A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Irby himself, probably,’ shrugged Nigellus. ‘As I said, he had a fondness for the stuff.’

  ‘A lot of your patients have died recently: the Barnwell folk, Letia, Lenne, Arnold, Frenge and now Irby.’

  Nigellus was unfazed by the accusation inherent in the observation. ‘It happens, as Bartholomew will tell you. Indeed, he has lost two clients himself in the last month.’

  ‘Three,’ corrected Kellawe. ‘I heard that the cousin of Vine the potter died an hour ago,’

  ‘Did she?’ Bartholomew was dismayed. He never had been summoned to see her, almost certainly because Vine objected to his association with the dyeworks, but he had intended to visit anyway. It had slipped his mind, and now it was too late.

  ‘Why are you concerned about these particular fatalities anyway?’ asked Morys. ‘None are people who will be missed: Letia did nothing but moan, Lenne and Frenge were troublemakers, and Arnold was too old to be useful. And as for Barnwell, well, that was weeks ago, so who cares about them now?’

  ‘You dispense some very odd cures, Nigellus,’ said Michael, eyeing Morys with distaste before turning back to the Junior Physician. ‘Such as telling those at Trinity Hall to stand in moonlight and wear clean undergarments.’

  ‘And most have recovered,’ asserted Nigellus haughtily. ‘Thanks to me.’

  ‘Have you heard the good news about Kellawe?’ Morys spoke even as Michael drew breath for another question. ‘He has been granted licence to absolve all scholars from acts of violence. It means we shall have the advantage in the looming crisis – we can dispense any lessons we like to aggravating townsmen, but nothing we do will count against our souls on Judgement Day.’

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘The University has not applied for one of those.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we have,’ said Morys. ‘Chancellor Tynkell obliged, at my suggestion.’

  ‘And we shall be needing it soon,’ added Kellawe, eyes gleaming. ‘Scholars will not stand mute for much longer while the town abuses us. And the biggest insults of all are the dyeworks and their scheming whores.’

  Bartholomew did not often feel like punching anyone, but he experienced a very strong desire to clout the Franciscan. Michael pushed him towards the door before he could do it, informing the Zachary men curtly that he would be back with more questions another time.

  ‘Damn Tynkell!’ Michael hissed, once they were outside. ‘And damn Morys, too! The town will see Kellawe’s licence as a deliberate move against them. It was a stupid, wicked thing to have done when we are on the brink of serious trouble.’

  ‘If Kellawe insults my sister again, he will be absolving me from an act of violence,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘But what are we going to do about Irby? Just because we found no evidence against his colleagues does not mean they are innocent of harming him.’

  Michael nodded. ‘So we shall ask Stephen if Irby said anything significant as he lay dying.’

  The lawyer lived on the High Street in one of the best houses in the town. A maid led Bartholomew and Michael to an elegant room filled with sunlight, where her master was reading. Books stood in regimented rows on shelves that lined one complete wall, so numerous that Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping – books were expensive, given that each had to be handwritten, a task that might take a scribe several years.

  ‘My library,’ explained Stephen proudly. ‘Mostly tomes on architecture.’

  ‘You promised them to Michaelhouse,’ recalled Michael. ‘Then to Gonville Hall.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘But I have decided to keep them for myself. They mean a great deal to me, and I do not want them to go to a place that is on the brink of collapse.’

  ‘Michaelhouse is a very stable foundation,’ lied Michael, then added spitefully, ‘although I cannot say the same about Gonville. Its Master has been in Avignon for years, and shows no sign of returning.’

  ‘Actually, I was referring to the University as a whole,’ said Stephen, ‘which is about to decant to the Fens, where it will not survive. Of course, I shall not mind seeing its lawyers go – it will mean more work for me.’

  ‘There is no truth in that silly rumour,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why would we abandon Cambridge when we have everything we need here?’

  ‘Because many of your scholars are weary of the discord between them and the town, and are delighted by the notion of a fresh start.’

  ‘Well, we are not going anywhere,’ averred Michael between gritted teeth. ‘How many more times must I say it?’

