‘It would slip down nicely with cheese,’ he declared eventually, while the others watched the performance with fascination. ‘And it has an agreeable punch.’
‘It does,’ agreed Shirwynk, pleased by the praise, although he tried to hide it. ‘It is popular with wealthy townsmen and scholars alike.’
‘Although we charge the University twice as much as we do the burgesses,’ added Peyn, then scowled defiantly when his father shot him a withering look – the Senior Proctor had the right to set prices for food and drink, so telling him his colleagues were being cheated was hardly wise.
‘It is so well liked that scholars break in here to steal it,’ said Shirwynk, going on an offensive in the hope that Michael would forget his son’s incautious remark. ‘Some disappears almost every night.’
‘How do you know an academic is responsible?’ asked Bartholomew, a little indignantly.
‘Because no townsman would raid me,’ replied Shirwynk, rather unconvincingly. ‘Peyn has taken to standing guard during the hours of darkness, but even he is obliged to slip away on occasion, and the villains always seem to know when the place is empty.’
‘Frenge,’ said Michael briskly, unwilling to waste time in idle chatter. ‘Did he have any friends who might be able to tell us about his final hours?’
‘Well, there is Robert de Hakeney,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘The drunken vintner. But he will say the same as us – that Frenge was murdered by King’s Hall.’
‘What did Frenge eat and drink yesterday morning?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Breakfast ale and sweet pottage,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘But you cannot blame those for making an end of him, because Peyn and I shared them with him and we are still alive.’
‘I did not have the pottage,’ put in Peyn. ‘I prefer salty foods. But I had the ale.’
‘Did your wife eat and drink with you as well?’
‘She did not.’ Shirwynk’s voice was cold. ‘She was too ill.’
‘What was wrong with her?’
‘Nigellus said it was a fatal dizziness, although he is a scholar, so I am not sure whether to believe him. I tried to get Meryfeld – the only physician who is not part of your damned University – but he decided to be mulish over an unpaid bill, and refused to come.’
‘Other than dizziness, what were Letia’s symptoms?’
‘Where to start?’ sighed Peyn. ‘Mother was ill for as long as I can remember. Indeed, we were surprised that she lasted as long as she did, given the number of ailments she claimed she had.’
‘Most recently, she suffered from pains in the stomach, headaches and weak limbs,’ said Shirwynk. ‘She insisted on hiring a physician, and wanted Nigellus because he is the most expensive and therefore the best. But she died anyway.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Michael automatically.
‘I am not,’ muttered Peyn. ‘Her constant moaning was a trial.’
There was no more to be said after such a remark, so Bartholomew and Michael left the brewery, waiting until they were well away before voicing their thoughts.
‘You found no poison on the premises, but that means nothing,’ said Michael. ‘And I can see Shirwynk and that nasty little Peyn committing murder to suit themselves. It is obvious that neither cared for Letia, and they do not seem unduly distressed by Frenge’s demise either. It would be a good outcome for us – townsmen dispatching each other.’
‘You may be right, but how will we prove it? They were both very confident that a search of their brewery would tell us nothing – either because they are innocent, or because they know they had covered their tracks.’
‘We must find answers,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Because if we do not identify the culprit, rumour and suspicion will bring us a riot. Of course, that may be exactly what Shirwynk intends.’
‘Why would he want something that would disrupt trade, including his own, and inflict misery and suffering on his town?’
‘Because he is a vicious malcontent with an irrational hatred of our University and an agenda I do not yet understand. We cannot afford to be lax about this, Matt. We both must do all in our power to solve Frenge’s murder before the whole of Cambridge erupts into flames.’
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 ba
ker. ‘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.’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 9