A Poisonous Plot (11 page)

‘
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.

‘It would slip down nicely with cheese,’ he declared eventually, while the others watched the performance with fascination. ‘And it has an agreeable punch.’

‘It does,’ agreed Shirwynk, pleased by the praise, although he tried to hide it. ‘It is popular with wealthy townsmen and scholars alike.’

‘Although we charge the University twice as much as we do the burgesses,’ added Peyn, then scowled defiantly when his father shot him a withering look – the Senior Proctor had the right to set prices for food and drink, so telling him his colleagues were being cheated was hardly wise.

‘It is so well liked that scholars break in here to steal it,’ said Shirwynk, going on an offensive in the hope that Michael would forget his son’s incautious remark. ‘Some disappears almost every night.’

‘How do you know an academic is responsible?’ asked Bartholomew, a little indignantly.

‘Because no townsman would raid me,’ replied Shirwynk, rather unconvincingly. ‘Peyn has taken to standing guard during the hours of darkness, but even he is obliged to slip away on occasion, and the villains always seem to know when the place is empty.’

‘Frenge,’ said Michael briskly, unwilling to waste time in idle chatter. ‘Did he have any friends who might be able to tell us about his final hours?’

‘Well, there is Robert de Hakeney,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘The drunken vintner. But he will say the same as us – that Frenge was murdered by King’s Hall.’

‘What did Frenge eat and drink yesterday morning?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Breakfast ale and sweet pottage,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘But you cannot blame those for making an end of him, because Peyn and I shared them with him and we are still alive.’

‘I did not have the pottage,’ put in Peyn. ‘I prefer salty foods. But I had the ale.’

‘Did your wife eat and drink with you as well?’

‘She did not.’ Shirwynk’s voice was cold. ‘She was too ill.’

‘What was wrong with her?’

‘Nigellus said it was a fatal dizziness, although he is a scholar, so I am not sure whether to believe him. I tried to get Meryfeld – the only physician who is not part of your damned University – but he decided to be mulish over an unpaid bill, and refused to come.’

‘Other than dizziness, what were Letia’s symptoms?’

‘Where to start?’ sighed Peyn. ‘Mother was ill for as long as I can remember. Indeed, we were surprised that she lasted as long as she did, given the number of ailments she claimed she had.’

‘Most recently, she suffered from pains in the stomach, headaches and weak limbs,’ said Shirwynk. ‘She insisted on hiring a physician, and wanted Nigellus because he is the most expensive and therefore the best. But she died anyway.’

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Michael automatically.

‘I am not,’ muttered Peyn. ‘Her constant moaning was a trial.’

There was no more to be said after such a remark, so Bartholomew and Michael left the brewery, waiting until they were well away before voicing their thoughts.

‘You found no poison on the premises, but that means nothing,’ said Michael. ‘And I can see Shirwynk
and
that nasty little Peyn committing murder to suit themselves. It is obvious that neither cared for Letia, and they do not seem unduly distressed by Frenge’s demise either. It would be a good outcome for us – townsmen dispatching each other.’

‘You may be right, but how will we prove it? They were both very confident that a search of their brewery would tell us nothing – either because they
are
innocent, or because they know they had covered their tracks.’

‘We
must
find answers,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Because if we do not identify the culprit, rumour and suspicion will bring us a riot. Of course, that may be exactly what Shirwynk intends.’

‘Why would he want something that would disrupt trade, including his own, and inflict misery and suffering on his town?’

‘Because he is a vicious malcontent with an irrational hatred of our University and an agenda I do not yet understand. We cannot afford to be lax about this, Matt. We both must do all in our power to solve Frenge’s murder before the whole of Cambridge erupts into flames.’

Michael wanted to question Hakeney about Frenge at once, but Bartholomew was concerned about the accusation Wayt had made about the blue discharge, and as the dyeworks were next to the brewery, he insisted on stopping there first. The monk was not pleased by the delay, but could tell by the set expression on Bartholomew’s face that there was no point in arguing.

The protesters in the cobbled square had swelled in number since the previous day. The University faction was led by Kellawe and included a number of his Zachary students, along with men from the other hostels on Water Lane. The fanatical Franciscan was stirring up their passions with an eye-witness account of the ‘atrocity’ committed by Edith’s ladies.

‘Those whores marched out with their buckets,’ he railed, ‘and I could see the defiance in their eyes as they hurled their vile effluent into the water. It is
their
fault that Cew from King’s Hall grows worse by the day, and
they
poisoned every man in Trinity Hall last week.’

The town faction was led by a potter named John Vine, an opinionated man who had been an infamous brawler in his youth. Age and experience had taught him to express his views with his tongue rather than his fists, but he was still usually to be found wherever there was trouble. He lived with an elderly cousin who was one of Bartholomew’s patients; she was an excellent and generous cook, and thus a great favourite with his ever-hungry students.