  ‘The town will be disappointed. It is looking forward to being shot of you.’

  Michael scowled at him. ‘Relations might be easier if you did not dispense inflammatory advice – such as urging King’s Hall to sue Frenge, and encouraging Edith to open a dyeworks. Both have set town and University at each other’s throats.’

  ‘I suppose they have,’ acknowledged Stephen carelessly. ‘But it could not be helped.’

  ‘I understand you were with Irby yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly before his dislike of the man could start to show. ‘When he was ill.’

  ‘Yes, I sat with him for two or three hours. He was a good man and will be missed.’

  ‘Did he say anything at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or write messages to anyone?’

  ‘He was asleep most of the time. I stayed until his colleagues returned from the disceptatio, then came home. He thanked me when I went, but those were the only words he spoke. And he certainly did not pick up a pen.’

  ‘Why did Zachary ask you to do the honours?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Or do you have secret nursing skills?’

  ‘There is little nursing required for a man in slumber, as your pet physician will confirm. However, I volunteered to help because Irby was a friend, and I did not want him to be left alone while the others went out.’

  ‘Did you know he was dying?’ asked Bartholomew, manfully resisting the urge to insult Stephen back.

  ‘No – Nigellus told me that Irby was suffering from loss of appetite, which did not sound very serious, so I was stunned when I later heard that he was dead. Unfortunately, I think I caught something from him, because I do not feel well today. Nigellus says I have the debilitas.’

  ‘The what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

  ‘The deb-il-i-tas,’ repeated Stephen, enunciating pedantically. ‘The poor have flux, fleas and boils, but the rich have the debilitas. Nigellus says he would not sully his hands with common sicknesses, but the debilitas is another matter.’

  ‘Would you like me to examine you?’ offered Bartholomew, to avoid giving an opinion on such an outlandish claim.

  ‘No, thank you.’ The lawyer eyed the physician’s shabby clothes with open disdain. ‘I bought a horoscope from Nigellus, and he assures me that if I avoid onions and cats, I shall feel well again in no time at all.’

  ‘You had two visitors on the day that Frenge died,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could comment on Nigellus’s peculiar advice. ‘First, Frenge himself …’

  ‘Yes – he came to ask whether Anne de Rumburgh might prefer marchpanes or a bale of cloth as a token of his esteem.’ Stephen’s face was impossible to read.

  ‘He sought the opinion of a man who slept with her once?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Or are we to conclude that you know Anne rather better than you would have us believe?’

  ‘You may conclude what you like, Brother.’ Stephen smiled blandly. ‘But Frenge respected my wisdom in the matter. What more can I say?’

  ‘The second visitor was Shirwynk,’ Michael went on. ‘He—’

  ‘We have already discussed this,’ interrupted the lawyer. ‘He came to hire my services against King’s Hall.’ He stood abruptly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I have important business to attend. Good day.’

  There was a powerful stench in the air as they emerged from Stephen’s house, and Bartholomew groaned. How could Edith expect her dyeworks to be accepted when they produced such rank odo
urs every few hours? He started to hurry there, sure the demonstrators would not let the reek pass unremarked and wanting to be to hand if she needed help. Michael followed, but they had not taken many steps before they met Wayt.

  ‘No, I will not drop my case against the brewery,’ the Acting Warden snarled in response to Michael’s hopeful question. ‘Cew is costing a fortune in horoscopes – Nigellus is expensive – and I do not see why King’s Hall should pay for something that was Frenge’s fault.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘Michaelhouse would not baulk at the cost if one of our members needed specialist medical attention.’

  Wayt shot him an unpleasant look. ‘We did not mind at first, but it is a bottomless pit, because Cew is not getting better. Nigellus’s latest advice is to apply cold compresses to the head – ones that contain some very expensive oils.’

  ‘We have been told that you quarrelled violently with Frenge shortly before he died,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew thought that while Nigellus’s treatment was unlikely to work, at least it would do no harm. ‘Would you care to tell us why?’

