A Poisonous Plot (12 page)

Bartholomew blinked his smarting eyes and looked around. The dyeworks comprised a long shed dominated by three enormous vats, each with a space underneath for a fire. All were so tall that the only way to see over their rims was by climbing up a ladder.

Drying racks covered three of the four walls, while the last was shelved and held the tools of the trade – buckets of the precious finished dyes, mangles, poles and dollies. Frail Sisters were everywhere, sleeves rolled up and faces shiny with the sweat of honest labour; there was no hint of the alluring creatures who haunted the streets after dark. Some stirred the contents of the vats, others stoked the fires, while the remainder scurried here and there with bustling purpose.

One was Yolande de Blaston, married to the town’s best carpenter. Their enormous brood of children meant that money was always tight, so she was obliged to supplement their income by selling physical favours to various town worthies – favours she performed so well that she was in almost constant demand. However, as several of their offspring bore uncanny resemblances to prominent burgesses and scholars, Bartholomew often wondered whether her chosen method of contributing to the family purse had compounded rather than eased the problem.

‘What,
again
?’ he asked, when he saw the tell-tale bulge around her middle. ‘How many is it now? Twelve? Thirteen?’

‘The twins last year made fourteen,’ she replied. ‘Have you come to visit your sister?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘About this morning’s spillage.’

An expression of guilty defiance flashed across Yolande’s face. ‘I was carrying a couple of buckets of blue sludge when I stumbled and dropped them. The same thing happened to Anne.’

‘So four pails of waste “accidentally” fell in the river? No wonder people are complaining!’

‘Edith will not want to see you if you are going to take that tone,’ said Yolande warningly. ‘So keep a civil tongue in your head or she will box your ears.’

Edith was in the annexe at the end of the building, the place reserved for the most malodorous processes. She smiled when she saw Bartholomew and Michael, although there was a guarded expression in her eyes – she knew why they were there. Bartholomew took a breath to speak, but the reek of fermenting woad was so powerful that all he could do was cough, while Michael pressed a pomander so tightly to his nose that it was a wonder he could breathe at all.

‘How can you bear it?’ Bartholomew gasped. ‘The stench is enough to melt eyeballs.’

‘What stench?’ asked Edith.

‘I am glad you have not set up near Michaelhouse,’ croaked Michael. ‘Or we would be forced to take out an injunction against you.’

‘You could try,’ said Edith coolly. ‘But we have retained the services of Stephen the lawyer, who assures us that any such action will fail. And we are doing
good
things here, Brother. Look around you: these women have decent pay and regular meals. They are respectable now.’

‘It is true,’ agreed Yolande. ‘
And
we provide a valuable service – everyone wants our cloth, because it is cheaper than materials that have been dyed elsewhere.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But you are not supposed to dump nasty residues in the river. The burgesses told you to ship them to the Fens instead.’

‘We do, most of the time,’ said Edith. ‘But it is not always practical. Like this morning – all four of our best big buckets were full of spent dye, but then we had a problem with some caustic cleaner – which really does need to go to the Fens – so we had to make a strategic decision.’

‘Besides, no one uses the river at night,’ added Yolande carelessly. ‘Unfortunately, we were a bit late in today, because of last night’s Hallow-Eve celebrations, and the spent dye was rather more potent than we had anticipated …’

Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘No one uses the river at night? Then where do you think the fish go when darkness falls? And there is the small matter of tides – anything deposited while the river is flowing will revisit the town when it ebbs.’

‘We are within our rights to use the waterways,’ said Edith, hands on hips and looking fierce. ‘We pay our taxes. And besides, we hired Stephen to check our rights and responsibilities before we started. Everything we do is perfectly legal – other than the occasional minor breach, such as happened today.’

‘Minor or not, the protesters have a point.’ Bartholomew gestured around him. ‘There are some very toxic substances here. Perhaps some of the illnesses or deaths in the town
are
a result of whatever you are putting in the water.’

‘I did not think you would side against us, Matthew,’ said Edith, anger turning to hurt. ‘There is no evidence that we are to blame. People sicken and die all the time, as you know better than most. You should be ashamed of yourself for accusing us.’

