A Poisonous Plot

Chapter 4

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.

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?’

‘Of course not. They were not friends, but they had worked well together for a decade.’

‘Did Frenge own a boat?’ asked Bartholomew, writing instructions to the apothecary for a syrup that should ease Hakeney’s problem. Unfortunately, he was not sure what had caused the attack – it might have been the dyeworks, but it might equally well have been too much wine, a poor diet, a lazy lifestyle or a host of other factors.

Hakeney blinked his surprise at the question. ‘No, why?’

‘How well did he know the Austins?’ Michael turned to another subject without giving Bartholomew the chance to explain.

‘He did not know them at all – at least, not the ones in the convent. He was good friends with your colleague Wauter, though – Wauter’s old hostel is not far from the brewery, you see.’

‘You say he was drunk when he launched his foolish assault on King’s Hall,’ said Michael. ‘But what about when he went to the Austin Priory?’

Hakeney raised his hands in a shrug. ‘There was a lot of ale on his cart, and he was a scrupulous man – he would not have wanted to sell his customers sour wares, so of course he would have sampled them first.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘There is something you are not telling us – I can read it in your face. It is almost as if you do not want Frenge’s death investigated.’

Hakeney regarded him with dislike. ‘Of course I do. But if you must know, I fear that Frenge might have gone to the friary because of me. My wife had a cross, you see. She inherited it from her father, who brought it back from a pilgrimage. But Almoner Robert stole it.’

‘I sincerely doubt he did any such thing!’ declared Michael, startled. ‘The Austins are good men. They are generous with alms, and even starved last winter, so that beggars could eat.’

‘I know,’ said Hakeney. ‘But that does not alter the fact that Robert is wearing my wife’s crucifix. It may not look like much – a simple thing of plain black wood – but it was something she cherished, and I want it back.’

‘His cross is crafted from black wood,’ said Bartholomew, recalling it hanging around the almoner’s neck. ‘But there is nothing remarkable about it, so how can you be sure it is hers?’

‘That is what he said, but he started flaunting it not long after I lost mine, which is too great a coincidence for me. It looks smaller than I remember, and the colour is slightly different, but I am sure it is the same piece.’

‘Speak to Prior Joliet about it,’ suggested Bartholomew, looking around the seedy chaos that was Hakeney’s home and suspecting that the original was still there somewhere; it would be found if the vintner ever bothered to tidy up.

Hakeney scowled. ‘I did, but Robert produced a bill of sale, so Prior Joliet told me I was mistaken. I often talked about the injustice of the matter to Frenge.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘So you think Frenge might have gone to steal it back for you?’

‘He might,’ said Hakeney, although he spoke slyly, and Bartholomew wondered if he just aimed to exacerbate the trouble between town and University. ‘But he was drunk and they caught him, so they decided to kill him – to stop him from trespassing on their property again.’

Michael eyed him balefully. ‘I have never heard such arrant nonsense in all my life. The Austins are the last men to take umbrage at someone straying into their grounds. They are decent souls, Hakeney – not violent or vengeful.’

‘If that were true,’ said Hakeney sullenly, ‘then Robert would give me back my cross.’

Bartholomew felt like wiping his feet when he emerged from Hakeney’s lair, and he certainly wanted to wash his hands. He did so in a horse trough, then went with Michael to search Frenge’s house, a pleasant cottage near St Botolph’s Church. Apart from a dress with a low-cut front that clearly belonged to Anne, they discovered nothing of interest, and there was certainly nothing to suggest that he had poisoned himself, either by accident or design.

When they emerged, it was nearing noon, the time when they had been invited to visit the Austin Priory and examine in daylight the place where Frenge had died.

‘We cannot stay there long,’ warned Michael as he and Bartholomew hurried up the High Street. ‘No matter how fine a repast they provide. Impressing patrons at the disceptatio tomorrow is Michaelhouse’s only hope for the future, so we must be back to help with the preparations.’

Wryly, Bartholomew thought it would not be he who would linger to gorge at the Austins’ table.

They arrived to find Robert waiting for them at the gate. As the almoner waved them inside, Michael pointed to his pectoral cross.

‘Hakeney says you stole that from him.’

Robert winced. ‘I know, but I bought this in London years ago, and I have the bill of sale to prove it. Moreover, the priest who sold it to me wrote a letter confirming my claim.’

