A Poisonous Plot (40 page)

‘King’s Hall,’ he hissed between gritted teeth, flexing his damaged joint. ‘How dare they refuse me! And they were followed by Gonville, Peterhouse and all the hostels.’

‘Even Zachary!’ said Michael tauntingly. ‘A place with no academic standards whatsoever. You must have cut a miserable figure indeed for them to turn you down.’

Bartholomew was hard-pressed to fend off Shirwynk’s indignant assault, and was aware that if father and son attacked together, he and Michael would be dead. Shirwynk fell back eventually, circling as he considered his next move. Peyn had recovered sufficiently to try a jab or two, but he was tentative, unwilling to risk further injury.

‘If you must antagonise them, Brother, then at least grab a weapon,’ hissed Bartholomew urgently. ‘I cannot defend you indefinitely.’

Michael picked up a ladle from the floor and feinted at Peyn, who staggered backwards with an alarmed squeak.

‘You should have accepted my son,’ said Shirwynk coldly. ‘He would have been an asset to you, and I had set my heart on him becoming a lawyer. But his talent is such that he does not need your paltry degrees anyway. Not now he has won his post in Westminster.’

Confident in his father’s devotion, Peyn began to gloat. ‘It was so easy to fool you! I read how to make lead salts when I was preparing my application for King’s Hall – Stephen let me use his library.
No one
guessed it was me making and selling the sucura.’

‘Peyn!’ barked Shirwynk, horrified. ‘Say no more.’

‘Why?’ shrugged Peyn. ‘They will never repeat this conversation to anyone else, and they
should
know that their stupid University made a mistake by declining to take me.’

‘So I am beginning to understand,’ murmured Michael, ‘given that you promptly turned around and started to poison everyone.’

‘I have been making sucura for months,’ said Peyn tauntingly. ‘At first, I only sold it in Barnwell, thinking to keep the venture modest, but it was so successful that I could not resist expanding into Cambridge. People want it so badly that they pay stupidly high prices, and it has made me rich. How do you think I got my post at Westminster?’

Shirwynk blinked. ‘Because the Treasury heard about your remarkable abilities and invited you to join them, just as I have been telling everyone.’

Peyn laughed, although it was a bitter sound. ‘Nothing is free in this world, Father. I
bought
the position – with money from my sucura.’

‘But if the stuff
has
been causing the
debilitas
, as these scholars say, then it means you killed Letia,’ breathed Shirwynk, shocked. ‘Your mother.’

‘She was dying anyway,’ shrugged Peyn. ‘Or so she claimed. Personally, I thought it was just an excuse to lie around in bed eating cakes.’

‘You did not know your sucura might be dangerous,’ said Shirwynk. It was a statement, not a question, and there was a pathetic desperation in his eyes. ‘You sold it in all innocence.’

Peyn grinned malevolently, a response that made his sire’s face crumple in dismay. ‘I had my suspicions, which is why I never touch it myself. Not the sucura
or
the apple wine.’

‘But you let me drink it.’ Shirwynk’s voice was low and strained.

Knowing where his best interests lay, Peyn abandoned his air of gloating insouciance and became ingratiating. ‘I would not have let you come to harm. And I am not responsible for the deaths anyway. All the victims were old, ill or overly greedy.’

‘Was
Frenge
overly greedy?’ asked Michael. ‘I assume you poisoned him as well?’

Peyn shook his head. ‘His death was a nuisance, actually, because he was the one who took the sucura out to sell.’

‘No!’ snapped Michael. ‘I questioned any number of people who bought the stuff – Agatha, Cynric, Mistress Tulyet, Dodenho, Chancellor Tynkell – and none of them got it from Frenge.’

‘Stephen did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me so a few months ago.’

Peyn shot them both a pitying glance. ‘Frenge did not deal with the bulk of our customers himself, stupid! He hired petty criminals to do it – men who are used to hawking goods of dubious origin around the town’s taverns.’

‘Then it was all Frenge’s idea,’ said Shirwynk, still unwilling to see his beloved son in the role of arch villain. ‘He was a thief … there was a rumour that he stole cattle—’

‘He did not have the wits to devise a scheme of this audacity and cunning,’ interrupted Peyn. ‘Only I did.’ He smirked challengingly at Michael. ‘And incidentally, he never delivered ale to King’s Hall on the day he died. I made that up to confuse you.’

