‘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?�
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‘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, feelin
g 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.’
A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 10