Bartholomew reached out to take the crucifix in his hand. ‘Is it valuable?’

‘It is to me. It is crafted from Holy Land cedar and was blessed by the Pope himself.’

‘But it is just plain wood,’ said Michael, squinting at it. ‘No jewels. It would fetch little at the market, and I do not understand why Hakeney is making such a fuss.’

‘Grief,’ sighed Robert. ‘He feels guilty for mislaying his wife’s most prized possession in that pit of disorder he calls home, and thinks that acquiring my cross will make him feel better.’

‘Did Frenge ever raise the subject with you?’ asked Michael.

Robert looked startled. ‘Frenge? Why would he … Oh, I see. He and Hakeney were friends, and they probably discussed it. But no, I never spoke to Frenge about the cross – or anything else, for that matter. Would you like to see my documents? I do not want you thinking that I am a thief.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Michael, ignoring the flash of hurt in the almoner’s eyes.

While they waited for Robert to return, Bartholomew looked around, thinking the Austins’ domain was by far the prettiest of Cambridge’s convents with its grassy yard and attractive chapel. The almoner soon came back, and thrust two pieces of parchment into Michael’s hand. The monk scanned them quickly, then passed them back, nodding to say they were in order.

‘Poor Hakeney,’ said Robert, placing them carefully in his scrip. ‘Prior Joliet thinks I should just give him the cross, given that he is so desperate to have it, but I feel such an act of sacrifice will not help. His obsession with it is a symptom of his unhappiness, not the cause.’

‘Is our food ready?’ asked Michael, cutting to the chase. ‘Or shall we inspect the scene of the crime first?’

‘It is ready, but you must wait a moment, because we are burying Father Arnold. We should have finished by now, but the ceremony had to be delayed – on account of Prior Joliet being called to sit with Will Lenne while he died.’

He led the way to the back of the church, where there was a little cemetery. All the friars had gathered there, and Joliet was intoning the final words of the burial service.

‘What was wrong with Arnold?’ whispered Bartholomew.

‘Insomnia,’ replied Robert. ‘Nigellus told us he would recover if he avoided foods that had fruited when Venus was in the ascendency, but Arnold must have laid hold of some without our knowledge, because he suddenly grew feverish and was dead within hours.’

Michael waited until Robert had gone to help shovel earth into the grave before murmuring, ‘That makes three of Nigellus’s patients to die recently: Arnold, Letia and Lenne. And there were six deaths at Barnwell …’

The same thought had occurred to Bartholomew. ‘Yet it might just be a run of unrelated misfortunes. Last winter, I lost four patients in one day …’

‘Yes, but from causes that were patently obvious even to laymen – there was none of this “dizziness” or “insomnia” nonsense. So we had better make a few discreet enquiries, if for no other reason than Nigellus is a member of the University, and we should be ready with answers if a townsman raises eyebrows at his somewhat alarming mortality rate.’

When the friars had finished burying their colleague, three hurried to the chapel to recite more prayers, while the rest trooped to the modest building that served as their refectory. Then four disappeared to the kitchen to finish cooking and three served the others, so fewer than ten sat down to eat. The meal was frugal, with watery soup, a few prunes and some grated onion. Moreover, the presence of guests meant there was not really enough to go around. Michael regarded it in dismay, feeling he had been misled when told the fare would be ‘wholesome and plentiful’.

‘We are sorry about Arnold,’ he said, refusing a sliver of onion with ill grace. ‘Robert said he suffered from insomnia.’

Prior Joliet nodded. ‘For about a month, along with pains in the innards. He would have been ninety next year, and he had planned to celebrate in style – well, what passes for style with us. It is not what you would consider extravagant, I am sure. I heard last night’s feast was very impressive, and the reception after tomorrow’s disceptatio is predicted to be equally magnificent.’

‘We intend it to be an occasion our founder would have appreciated,’ said Michael, ‘as it is the anniversary of his death. Your mural is certain to draw much admiration.’

Joliet flushed with pleasure. ‘Perhaps it will encourage others to hire our services, and we shall earn enough money to mend the roof in our dormitory. Another prune, Brother?’

When the meal was over, Joliet led the way to the back gate, where Bartholomew and Michael scoured the area for clues. Robert and the burly Hamo helped, but there was nothing to find. Moreover, the spot was shielded by overhanging trees, and so was invisible from the road – appealing for witnesses would be pointless.