‘But you told me that tale as well,’ said Shirwynk hoarsely. ‘And I repeated it to others …’

‘Just as I intended,’ said Peyn, all smug triumph. ‘It put suspicion on King’s Hall, which serves them right for suing us.’

There was a moment when Bartholomew thought Shirwynk would be so stunned by his son’s nasty revelations that he would lay down his hook and surrender, but only a fleeting one. Peyn also sensed his sire’s weakening resolve, so took steps to remedy the situation. He put a loving arm around his father’s shoulders, and murmured in his ear. Whatever he said caused Shirwynk to take a deep breath and become businesslike.

‘Go and wait outside. I do not want your last memories of Cambridge tainted by murder.’

‘No, we shall dispatch them together,’ said Peyn, obviously not trusting him to go through with it. He gripped his blade purposefully. ‘Ready?’

Shirwynk nodded, his expression grim, and they advanced side by side. Bartholomew held his forceps in one hand and let his medical bag slide into the other, aiming to swing it in the hope of entangling one of their weapons.

‘Stop!’ ordered Michael, raising the ladle. ‘Desist immediately, or I will—’

‘Will what?’ sneered Peyn. ‘Arrest us? How? We are the ones with the pointed implements.’

‘By summoning HELP!’ Michael bawled the last word at the top of his voice, and the brewery door flew open to reveal Tulyet and several soldiers. Dickon was there, too, his face still scarlet, although his teeth were back to their normal yellowish white.

Shirwynk and Peyn whipped around in horror. In a frantic but ill-advised effort to save the day, Shirwynk went on a wild offensive, but a hook, however sharp, was no match for broadswords, and Tulyet disarmed him with ease. When he saw his father defeated, Peyn dropped his knife and held his hands in front of him, to show he was unarmed. They shook with fear.

‘I assume you heard everything, Dick?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew leaned against the wall and wished
he
had known that the Sheriff had been poised for rescue. No wonder Michael had been all cool composure in the face of death!

‘I did,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Every word.’

‘It was all Frenge’s idea,’ bleated Peyn. ‘I swear! He forced me to help him and—’

‘How?’ asked Tulyet mildly. ‘You just said he did not have the wits.’

‘No, but he does,’ said Peyn, pointing at his father. ‘I did learn about lead salts in Stephen’s books, but when I told
him
about them, he devised a way to make himself rich
and
to rid himself of an unwanted wife into the bargain. I did nothing wrong. It was all him.’

The blood drained from Shirwynk’s face, but even this final evidence of his son’s perfidy did not dent his devotion. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘The scheme was all mine. Peyn knew nothing about any of it. He is innocent of any wrongdoing.’

There was a flicker of something in Peyn’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly to say whether it was remorse. ‘So release me,’ the boy said. ‘I shall go to Westminster and our paths will never cross again. Unless you ever need a favour, of course, in which case I shall be delighted to oblige.’

‘Take them away,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him with disgust. ‘Thank God I have an upright, noble son, because I think I should die of shame if I had one like you.’

Once Shirwynk and Peyn had been marched to the castle, Bartholomew examined the metal vats, to assure himself that his conclusions were right. He was, and Michael and Tulyet listened aghast as he explained in more detail how Peyn had made ‘sucura’, both appalled by the lad’s brazen disregard for the people who had sickened or died.

‘So it and the apple wine are insidious poisons,’ said Tulyet when Bartholomew had finished. ‘Ones that work gradually. Once they are unavailable, will the
debilitas
disappear?’

‘There should be no further cases, and I hope the symptoms of those already affected will be eased by certain treatments.’ Bartholomew glanced at Michael. ‘Lead poisoning explains the damage I saw in the stomachs and livers of Lenne, Yerland, Segeforde and Irby.’

‘We shall have to apologise to Nigellus,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Damn! It is certain to cost an absolute fortune – one he will doubtless use to fund his new
studium generale
in the Fens.’

‘You will have to apologise to Edith as well,’ added Bartholomew. ‘She said from the start that her dyeworks were innocent, and she was right.’

‘What about Frenge?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Can we attribute his death to sucura or apple wine?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He was fed an acidic substance that killed him quickly, one quite different from lead salts.’