Her words were like arrows in Bartholomew’s heart, and he closed his eyes for a moment before continuing more gently. ‘Dropping stinking waste in the Cam
will
have an impact on public health – you know it will. Moreover, the people outside watch you like hawks: they might do you or your ladies harm the next time you have an “accidental” spillage.’

‘But we would
never
put anything toxic in the river,’ argued Edith. ‘Strong smells and bright colours do not equal dangerous, as you of all people should understand. You should also know that I would never put the health of townsfolk at risk.’

‘What about the health of scholars?’ asked Michael.

Edith gave a wry smile. ‘It is tempting to silence those men from Zachary with a dose of something nasty, but wishing is not the same as doing. And anyway, they do not use the river – they are too wealthy to eat its fish, and they have their own well for drinking.’

‘I am not sure I agree that your waste is harmless,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed out through the door, where the dyeworks’ pier and the one belonging to King’s Hall were a beautiful royal blue. ‘Would you really want that stuff inside you? Or inside me?’

Edith sighed irritably. ‘We will never agree on this, so let us talk about something else before we fall out. Yolande tells me that Frenge was killed by King’s Hall yesterday. Is it true?’

‘No,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We are on our way to visit Frenge’s friend Hakeney. Hopefully, he will tell us something that will allow us to put an end to these silly tales.’

‘Then you will be disappointed,’ said Yolande with a vengeful smirk. ‘He was drunk most of yesterday. He will be a useless witness.’

‘Did
you
know Frenge, Edith?’ Bartholomew asked. He was still cross with her for refusing to heed his advice, so it was not easy to keep his voice even. ‘You were neighbours, after all.’

‘Yes, but he went out delivering ale, while Shirwynk and Peyn stayed in to brew, so I did not meet him very often. I suppose Peyn will drive the dray now.’

‘He is going to Westminster,’ said Michael. ‘To become a Treasury clerk.’

Yolande burst out laughing. ‘Him? I doubt His Majesty will let a snivelling cur like
that
near his precious money. The boy is dreaming.’

Recalling Peyn’s appalling handwriting, Bartholomew suspected she was right. ‘If you do not know Frenge, then what about Shirwynk? What kind of man is he?’

‘A loathsome fellow,’ replied Edith with a moue of distaste. ‘Although Peyn is worse. He is a dreadful young man – sullen, arrogant and lazy.’

‘He told us that he was not sorry his mother was dead,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think he did something to hasten her end? Or did Shirwynk?’

Edith considered the question carefully. ‘It is possible. She was an awful shrew, always whining about her poor health and demanding to be waited on. Both of them grew to resent her.’

‘I do not suppose you know anything about Frenge’s relationship with Shirwynk and Peyn, do you?’ asked Michael, rather desperately. ‘Did you ever hear them fighting, for example?’

Edith was thoughtful. ‘No, but I was always under the impression that Frenge was wary of them. Perhaps that is why he liked to go out with the cart – to avoid their company. I never saw any violence between them, though.’

‘Nor did I, but that does not mean it did not happen,’ put in Yolande. ‘Shirwynk is a brute, and Peyn is no better. Perhaps
they
murdered Frenge, to stop King’s Hall from suing him.’

‘Then their ploy misfired,’ said Edith. ‘King’s Hall just shifted their suit to the brewery.’

At that moment, the door opened and Anne de Rumburgh minced in. She was wearing another low-cut bodice, and when she bent to retrieve a woad ball from the floor, Bartholomew was certain she was going to fall out. She was with her husband, older than her by two decades.

‘Matt is here to berate us for spilling waste in the river,’ said Edith, shooting her brother a cool glance. ‘While Michael wants our opinion of the brewers next door.’

‘I like the brewers,’ said Anne with a sultry smile. ‘They are all very fine specimens. Their wares are delicious, too.’

‘Then you are very easily pleased,’ said Rumburgh with a grimace that revealed his painfully inflamed gums. ‘Their apple wine is too sweet, while their ale is only palatable with a cake to take away the bitter taste. I am almost glad Frenge is dead, because now we shall not have to accept all those free samples he would insist on bringing.’

‘He gave you ale and wine for nothing?’ asked Edith, startled. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘I really cannot imagine,’ said Anne with a sly smile.

