A Poisonous Plot (26 page)

Bartholomew smiled despite his concern, touched by her dedication to a sector of the community that did not often win champions. ‘Then Cynric will stay with you until this is over.’

Edith smiled back, and Bartholomew was glad the quarrel was over, even if it was only a temporary truce. ‘Thank you. His presence will be greatly appreciated.’

The door opened then, and Anne sauntered in wearing a kirtle that was cut even more revealingly than the one that had caused all the trouble the previous day. It looked new, and he wondered if she was already spending the money she expected to win from her lawsuit.

‘I thought we had agreed that you would stay away until the matter with Segeforde is sorted out,’ said Edith coolly, eyeing the gown with open disapproval. ‘You being here is incendiary, especially with Kellawe outside.’

‘Why should
he
dictate what I do?’ pouted Anne. ‘I am a free woman.’

‘Very free – that is the problem,’ muttered Edith.

‘I have money invested in these dyeworks,’ Anne went on. ‘So I have a right to reassure myself that they are running smoothly. Besides, no one has my experience with the sales side of the business, so you need me here.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Edith. ‘We do. Very well, then, but stay in the back and keep a low profile. We do not want your presence to aggravate the University – our biggest customer.’

‘I know you are vexed with me for suing Segeforde,’ said Anne, coming to take her hand. ‘But he deserves it for what he did to me. Besides, I shall invest some of my compensation here, so the dyeworks will certainly benefit.’

‘Segeforde is dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will not be paying you anything.’

‘I heard,’ shrugged Anne. ‘But Stephen says we can just transfer our grievance to his estate. And better I get the money than Segeforde’s vile colleagues at Zachary Hostel. It would not surprise me if
they
dispatched him, in a desperate attempt to make me drop my complaint.’

Having had her say, she flounced off, all swinging hips and heaving bosom.

‘Do not let her beguile you, Matt,’ warned Edith, clearly of the opinion that no man would be able to resist such a tempting display. ‘Her husband might be impotent, but they are still married, and I doubt she would make you happy anyway.’

‘She hardly compares to Matilde and Julitta,’ said Bartholomew, offended that Edith should think he might allow himself to be enticed. He had standards and Anne was well below them.

‘No,’ agreed Edith softly. ‘She does not.’

Bartholomew left the dyeworks to find Michael and Kellawe outside, glaring furiously at each other, while Hakeney and his cronies watched intently from the other side of the road.

‘Here,’ said Kellawe, thrusting a flask at the physician. ‘Swallow this.’

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, declining to take it.

‘Water from the river. If your sister’s business is doing no harm, you will not mind downing it, to prove to everyone that it is safe.’

‘The river has
never
been safe,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And I have been advising people not to drink from it ever since I became a physician.’

‘You are refusing?’ pounced Kellawe triumphantly.

‘Yes. Not because of the dyeworks, but because of the sewage that is discharged into it from Trinity Hall, Clare College, the Carmelite Friary and every house and hostel in between.’

‘We know the truth,’ called a verbose but stupid priest named Gilby. ‘The Cam
is
poisoned, thanks to your sister and her whores. Her husband must be spinning in his grave.’

Oswald probably
would
have deplored Edith helping prostitutes, thought Bartholomew, but it was not for Gilby to say so. He reined in his temper with difficulty, ignoring the jeers that followed when Kellawe theatrically poured away the flask’s contents.

‘I am glad you refused, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘They probably added something to make you ill regardless. They are so determined to see Edith fail that no sly tactic is beneath them.’

‘Now perhaps
you
will answer some questions.’ Bartholomew addressed Kellawe, pointing at the Franciscan’s boots as he did so: they were speckled with spots of red, yellow and blue. Clearly, the friar had not gone straight home after finishing his vigil for Segeforde, Irby and Yerland in St Bene’t’s Church, but had made a detour. ‘Such as how did that happen?’

Kellawe flushed scarlet. ‘Painting,’ he replied, chin jutting out defiantly. ‘Touching up the murals in our hall. And you cannot prove otherwise.’

Bartholomew felt his blood boil. What if the Franciscan’s felonious antics had put Edith and her women in danger? He was about to launch into an accusatory tirade when Michael grabbed his arm and pulled him away, much to Kellawe’s obvious relief.

