the town either.

  ‘Father says I am already showing a firm hand,’ said the boy with a malignant grin. ‘Did you hear that I stopped that sot Hakeney from stealing your spoons yesterday? He started to shove them up his sleeve, but I told him that I would chop off his fingers if he did not put them back.’

  ‘A crime was averted,’ said Tulyet proudly. ‘One that would have caused more bad feeling between the town and the University had it succeeded. I am delighted by Dickon’s vigilance.’

  ‘Have you learned anything new about Frenge?’ asked Michael, unable to bring himself to praise the child. ‘My own enquiries are frustratingly slow.’

  ‘I have had scant time for anything other than keeping the peace.’

  ‘There was a big fight last night, see,’ interjected Dickon gleefully. ‘I was there, so I joined in. I stabbed two scholars as hard as I could, and I bit another.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Do they need medical attention?’

  ‘He exaggerates,’ said Tulyet, shooting his son a warning glance. ‘He did manage to corner a trio of lads from Zachary, but they ran away before any real harm was done. Do you have a few spare moments to talk? I would like to hear what you have learned in more detail.’

  ‘A few,’ replied Michael, while Bartholomew thought it said a good deal about Dickon’s fearsome reputation that he was able to rout three lads twice his age. ‘But then we must visit Zachary to find out exactly why Irby died.’

  He was hungry after the meagre victuals at breakfast, so suggested repairing to the Brazen George, where the landlord kept a room for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant chamber, overlooking a pretty yard where contented chickens scratched among the herb-beds. Landlord Lister came to serve them in person, chatting amiably as he regaled them with the latest gossip, although he was careful to keep well away from Dickon.

  ‘Did you hear that everyone in Trinity Hall was ill again yesterday?’ he asked. ‘And do not blame the syllabub this time, Doctor – they bought it from me, and the cream was fresh.’

  ‘Did Nigellus tend them?’ asked Michael casually.

  ‘I believe he did offer his services, although even he could not calculate horoscopes for everyone, so he told them all to don clean nether garments and stand in full moonlight for an hour.’

  ‘That does not sound too deadly,’ murmured Michael. ‘But I shall visit Trinity Hall later, to ensure he did not prescribe anything else.’

  ‘My wife was ill during the night as well,’ said Tulyet. ‘So was Dickon, although he has recovered, thank God. It must have been something they ate.’

  ‘Not at Michaelhou
se,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘None of us were unwell.’

  ‘Suttone was,’ contradicted Bartholomew. ‘He called me at midnight with stomach cramps, and so did one of William’s students.’

  ‘Because they overindulged,’ countered Michael sharply. ‘I sampled everything on offer, and I was not ill.’

  Tulyet took the opportunity to ask Lister a few questions about sucura and how it might be smuggled into the town, but while the landlord was willing to confide in an old and trusted customer like Michael, sharing confidences with the Sheriff was another matter entirely. He mumbled a vague reply and fled.

  ‘How am I supposed to stop these illegal imports when no one will talk to me?’ sighed Tulyet crossly. ‘I am sure everyone knows exactly who is responsible. Everyone except me, that is.’

  Michael shrugged. ‘No one likes paying taxes, and why should the King receive money for the ingredients we put in our cakes?’

  ‘Because it is the law,’ replied Tulyet tartly.

  ‘Then perhaps His Majesty should consider setting a more reasonable levy. Sucura is expensive without the tax, but with the import duty, it is beyond the reach of everyone except him and his wealthiest barons. You cannot blame folk for buying it from smugglers.’

  ‘You buy it from smugglers?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘Which ones? Their names, if you please.’

  ‘I was speaking hypothetically,’ replied Michael. ‘I do not shop for foodstuffs myself – I am far too busy for that sort of indulgence.’

  Tulyet glared accusingly at him. ‘But I imagine Agatha has laid in a store of it for Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ grumbled Michael, before remembering the trouble that had been taken to convince everyone that the College was a good proposition for potential investors. He trusted Tulyet with the truth, but Dickon was there, small eyes alight with interest, so he settled for saying, ‘We do not break the law, Dick.’

  Tulyet shot him a lugubrious glance, which suggested that Wauter had failed to keep him away from the marchpanes. Eager to avoid trouble, Michael changed the subject.

  ‘Go away, Dickon. I need to discuss Frenge’s murder with your father. Privately.’

  ‘You can talk in front of my son,’ said Tulyet. ‘I trust him to be discreet.’

  ‘He was not discreet when he gossiped about the physicians’ experiments to refine lamp fuel last summer,’ Michael shot back. ‘His loose tongue caused all manner of harm.’

  ‘He has learned his lesson.’ Tulyet was stung by the reminder. ‘He is older now. And anyway, what do you expect if a group of medici gathers in the garden next door, and sets about making explosions? Of course a bright boy will be intrigued.’

  ‘Do you have any more tests planned, Doctor?’ asked Dickon keenly. ‘Because if so, I want to watch. You never meet in Meryfeld’s house any more.’

  And Dickon was the reason why, thought Bartholomew. ‘We are too busy these days.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘Because it was irresponsible. But tell me about Frenge, Brother. In front of Dickon, if you please – he needs to understand how investigations are conducted.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘We have discovered that Frenge was engaged in some very dark business, which may have led to his demise.’

  Bartholomew regarded the monk askance: they had done nothing of the sort.

  ‘What manner of dark business?’ asked Tulyet curiously.

  ‘Cattle rustling,’ lied Michael. ‘Which explains why he was on the King’s Ditch. After all, what better way to transport stolen livestock than by water? The poison must have struck him down when he reached the Austins’ convent, and he staggered towards it for help.’