‘Is that yours?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to a boat that was tied to the pier with a scrap of ancient rope.

Robert nodded. ‘We use it when one of our older residents fancies an outing. It is easier to transport them by boat than in a cart – less jostling for ancient bones.’

Bartholomew bent to examine it, noting a fresh scratch near the back, and then stared at the opposite bank. It comprised a strip of land that was too boggy for building, so was used for grazing sheep. He stepped into the boat and paddled across. There were footprints in the silt at the water’s edge, and although some were smudged, he was fairly sure they came from one person. And Frenge’s boots had been muddy. When a brief search of the reeds revealed a grapnel, he thought he knew what had happened. He rowed back again.

‘Frenge stood over there,’ he said, pointing to where he had just been. ‘He tossed this hook across the water, snagged your boat and drew it towards him. That gouge on the stern is where it bit. The mooring rope is rotten with age, so it would have been easy to snap.’

‘But why?’ asked Joliet, his round face perturbed. ‘To despoil our priory, as he did King’s Hall? I know he hated the University – especially after Wayt decided to sue him.’

‘I think he came for something else, said Michael, staring pointedly at Robert’s cross.

Robert blinked his astonishment, but then shook his head. ‘That cannot be true, Brother. Frenge came in the daytime, when I was wearing it. If his intention was to steal, he would have invaded at night, when it hangs by my bed.’

‘He was probably drunk,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Such men are not noted for their logic.’

‘But the cross does not belong to Hakeney,’ objected Joliet, distressed. ‘Do you think I would let one of my friars keep stolen property? Hakeney is mistaken.’

‘Poison,’ grunted Hamo, speaking for the first time. ‘Madness.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Joliet, although Bartholomew and Michael had exchanged a glance of mutual incomprehension. ‘Perhaps it was the toxin that encouraged Frenge to retrieve what he thought was his friend’s property – it addled his wits.’

‘Impossible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The poison was caustic, and Frenge would have felt its effects immediately. He could not have rowed across the King’s Ditch once it was inside him.’

Robert gazed at him, blood draining from his face. ‘But that means he swallowed it here – after he had snagged the boat and crossed the ditch.’

‘It means he was made to swallow it here,’ corrected Michael. ‘Do not forget the bruises on his jaw. He did not drink it willingly.’

‘But who would have done such a dreadful thing?’ cried Joliet. ‘Not only to kill, but to do it on hallowed ground?’

‘Who indeed?’ murmured Michael.

A soldier was waiting outside the Austin Priory when Bartholomew and Michael emerged, to say that the physician was needed at the castle. He would not explain why, but the amused gleam in his eye suggested it was probably something to do with Dickon.

‘I shall come with you,’ said Michael. He raised a plump hand when Bartholomew started to smile startled thanks. ‘Not to protect you from that little hellion – no friendship extends that far – but to brief Dick on our investigation. Then we must return to Michaelhouse and help our colleagues with the preparations for tomorrow.’

The castle lay to the north of the town. It was a grand affair, its curtain walls studded with towers and gatehouses, and it boasted a sizeable bailey. Its function was now more administrative than military, and the Sheriff preferred to spend his budget on clerks and tax assessors than repairs, so parts of it were rather shabby. That day, however, it teemed with soldiers, some preparing to go out on patrol and others returning. All were armed to the teeth.

‘The spats between town and University are escalating,’ said Tulyet grimly, hurrying to greet his visitors. ‘And I have the sense that we are heading for some major trouble. But that is not why I summoned you here. Come this way, please, Matt, and hurry. Dickon has had an accident.’

‘What kind of accident?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘One that has injured someone else?’

Tulyet was already halfway to his office in the Great Tower, but he turned to shoot the physician a reproachful look. ‘I do not know why you hold such a miserable opinion of my son. His scrapes and adventures arise from the fact that he has an enquiring mind.’

Bartholomew knew better than to embark on that sort of argument with a doting parent. They climbed the spiral staircase in silence, but when they reached the top, where two knights were standing guard, Tulyet turned to regard him and Michael bleakly.

‘You will be stunned by what you see, so be warned.’

He opened the door and ushered the scholars in, closing it quickly to prevent his warriors from following. Bartholomew thought he heard suppressed laughter before it clicked shut.