  Wayt eyed him coolly. ‘If you must know, Frenge said that unless I dropped the case against him, he would tell my colleagues about my … my indiscretion with Anne de Rumburgh, a woman whose husband is generous to King’s Hall.’

  ‘So he tried to blackmail you, and within hours he is dead?’

  Wayt gave a tight smile. ‘What Frenge did not realise is that half the Fellowship have been seduced by that particular lady, so his threat was meaningless. I was angry with him for attempting extortion, but not vexed enough to do him harm. And now, if there is nothing else …’

  He stalked away, and loath to chase after him when it was clear he was unlikely to elaborate on his answer, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their journey to the dyeworks. The smell grew stronger with every step, and people glared at the physician as he passed, knowing him to be kin to the woman responsible for it.

  When they arrived, a spat was in progress. Anne was at the heart of it, skimpily dressed even by her standards, bodice straining to contain her bulging bosom. A semicircle of Frail Sisters stood with her, hands defiantly on their hips, while behind them was a gaggle of rough men – the former clients who had rallied to protect them.

  As usual, the crowd was made up of two factions. The first comprised scholars led by Kellawe, whose finger wagged furiously as he made all manner of points that no one heard over the noise of the second group, who were townsmen. Shirwynk and Peyn watched the altercation from the brewery, and their satisfied smirks suggested that they may well have aggravated the trouble. Rumburgh stood nearby. He took a sweetmeat from his scrip, and Bartholomew could tell by the way he chewed it that eating pained his sore gums.

  ‘Thank God you are here,’ said Edith, hurrying up to Michael. ‘Will you tell your scholars to go away? They say they do not like the smell, but we cannot get rid of it as long as they are out there bawling and shrieking. Even Anne cannot reason with them, and she is good with men.’

  ‘They have a point,’ said Michael. ‘You have stunk out the whole town, and it cannot be allowed to continue. Matt says it is only a matter of time before it kills someone.’

  ‘I never—’ began Bartholomew.

  Edith silenced her brother with a look that would have blistered metal. ‘It is a lot of fuss over nothing. No one will notice the aroma once they get used to it.’

  ‘But we do not want to get used to it,’ objected Michael. ‘It is—’

  He broke off when two Zachary scholars darted forward to engage in a fisticuffs with a pair of apprentices. With an exasperated sigh, he strode towards the mêlée. Unfortunately, his intervention meant that people stopped haranguing each other to watch, and Kellawe used the sudden silence to make an announcement.

  ‘I have a licence to absolve any scholar who commits an act of violence against the town,’ he declared in a ringing voice. Morys was next to him, nodding vigorously. ‘It came from the Bishop himself. However, any townsman who harms us will land himself in serious trouble.’

  ‘That is not fair!’ cried Hakeney. ‘We have the right to defend ourselves.’

  ‘If you do, you will be doomed to the perpetual fires of Hell,’ shouted Kellawe, grinning provocatively. ‘Scholars, however, will be deemed blameless.’

  ‘Not in the eyes of the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I will fine any man – scholar or townsperson – who breaks the King’s peace. And so will the Sheriff.’

  ‘But we have just cause,’ yelled Kellawe angrily. ‘Not only does this place release dangerous vapours, but he said its women run a different business after dark.’ He nodded towards Shirwynk. ‘We do not want a brothel as a neighbour, thank you. Our students have impressionable minds.’

  Bartholomew took in the Zachary lads’ courtly clothes and worldly faces, and was sure there was not an impressionable mind among them. Segeforde was behind them, pale but better than he had been earlier, although there was no sign of Yerland.

  ‘Then Shirwynk has slandered us most disgracefully,’ said Edith, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing the brewer with an imperious glare. Shirwynk promptly slunk indoors, although he was a fool if he thought that was the end of the matter – Edith was not a woman to forget insults to her workforce.

  ‘Has he?’ demanded Kellawe hotly. ‘Then why have you hired so many whores?’

  ‘To dye cloth,’ replied Edith tartly. ‘And they are not whores: they are women reduced to desperate measures by circumstances beyond their control. You should applaud their courage, not condemn them.’