Vine had assembled his followers on the opposite side of the square, on the grounds that he had fewer of them than Kellawe, and would not fare well in any brawl that might ensue. However, they were still close enough to hear what was said, especially given that the voluble Franciscan tended to deliver his thoughts in a bellow.

‘Perhaps we should be
supporting
the dyeworks then,’ a baker jeered. ‘If enough scholars sicken, the University might leave our town. And good riddance!’

‘Yes, but unfortunately, they are not the dyeworks’ only victims,’ said Vine grimly. ‘There is illness and death among
real
people, too – such as my poor cousin. Did I tell you that she has not been well since this filthy venture came into being?’

‘Once or twice,’ quipped the baker, a remark that elicited sniggers from his cronies, although Bartholomew was sorry to hear that old Mistress Vine was ailing. He wondered if it would be presumptuous to pay her an unsolicited visit, and supposed he had not been called because Vine was reluctant to beg favours from the brother of the person he held responsible for her plight.

‘It is not just her, either,’ said Vine, fixing the baker with a fierce eye that wiped the smile from the man’s face. ‘Six folk in Barnwell have died, not to mention Letia Shirwynk and Will Lenne. The dyeworks killed them all.’

‘You cannot blame the Barnwell deaths on Mistress Stanmore,’ objected Isnard the one-legged bargeman. He had been Bartholomew’s patient for years and was an enthusiastic if untalented member of the Michaelhouse Choir. Like Vine, he had a nose for trouble, and was always to hand when it was unfolding, sometimes as an impartial spectator but more usually as a participant. ‘The village is a good walk from here, all across the marshes.’

‘The toxins did not cross the marshes – they were washed down the river,’ averred Vine, ‘which means they are even more potent than we feared.’

‘But the folk at Barnwell were already ill when the dyeworks opened,’ persisted Isnard. ‘The reeve’s wife had been ailing since the summer, and so had one of the canons.’

‘Yes, they were ill,’ acknowledged Vine, ‘but it was the dyeworks that finished them off. Mistress Stanmore should know better, especially as her brother is a
medicus
.’

Bartholomew took an involuntary step backwards when everyone – townsfolk and scholars – swung around to glower at him.

‘Well?’ demanded the baker. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, physician? Vine’s cousin is your patient, so surely you feel some responsibility for her health?’

‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Bartholomew, flailing around for a way to answer without being disloyal to Edith. ‘But—’

‘More importantly, what about the scholars of Trinity Hall?’ called Kellawe, jaw thrust out challengingly. ‘Their well-being is far more important than that of mere townsfolk, and Edith Stanmore did them serious harm.’

‘No, she did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Their illnesses were attributable to bad cr—’

‘My poor cousin became ill after eating fish from the river,’ declared Vine hotly. ‘Fish poisoned by
this
filthy place.’

‘The river has always been dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have warned you for years not to drink or eat anything from it. It is essentially a sewer and—’

‘You scholars are all alike, twisting the facts with your sly tongues.’ Vine turned angrily to his friends. ‘Not only did Bartholomew avoid the question, but he aims to blame us – saying my cousin’s illness is
our
fault for tossing the occasional bucket of slops into the water.’

‘It is a good deal more than the “occasional bucket”,’ argued Bartholomew, but his words went unheard, because Vine drowned them out.

‘Scholars are killers,’ the potter roared. ‘We all know King’s Hall murdered Frenge—’

‘The University would not dirty its hands by touching that low villain,’ bellowed Kellawe, whose voice was louder still. ‘He invaded the sacred confines of a priory, aiming to repeat the mischief he did in King’s Hall, so God struck him down for his malice.’

‘Well done, Matt,’ hissed Michael irritably as the two groups surged towards each other and began to screech insults. ‘I told you we should have gone straight to see Hakeney, but your appearance has inflamed these rogues, and now we have a spat.’

‘They cannot blame Edith for Trinity Hall,’ Bartholomew snapped back. ‘That was caused by the bad cream in their sickly syllabub.’

‘So you are happy with the dyeworks?’ asked Michael, watching Kellawe wave his fist in Vine’s face; furiously, the potter knocked it away. ‘They pose no risk to health?’

‘I did not say that,’ mumbled Bartholomew, hating the invidious position he was in. He turned with relief when he heard a clatter of feet on cobblestones. ‘Here are your beadles, come to restore the peace. Shall we go to see Edith now?’

The odour from the dyeworks was unpleasant in the street, but it was nothing compared to the stench inside the building. Bartholomew recoiled, sure the fumes could not be safe to breathe. Edith had decided to make her own dyes, rather than buy them from Ely, and it was this process, not the staining of cloth, that was responsible for much of the reek.

The woad used to make blue colouring was the worst offender. The leaves had to be mashed into balls and dried, after which they were allowed to ferment before being mixed with urine and left to steep. The madder and weld used for red and yellow respectively were less noxious, but still required generous amounts of dung, oil and alum. Each stage of production generated much smelly waste, and the river, which ran a few steps from the back door, was the obvious place to deposit it, despite the by-law that forbade the practice.