Dickon was standing by the hearth, and there were two things that were notable about him. The first was that the child had poured himself a very large cup of wine; he held it in one hand, while the other rested on the hilt of his sword, so that he appeared like a miniature version of the beefy, hard-drinking warriors Bartholomew had encountered during his sojourn with the English army in France. The second was that his face was a bright and startling shade of scarlet.

‘God’s blood!’ gulped Michael, crossing himself. He rarely swore, so the oath was a testament to the depth of his shock.

Bartholomew simply stared, wondering if the brat had also sprouted horns or a forked tail.

‘It is your sister’s fault, Matt,’ said Tulyet, angry and defensive at the same time. ‘We had a report that she was dumping waste in the river again, and when we went to investigate … well, suffice to say that Dickon accidentally submerged his face in one of her vats.’

‘It is dye?’ breathed Michael. He crossed himself again. ‘Thank God! I thought it was …’

‘Yes, it is dye,’ said Tulyet coldly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You must find a way to scour it off, because I cannot have him looking like that.’

‘I like it,’ said Dickon, whose small, bright eyes looked more malevolent than ever in his crimson skin. ‘People will be more ready to obey me if I frighten them – which I will, if they think I am a denizen of Hell.’

‘You do not need a red face for them to think that,’ muttered Michael.

‘It is coming off,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Today. And if it hurts, that is too bad, because your poor mother will be beside herself if she sees you in such a state.’

Bartholomew advanced cautiously. Dickon had a habit of punching, biting, kicking, clawing and scratching those who went too close, and the physician would have refused to tend him had he not been friends with his father. He stopped dead in his tracks when Dickon’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.

‘Draw that, and I will never train you to be a knight – you will go to a monastery instead,’ said Tulyet sharply. It was the voice that had instilled fear into the hearts of many seasoned criminals, and even Dickon knew better than to challenge it. The hand dropped away.

Bartholomew inspected the damage, and drew the conclusion that Dickon’s ‘accidental submersion’ had been nothing of the kind: the dye had been carefully applied, neatly following his hairline and ending tidily under his chin.

‘Nothing will remove this,’ he told the horrified Sheriff. ‘Well, nothing that will not harm him. I am afraid it will have to fade naturally.’

Dickon grinned, and the sight of large slightly jagged teeth in the red face was distinctly disconcerting. ‘Good,’ he said gleefully.

Tulyet scowled at him. ‘No, not good! How can I teach you how to run a large and turbulent shire when you look like one of Satan’s imps? People will laugh at you, and you cannot command respect if you are a source of mockery.’

‘No one will laugh,’ said Dickon with a determined menace that was disturbing from a child of ten. ‘And if they try, I will spear them with my sword.’

Tulyet regarded him uncertainly for a moment, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘How long will it take to disappear?’

‘A few days. Longer, if he does not wash.’

‘He will wash,’ vowed Tulyet. He glared at his son, an expression that softened when the lad favoured him with a smile of great sweetness. He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘Fetch us some wine, Dickon. Show our guests the pretty skills you have learned as my squire.’

Dickon obliged, slopping claret in Michael’s lap when his father was not looking, and contriving to bang Bartholomew’s shins with his sheathed sword. Once again, the physician marvelled that Tulyet, who was nobody’s fool, should be so blind when it came to his son.

‘Is this Shirwynk’s apple wine?’ he asked, taking a small sip and then placing the cup on the table in the hope that Michael would finish the stuff.

Tulyet nodded. ‘Dickon and my wife like it, although I prefer a drier vintage. It is potent, though, and I am sure it is the reason why so many men are drunk these days.’

‘It is expensive,’ said Michael. ‘Few will be able to afford it, especially townsfolk.’

‘Actually, I was referring to scholars. Wealthy Colleges and hostels have laid in great stores of it for Hallow-tide, and I believe it has turned some of them unusually belligerent.’

‘It is not just scholars who are aggressive,’ objected Michael. ‘The town is just as bad. Look at Frenge – invading King’s Hall and the Austin Priory. And when we went to tell Shirwynk that Frenge was dead, he was unreasonably hostile.’

Tulyet was thoughtful. ‘In my experience, people are hostile if they have something to hide – and Shirwynk lost his wife and business partner in the same day. Perhaps we need look no further for the killer. He would have a willing accomplice in Peyn – the lad is a monster.’