  ‘I had no idea he was a criminal,’ said Tulyet wonderingly. ‘Perhaps an accomplice killed him then – an argument over profits. I shall look into the matter whenever I have a spare moment.’

  Michael inclined his head. ‘But do you have nothing to report, Dick? Not even a snippet?’

  ‘Well, I learned that Frenge visited Stephen shortly before his death,’ replied Tulyet. ‘I have tried to speak to Stephen, but he is never in. I am beginning to think he is avoiding me.’

  ‘He will not avoid me,’ vowed Michael. ‘Leave him to us. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Only that Morys has written to Chancellor Tynkell’s mother to complain about the way his hostel is treated by the University. Word is that she is on her way to assess the situation for herself, which I sincerely hope is untrue. She is a friend of the Queen, and we do not want our troubles reported to royal ears.’

  ‘She is a dragon,’ interposed Dickon. ‘Chancellor Tynkell told me so, and I am looking forward to meeting her. I hope she can breathe fire, because I shall be disappointed if it turns out to be one of your scholars’ inventions.’

  The discussion was cut short by an urgent summons for Tulyet to go to the dyeworks, where a group of burgesses had gathered to complain about the volume of water that was being extracted from the river – water that was needed for their own businesses downstream. Bartholomew stood to go with him, but Tulyet waved him away.

  ‘The sight of the owner’s brother is unlikely to help, especially one who is a scholar.’

  ‘But she might need me,’ objected Bartholomew.

  Tulyet gave a wry smile. ‘She will not, because she has her own little army.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘You mean her Frail Sisters? They are hardly—’

  ‘I mean the men who used to hire her ladies when they were whores. They have gathered to protect the place, and some are very unsavoury characters. They will keep Edith safe – from disgruntled merchants and from scholars.’

  ‘It is true, Matt,’ said Michael, watching the Sheriff hurry away, Dickon scampering at his side. ‘Your sister’s women have garnered support from old clients. Unfortunately, there is a rumour that these men are being rewarded with the kind of favours they enjoyed when the lasses were walking the streets.’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘In other words, the dyeworks is being used as a brothel. Edith cannot know – she would not condone that sort of thing.’

  ‘Then we shall tell her. But later, once Dick has restored the peace. He is right about you being more likely to inflame than cool the situation, and we should stay away for now.’

  Bartholomew turned to something else that was worrying him. ‘Are you sure it was wise to tell him that Frenge was a cattle thief? When he learns the truth – which he will – he will be furious with you for wasting his time.’

  ‘Better that than risk Dickon blabbing our suspicions to all and sundry. We do not want Nigellus to learn that he is at the top of our list of suspects just yet.’

  ‘I am more inclined to believe that Shirwynk killed Frenge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He did it in the expectation that King’s Hall would drop their lawsuit if Frenge was dead.’

  ‘But it was Shirwynk who encouraged Frenge to invade King’s Hall in the first place,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He is unlikely to have killed him for doing what he was told.’

  ‘He doubtless did not anticipate that King’s Hall would sue. So he miscalculated twice: once when he underestimated Wayt’s capacity for revenge; and once when murdering Frenge did not result in King’s Hall abandoning their case against the brewery.’

  ‘And Shirwynk would have eager help in Peyn,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, we should not forget Stephen – the man who spoke to Frenge shortly before the murder and with Shirwynk shortly after it. And who slept with Frenge’s mistress – I think he was lying when he said he had only seduced Anne once.’

  ‘I suspect it was she who did the seducing, although I doubt she will admit it if we ask.’

  ‘There is also Wayt,’ Michael went on. ‘The easy familiarity between him and Anne at Michaelhouse suggested that they were old flames. And Rumburgh said that Frenge and Wayt argued shortly before the murder …’

  ‘True. Moreover, Wayt is one of the three scholars at King’s Hall who have no alibi for F
renge’s death.’

  ‘Next, there is Hakeney, who hates the Austins because he thinks Robert stole his dead wife’s cross. He may have sent Frenge to steal it back, and dispatched him there in the hope of embarrassing the friary.’

  ‘That would be an extreme thing to do,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Although if he were drunk …’

  ‘And finally, Wauter.’ Michael raised a hand when Bartholomew began to object. ‘I do not believe him capable of such wickedness either, but he has said and done some very odd things of late, and until they are explained, he must remain on our list.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, albeit reluctantly.

  Michael stood. ‘So there are our suspects: Nigellus, Shirwynk with Peyn, Stephen, Wayt and his two alibi-less colleagues from King’s Hall, Hakeney and Wauter. We had better go to Zachary before any more of the day is lost, and assess whether Nigellus has made an end of Irby.’

  They knocked on Zachary’s door a short while later, and were admitted to a building that was as grand as any College. It possessed a handsome hall on the ground floor, beautifully decorated with geometrical designs, and with real glass in its windows. Unlike most foundations, it did not serve as a refectory and lecture chamber – Zachary had designated classrooms for teaching, so that its masters did not have to compete with each other to make themselves heard.

  ‘If you are here to fine us for improper dress, think again,’ said Morys challengingly. He was wearing another yellow and black outfit, while his students had also dispensed with their uniform tabards in favour of something more colourful, and Nigellus was in red. ‘We are indoors, and can do what we like in the confines of our own home.’

  Michael smiled pleasantly. ‘You may, of course. However, my beadles are under orders to stamp down on infractions in the streets, so you might want to change before going out.’