‘Yes – we still have a killer at large,’ agreed Michael. ‘A person who stabbed Hamo and strangled Kellawe as well. Unfortunately, we are running out of suspects. Or do you think Shirwynk and Peyn are responsible?’

‘Not Shirwynk,’ said Tulyet. ‘He was too shocked by his son’s admissions to be a seasoned murderer himself. And to be frank, I do not think Peyn is brave enough to claim his victims face to face. What about Cew? His madness has always seemed rather convenient to me. After all, who will suspect a lunatic?’

‘I am fairly sure his affliction is genuine,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps so, but that does not preclude him from being the strategist,’ said Michael, and explained his theory about the criminal mastermind to the Sheriff. ‘After all, it requires a certain type of insanity to bring all this about – one that entails a good deal of ruthless cunning.’

‘Then perhaps the strategist is Stephen,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘He is ruthlessly cunning.’

‘He is currently suffering from a weakness in his wrists,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One that would make strangling anyone impossible.’

‘Who, then?’ demanded Tulyet, beginning to be exasperated. ‘Wauter, who rode away into the Fens, where he is welcoming scholars with open arms?’

‘We cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for his disappearance.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I appreciate that you do not want this strategist to be from Michaelhouse. I have a fondness for your College myself, and would far rather the culprit came from somewhere else – such as King’s Hall or Zachary.’

‘Not King’s Hall,’ said Michael. ‘They are determined to keep the University in Cambridge, no matter what they have to do to achieve it. The best suspects are Nigellus and Morys, who are leading proponents for the
studium generale
in the Fens.’

‘If it is Nigellus, you will not have to apologise for arresting him on suspicion of killing his patients,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘And I admit that it would give me pleasure to see such an arrogant devil behind bars.’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am with you there, Dick, so Matt and I will speak to him and Morys as soon as I have had something to eat. It is not something to be attempted on an empty stomach, and the confrontation with Shirwynk and Peyn has quite sapped my energy.’

‘There is no time for gorging,’ said Tulyet. ‘I should have told you at once: trouble is brewing between King’s Hall and some of the scholars who want to leave. I tried to quell it, but they took exception to my interference. You are the only one who can prevent a pitched battle.’

‘I am sure there are townsmen to hand, though,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Ready to join in. We must stand together if we are to keep the peace, so come with me.’

They secured the brewery and hurried to the High Street, where raised voices could be heard. Afternoon was fading to evening, and it would not be long before it was dark, at which point it was obvious from the tense atmosphere that fights would break out.

‘How long have you known that the University rejected Peyn?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Ever since he admitted it just now.’ Michael shrugged at the physician’s astonishment. ‘It was a guess, Matt. We do not keep records of failed applications.’

The quarrel was centred on the Trumpington Gate, where scholars from King’s Hall, along with students from several other Colleges, had taken up station, all armed to the teeth. Facing them was a horde from the hostels, many wearing religious habits and carrying bundles of belongings. Crowds of townsfolk had gathered to watch, clearly intending to weigh in should there be a brawl.

‘The hostels are appalled that Shirwynk is prosecuting Morys for trespass,’ explained Beadle Meadowman worriedly. ‘And fear they will suffer similar charges if
they
inadvertently set foot in the wrong place. Thus the sanctuary of the Fens is attractive, but the wealthier foundations want to stop them from going.’

‘We have arrested Shirwynk,’ said Michael. ‘He cannot sue anyone.’

‘That news was broken a few moments ago, but it has made the situation worse,’ said Meadowman. ‘The hostels think it is a lie – a ruse to keep them here.’

‘We must put an end to this nonsense fast, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘Your University is tearing itself apart over this Fen business, and my town will certainly home in on any weakness.’

‘You have soldiers and Michael has beadles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Send both groups in to disperse this gathering.’

Michael and Tulyet shot him withering looks. ‘That would ignite a riot for certain,’ said Tulyet. ‘This is not a situation that will be resolved by brute force.’

While he and Michael discussed strategies, Bartholomew turned his attention to the mob. Not surprisingly, some voices were louder than others. Nigellus and Morys were in the vanguard of those who wanted to leave, although neither had a pack, suggesting that they did not intend to stay long in the marshes – they would return for more converts.