Without thinking, Bartholomew’s eyes strayed to Dickon. Worn out by excitement, the boy had curled up in a window seat and gone to sleep. Even in repose, he looked dangerous, not only for the weapons he carried – two knives and a cudgel in addition to the sword – but because he still scowled and it was not a pleasant expression.

‘It would be a convenient solution,’ Michael was saying. ‘But we have other suspects, too. Frenge made a cuckold of Anne de Rumburgh’s husband and, although I hate to say it, there are three men from King’s Hall with no satisfactory alibi – Wayt, Dodenho and the lunatic Cew.’

Tulyet listened carefully while Michael outlined all he had learned, although it was pitifully little. When he had finished, Bartholomew stood to leave, feeling it was time to do their share of the preparations for the disceptatio, but Tulyet began to hold forth about sucura.

‘The import taxes are so high – ninety per cent – that no Cambridge grocer is willing to trade in it,’ he grumbled. ‘Yet the town is awash with the stuff, which means that every grain has been brought here illegally. If the King knew the full extent of the problem, he would have my head.’

‘Perhaps His Majesty should lower his levies, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Ninety per cent is downright greedy.’

‘I shall let him know you think so,’ said Tulyet acidly, then winced. ‘Even my wife bought some. Luckily, I was able to dispose of it before the servants saw. How does she expect me to confiscate it from others when it is in our own larder?’

‘It would be hypocritical,’ agreed Michael. ‘But time is passing and we–’

‘Of course, the best way to deal with the problem would be to arrest the smugglers – who must be rolling in money, given the amount of sucura they have sold – but I have no idea who they are. Or how they sneak their wares into my town.’

‘Barges, probably,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘Just like any other contraband. I am told that sucura comes from Tyre, so it must be shipped across the Mediterranean Sea around Spain and France–’

‘Impossible! I search every boat that docks here, and I know none has slipped past me.’

‘Then concentrate on who is selling it,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You can start with your wife: where did she buy hers?’

‘From a friend,’ said Tulyet sourly. ‘Who had it from a cousin, who got it from a man in a tavern. And there the trail ended. Have you attempted to investigate, Brother?’

‘I do not have the time – and it is not my business anyway. It is yours.’

Tulyet shot him an unpleasant look. ‘I suppose you – like most of Cambridge – think that smuggling serves the King right for imposing such high taxes. But we will all suffer if he finds out what is going on, so if you know anything, I strongly urge you to tell me.’

‘I have nothing to tell,’ shrugged Michael, although Bartholomew suspected Tulyet was right to imply that the monk was not being entirely honest with him. Perhaps Michael did look the other way because he disapproved of a levy that put sucura out of the reach of all but the very wealthy.

‘Then come to me when you do,’ advised Tulyet shortly. ‘Because I know for a fact that scholars like sucura just as much as townsfolk.’

‘Not my College,’ declared Michael. ‘We prefer honey.’

‘Good luck for tomorrow,’ said Tulyet. His sardonic expression suggested that he did not believe Michael, but was not about to call him a liar. ‘I shall attend the debate with the town’s burgesses, who tell me I can expect to be impressed.’

‘You will be impressed,’ promised Michael. ‘We are the University’s best and most stable foundation, and I would appreciate you saying so to your wealthy friends.’

‘So they will give you donations?’ asked Tulyet, amused by the bald instruction.

‘So we can say prayers for their immortal souls,’ said Michael grandly.

Bartholomew and Michael arrived home to find Michaelhouse in the grip of frenzied activity, and the hall was in such disarray that they regarded it in horror, sure it would not be ready in time. The Austins were at their mural, while all around them was a frantic hubbub of scrubbing, dusting, buffing and brushing. Agatha the laundress was standing on a table in the middle of the room, screeching orders at Fellows, students and servants alike.

Women were not generally permitted in University foundations, but exception could be made if they were old and ugly, and thus unlikely to inflame carnal desires among the residents. Agatha was not particularly old or notably ugly, but it would be a very reckless scholar who would foist himself on her. She had been part of the College for so long that no one recalled how she had come to be there, and she was comfortable in the knowledge that she was a permanent fixture.

‘Polish the benches, Doctor,’ she instructed, shoving rags and a jar of beeswax into Bartholomew’s hand. ‘And do not stop until you can see your face in them. Brother? I need you to taste the marchpanes in the kitchen, because I think I used too much sucura.’