‘Exposing him as a burglar here will do nothing for the cause of peace,’ he muttered. ‘I shall fine him later, in the privacy of his hostel, where there will be no witnesses to turn it into an excuse for a fight.’

Bartholomew was not sure he agreed, but allowed himself to be steered away. ‘I will go to Barnwell this afternoon,’ he said, wondering if the Franciscan and his followers would leave the dyeworks alone if Nigellus was proven guilty. ‘To ask about the six people who died there.’

‘Go now,’ instructed Michael. ‘We should have as many facts at our fingertips as possible when we interrogate Nigellus.’

He was about to add more when he noticed Shirwynk and Peyn outside their brewery. Peyn was slouched in an attitude of sullen indolence, and Bartholomew felt like remarking that the lad would have to make himself more amenable if he aimed to succeed at the Treasury.

‘If you want the villain who invaded the dyeworks,’ Peyn said as the two scholars approached, ‘you need look no further than there.’ He nodded to Kellawe and his supporters.

‘My son is right,’ said Shirwynk, and there was pride and love in the way he looked at the youth. ‘The culprit will not be a townsman.’

‘Moreover,’ Peyn went on, ‘the sudden outbreak of the
debilitas
is a sly plot by academics to kill all the burgesses, so there will be no one left to challenge the University’s authority.’

‘If that were true, the
debilitas
would only affect townsfolk,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But scholars are suffering, too.’

‘But not at Michaelhouse,’ Peyn flashed back. ‘Which is more affluent than all the other Colleges put together. You should be dying, too, yet you remain suspiciously healthy. You are sacrificing colleagues from other foundations to strike a blow at the town.’

Langelee would be pleased to hear that his scheme to conceal Michaelhouse’s poverty had been so successful, thought Bartholomew, amused by the irony. ‘No one is—’

‘You are ruthless and dangerous,’ interrupted Shirwynk. ‘And if we can do anything to oust your University from our town, we will not hesitate.’

Michael regarded them both thoughtfully. ‘I ask again: why have you taken so violently against us after years of peaceful coexistence?’

‘Because we have had enough of your arrogance, condescension and dishonesty,’ snapped Shirwynk. ‘More of my apple wine was stolen last night, and I
know
a scholar took it.’

‘How can that have happened?’ demanded Bartholomew archly. ‘I thought Peyn stayed here all night to guard it.’

He did not voice the thoughts that sprang instantly to mind – that Kellawe had gone to avail himself of a courage-generating tipple before turning his attention to the dyeworks next door. Or that Michael had hit the nail on the head when the matter had been raised before – that Peyn had either supped the stuff himself or he was not as assiduous with his duties as he would have his father believe.

Shirwynk glared at him. ‘The poor boy fell asleep for a few moments – protecting our property from thieving scholars is exhausting. The cunning bastards waited until he closed his eyes, and then they crept in.’

Unwilling to waste time arguing, Bartholomew and Michael went on their way, the physician wondering how Peyn had managed to persuade his father to be sympathetic to his napping on duty.

‘He adores the lad,’ said Michael. ‘God knows why. I should be ashamed if he were mine, and I cannot imagine the Treasury being very impressed when he appears on its doorstep, expecting access to the King’s money.’

The atmosphere was poisonous as Bartholomew and Michael walked up Water Lane – figuratively and literally. The dyeworks had started a process that involved a lot of foul-smelling ochre smoke, while it felt dangerous to be abroad in an academic tabard.

Bartholomew went directly to Michaelhouse, where Cynric was proud to learn that he was now responsible for Edith’s safety. Then, while Michael set about strengthening his case against Nigellus, Bartholomew aimed for the Barnwell road. He was relieved when it began to rain, giving him an excuse to raise his hood. It concealed his face, enabling him to walk without being subjected to a barrage of insults.

The Barnwell Causeway was a desolate place to be, even in good weather. It was elevated above the marshes through which it snaked, leaving its users cruelly exposed to the elements. That day, rain scudded across it in sheets and everything dripped. Bartholomew walked briskly, while wind hissed among the reeds and made his cloak billow around him. Eventually, he reached the huddle of buildings that comprised the Augustinian convent, and hammered on the door.