  ‘You should,’ agreed Yolande. She jabbed an accusing finger at Segeforde. ‘Especially as you and many of your colleagues regularly hired our services before we started working here, so do not play the innocent with us, you damned hypocrite.’

  There was a mocking cheer from the women, laughter from the townsfolk, and indignant denials from the scholars.

  ‘These dyeworks stink,’ declared Morys, once the clamour had died down. ‘They made Trinity Hall sick – twice – and they claimed the life of poor Principal Irby, God rest his soul.’

  ‘You told us that he died of loss of appetite,’ pounced Michael.

  Morys pointed at Bartholomew. ‘Yes, but he said loss of appetite was a symptom, not a disease. And the disease came from here, from this filthy business.’

  ‘How could you, Matthew?’ whispered Edith crossly. ‘I thought you admired what we are trying to do. How could you fuel these ignoramuses’ vitriol by gossiping with them?’

  ‘More importantly, there have been town deaths,’ shouted Hakeney, before the physician could defend himself. ‘Namely Will Lenne, Mistress Vine, Letia Shirwynk and poor John Frenge. Bartholomew does not care that his sister is killing us, and neither do his medical cronies. And now Stephen has the debilitas.’

  ‘That sounds nasty,’ gulped Isnard the bargeman. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It is something that afflicts only the rich,’ explained Hakeney. ‘Paupers are immune, so most of us need not fear it. However, it is what carried away all these hapless townsfolk.’

  ‘If that is right, then we are not responsible,’ said Edith. ‘How can the occasional waft of bad air or bucket of sludge target only the wealthy? The answer is that they cannot. Now go away.’

  ‘Not until you agree to leave the town,’ yelled Kellawe. ‘We do not want you here, and I do not see why my University should have to up sticks and move to the Fens when it is you causing all the trouble.’

  ‘We cannot leave – not when we provide a valuable service to so many men,’ purred Anne. She winked at Segeforde. ‘And some scholars in particular would miss us sorely.’

  Full of mortified rage, Segeforde surged towards her. The rest of Zachary followed, and there was a lot of unseemly jostling, all of which stopped when there was a piercing screech that was half indignation and half amusement. It came from Anne. Segeforde had stumbled and grabbed her dress, so that the flim
sy material had come clean away in his hand. There was a shocked silence from both sides, and for a long time, no one moved.

  ‘Well,’ drawled Michael eventually, his eyes huge in his chubby face. ‘That is one way to quell a spat.’

  CHAPTER 7

  The incident with Segeforde and Anne might have sparked a serious fight if some of Tulyet’s soldiers had not arrived. They waded into the mêlée with drawn swords, which encouraged the antagonists to disperse. First to go were the men who had stood behind Edith’s ladies, no doubt having fallen foul of the Sheriff’s troops before, and they were followed by the other townsfolk. The scholars slunk away under Michael’s withering gaze, and for the first time since the dyeworks had opened, the square was all but empty. Only the women, Rumburgh, Bartholomew and Michael remained. Edith was incandescent with outrage.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Anne, now draped decorously in her husband’s cloak. ‘I wanted a new kirtle anyway, and this gives me the excuse to indulge myself.’

  ‘It does matter,’ fumed Edith. ‘It was not the act of a gentleman.’

  ‘No, it was not,’ agreed Rumburgh, scarlet-faced with shame on his wife’s behalf. ‘And if my gums did not pain me so much, I would challenge Segeforde to a duel.’

  ‘There is no need for reckless heroics, dear,’ said Anne, patting his arm kindly.

  ‘And it is not as if they have never been flaunted before,’ muttered Yolande. ‘Such as when she appeared naked in the mystery plays last year. It caused quite a stir.’

  ‘It did,’ agreed Michael, then felt compelled to add, albeit unconvincingly, ‘though I was not there myself, of course.’

  At that moment, a contingent of Austins arrived.

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Prior Joliet in a shocked voice. ‘We have been regaled with such dreadful tales! Townsfolk say that Segeforde molested a helpless lady, while Kellawe informed us that she whipped off the dress herself.’

  ‘She did not!’ cried Rumburgh. ‘What terrible lies!’