‘Sucura?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘But the Sheriff is coming, and I have just told him that we do not have any.’

‘He dislikes sweet food,’ said Wauter, who was folding tablecloths. ‘So I doubt he will find out. However, sucura is a sign of wealth, and if we fail to flaunt it, people will think we are poor – which defeats the whole exercise.’

‘Then make sure no one offers Dick a marchpane or he may think we are so rich that we can afford to pay a fine for defrauding the King of his taxes,’ said Michael, not much comforted.

‘Who bought the stuff?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘I am not at liberty to say,’ replied Agatha haughtily, although the physician was sure Michael had made some sly signal to her behind his back. ‘Lest someone decides to tattle and we are made an example of – which would be unfair, as we only have a few grains, while places like King’s Hall buy it by the bucket-load.’

‘Hakeney the vintner,’ said Michael to Wauter, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘He told us today that you knew Frenge.’

‘Did he?’ asked Wauter, startled. ‘Then he is mistaken. I might have exchanged nods with Frenge on occasion – as I do with many people – but I did not know him.’

‘So Hakeney was lying?’

Wauter smiled. ‘I imagine we Austins all look alike in our habits, so perhaps he thought I was someone else.’

‘He identified you as an ex-member of Zachary Hostel,’ Michael persisted, ‘which suggests he can tell you apart from the others.’

Wauter raised his hands in a shrug. ‘It still does not alter the fact that I did not know Frenge. Of course, Hakeney likes a drink, and his wits are somewhat pickled.’

‘True,’ conceded Michael. ‘Which is a pity, as we have no idea why Frenge should have died in the Austin Friary, and information from you would have been most welcome.’

‘I wish I could help, Brother, but I know nothing about it. Yet the whole business concerns me greatly, and makes me feel that the University should leave the town and resettle in the Fens. I have heard that you and the Chancellor are considering such a move, which is excellent news.’

‘It is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘A tale started by misinformed gossips. Pay it no heed.’

‘Really?’ asked Wauter, disappointed. ‘That is a pity. I dislike the ill-feeling we engender among townsmen, and I have no wish to antagonise anyone unnecessarily – if they want us gone, we should accede to their wishes and leave them in peace. How is Cew, by the way? Any better? It is a terrible thing when a gifted man loses his mind.’

‘It is,’ agreed Michael soberly. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘Not very well, but I spent many an evening with him, debating points of logic.’

‘You did not enjoy the intellects of your Zachary comrades? Kellawe, Irby, Nigellus, Morys and Segeforde. All charming men, I am sure.’ Michael’s dour expression made it clear he was not.

‘Irby is a fine man,’ replied Wauter. ‘But Kellawe is quarrelsome, Morys an ass, and Segeforde dull company. And as for Nigellus, I moved here before he was officially installed at Zachary, so he was never a colleague.’

‘Wauter!’ called Langelee, hurrying up with bustling urgency. ‘Deynman tells me that you have not put your Martilogium in the library, and it is a work that must be displayed to our visitors tomorrow. Fetch it at once!’

‘I cannot, Master,’ said Wauter, a little testily. ‘It is not finished.’

‘No one will know.’ Langelee turned to Bartholomew. ‘And you must exhibit that treatise on fevers you have been writing for the past five years. Its size alone will impress, although we must make sure no one opens it – Deynman tells me it contains some very nasty illustrations.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, as the Master dashed away hauling Wauter with him. ‘We must present ourselves as active scholars, and Deynman has all my academic scribblings. Yet I shall be glad when tomorrow is over. We have made scant progress with Frenge, and the disceptatio is a distraction we could do without.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Although at least we have some suspects: Shirwynk, Peyn, Rumburgh and the three men from King’s Hall.’

‘And Wauter. I did not believe him when he denied knowing Frenge.’

‘You would take Hakeney’s word over his?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘A drunk, who dislikes all scholars – and Austins in particular, because he thinks one stole his cross?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Then perhaps Hakeney is our culprit. He and Frenge were friends, but they would not be the first to fall out after copious quantities of ale, and Hakeney would certainly like the University blamed for the murder. And there is Nigellus, of course. Frenge was his patient, as were Lenne, Letia, Arnold and six dead people from Barnwell.’

‘So how shall we proceed?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘By interviewing Nigellus tomorrow, to see what we can shake loose with a few clever questions. I shall want you with me, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew wearily.