‘So Anne bestowed her favours on Frenge,’ mused Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the dyeworks – by the back door, so as to avoid the protesters at the front – and began to walk towards Hakeney’s home. ‘Do you think Rumburgh poisoned him, and he is only pretending not to realise that the free gifts were just Frenge’s excuse to visit?’

‘It is possible. Poor Rumburgh is impotent, and his wife is a … restless woman.’

‘More harlot than most Frail Sisters,’ agreed Michael. ‘She could not take her eyes off me. Did you notice?’

‘Not really.’ Bartholomew thought she had spent more time looking at
him
.

‘Then watch her more closely next time. She ogled me shamelessly, and it was clear that she was desperate to get her hands on my person.’

It was not far to Hakeney’s home, which stood on Water Lane, sandwiched between Zachary’s elegant grandeur and an inn. It was by far the shabbiest building on the street: weeds sprouted from its thatch, and the paint on its window shutters was old and peeling.

‘He used to be a respected vintner,’ said Michael, while they waited for their knock to be answered. ‘But now all he does is haunt taverns. He hates the University, because our physicians were unable to save his wife and children from the plague. You might want to stand behind me when we go in.’

The door was opened eventually by a small man with the bloodshot eyes and the broken-veined cheeks of the habitual drinker. Hakeney was unhealthily thin, and his clothes were dirty.

‘If your sister sent you here in the hope of currying favour among townsfolk, then she is going to be disappointed,’ he snarled when he saw Bartholomew. ‘You are not coming anywhere near me. It is her fault I am ill anyway – her filthy dyeworks.’

‘You are sick?’ asked Bartholomew politely.

‘My innards have been blocked these last ten days. It is breathing all the fumes that did it.’

‘I can prescribe something to ease that,’ offered Bartholomew, aiming to inveigle an examination to see if Hakeney was right. If so, Edith would have to move the dyeworks to a place where they could do no harm.

The vintner immediately began to bray about why he would never permit a scholar, especially a physician, inside his home, but his constipation was painful and Bartholomew represented possible relief. The tirade petered out, and the Michaelhouse men were invited to enter on condition that they did not touch anything.

‘That will not be a problem, I assure you,’ said Michael, looking around with a fastidious shudder. ‘My hands will remain firmly tucked inside my sleeves.’

While Bartholomew palpated the vintner’s abdomen and asked the questions that might help him determine the cause of Hakeney’s discomfort, Michael made a nuisance of himself by interrupting with queries about Frenge.

‘Poor Frenge,’ the vintner said sadly. ‘He lost his wife to a physician’s incompetence during the Great Pestilence, too, which is what drew us together as friends. He liked to drown his sorrows in ale, after which he often became boisterous.’

‘So he was drunk the night he invaded King’s Hall?’ probed Michael.

Hakeney shot him a sour look. ‘He would hardly have done such a thing if he had been sober. He was not a complete fool, and breaking in there was dangerous.’

‘So why did he do it?’

‘Because false friends put the idea into his head, knowing he was too tipsy to see that it was a stupid thing to do. He told me afterwards that he wished he had not listened to them.’

‘Then why did he refuse to apologise to King’s Hall? A little contrition would have gone a long way to soothing troubled waters.’

‘Because Wayt annoyed him by blowing the matter out of all proportion. And besides, the town thought him a hero, and would have reviled him if he had recanted.’

‘He frightened Cew badly,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from his examination. ‘That is hardly the act of a hero. Neither is terrorising pigs and geese.’

Hakeney shrugged. ‘Well, it is done now, and King’s Hall has made him pay dearly for it.’

‘There is no evidence that they are responsible for his death,’ cautioned Michael.

‘Then perhaps you should look at the matter a bit harder,’ Hakeney flashed back.

‘Do you know anything about the ale that Frenge was going to take there yesterday?’ asked Michael, manfully keeping his temper. ‘Peyn told us that he went to deliver a barrel.’

‘If he had, it would have resulted in a sore stomach or two,’ smirked Hakeney. ‘However, he would not have wasted his time: he knew they would have tipped it straight down the drain.’

‘Is there anyone else who might have meant him harm? Shirwynk, perhaps? Or Peyn?’