A lay-brother conducted him to the warm, cosy solar occupied by Prior Norton, a man who might have been nondescript were it not for a pair of unusually protuberant eyes. Bartholomew stated the purpose of his visit quickly, wanting to waste neither his time nor the Prior’s with aimless chatter. Norton listened carefully, then sent a canon to fetch Birton the reeve.

‘We lost Cellarer Wrattlesworth and his friend Canterbury in quick succession,’ Norton said while they waited. ‘And our cook and gardener the week before. All four were tended by Nigellus – I would have summoned you, but you were away. He assured me that he could cure them by calculating their horoscopes and prescribing specific remedies.’

‘Medicines?’

Norton nodded. ‘Electuaries, infusions, tonics, decoctions. His last recommendation was Gilbert Water, which was very expensive, although it did scant good.’

‘Were you happy with his suggestions at the time?’

‘At first. However, I began to doubt his wisdom when he blamed our elderflower wine for the deaths. We have been drinking it for years with no ill effects, so his claims were a nonsense.’

Bartholomew had been provided with a cup of it when he had arrived, and although it was generally believed that the Augustinians’ devotion to their beverage was undeserved, he had to admit that the one he sipped now was sweeter than usual, and so almost palatable.

‘Of course, we did not part on the best of terms,’ confessed Norton sheepishly. ‘I was fond of Wrattlesworth, and was angry that Nigellus had failed to save him. I am afraid I said some rather cruel things about his competence – things of which I am now ashamed.’

‘Physicians understand grief,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘And we have learned not to take such remarks to heart. Nigellus will not have been offended.’

‘Actually, I think he was,’ said Norton ruefully. ‘Indeed, I believe he still is. I have tried to apologise several times, but he will not give me the time of day.’

The reeve arrived at that moment, a gruff, competent man in middle years with thick-fingered hands and skin that was reddened from time spent out of doors.

‘My wife died the same day as Wrattlesworth,’ he said, when he heard what Bartholomew wanted to know. ‘The day after my Uncle Egbert. Nigellus said it was my fault, because I refused to rub snail juice on Olma’s face, but she was a fastidious woman and would not have liked it. Of course, now I wish I had done as he ordered …’

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew. He did not usually gainsay his colleagues’ opinions, but he did not see why Birton should torture himself with needless guilt. ‘It might even have caused distress in her final hours. You were right to refuse.’

Birton’s eyes filled with tears, and he grasped Bartholomew’s hand gratefully before he took an abrupt leave. Norton watched him go unhappily.

‘Olma was never in good health, while Egbert, Wrattlesworth and Canterbury were elderly. However, the cook and the gardener were in their prime, and should not have been taken from us so soon. They did spend too much time in the kitchen eating – both were very fat – but they had never suffered a day’s illness in their lives until the
debilitas
struck them down.’

‘How do you know it was the
debilitas
?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because Nigellus told us,’ replied Norton. ‘Not at the time – he was always rather vague about what was wrong – but he said so a few weeks later.’

‘Did any of them drink from the river? Or eat fish caught in it?’

‘None of us would touch river water,’ said Norton with a moue of distaste. ‘We may live in the marshes, but we are not insane! However, we all eat fish, and Wrattlesworth and Canterbury liked it especially well, particularly when served with a cup of our elderflower wine.’

‘Did Olma and Egbert eat fish, too?’

‘Of course. Nigellus recommends it for anyone who is frail or elderly, because it is easy to digest. Do you think we should avoid it then? I know your sister puts unpleasant things in the Cam, but they will surely be diluted by the time it reaches us?’

‘It might be wise to avoid river-caught foods until we have identified the problem,’ replied Bartholomew, although he felt disloyal to Edith for saying so.

‘Then please do not take too long, Bartholomew. We rely on it in the winter when game is scarce. And our victuals are miserable enough as it is.’

‘Are they?’ Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, given that the priory was comfortably wealthy, and he had always been extremely well fed when he had been invited to dine there.

‘Mealtimes are no longer as enjoyable as they were,’ confided Norton with a sorrowful sigh. ‘You see, the elderflower wine we made this year was the best we have ever produced – pure nectar. You have the honour of drinking the very last cup. Is it not exquisite?’