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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘We will have to decant to the Fens now,’ said Almoner Robert sombrely. ‘The town will never forgive Segeforde, and the University will never forgive Anne.’

  ‘Never,’ agreed Hamo.

  Then Shirwynk called out from his brewery door, evidently reluctant to move closer lest Edith should decide to take issue with him for his role in the affair. ‘Sue them, Rumburgh. Just as they are suing Frenge for having a little fun in King’s Hall.’

  ‘The “fun” you encouraged,’ said Michael, stalking towards him. ‘No, do not deny it – I have a witness. That was not the act of a friend.’

  ‘Frenge was his own man,’ said Shirwynk defiantly. ‘He could have refused.’

  ‘When he was drunk? Moreover, I find it suspicious that you consulted a lawyer just after Frenge died. Stephen says you went to hire him to sue King’s Hall, but if I find out that you actually quizzed him about inheriting Frenge’s half of the brewery, you will be in serious trouble.’

  Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look, then bellowed at Rumburgh. ‘Are you content to let a scholar rip the clothes from your wife in a public place?’

  ‘It was hardly—’ began Michael.

  Shirwynk overrode him. ‘It was a clear case of assault, and dozens of witnesses will concur. If you have any respect for your wife, Rumburgh, you will restore her good name with a lawsuit.’

  ‘Do not bother, dear,’ said Anne to her husband. ‘It would be so tedious.’

  ‘You are a very wise lady,’ said Robert, smiling approvingly. ‘A lawsuit would drive yet another wedge between University and town. Besides, I doubt the compensation you would win would be worth the inconvenience of a trial.’

  ‘Compensation?’ echoed Anne sharply. ‘You mean money?’

  Alarm suffused Robert’s face and he began to gabble. ‘Very little, I imagine. Certainly not enough to warrant the trouble.’

  ‘A paltry sum,’ put in Joliet quickly. ‘Especially to the wife of a rich burgess. Mere pennies.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ yelled Shirwynk. ‘Zachary is a wealthy hostel. You will be awarded a fortune.’

  ‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Michael. ‘He wants you to sue a University foundation because King’s Hall is prosecuting him. His advice stems from a desire for vengeance.’

  ‘So what if it does?’ asked Shirwynk, still addressing Anne. ‘It does not detract from the fact that a lawsuit is an easy way to swell your coffers. Stephen will take the case, I am sure.’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Anne, exchanging a greedy glance with her husband. ‘I did suffer when Segeforde hurled himself at me. Perhaps we had better pay Stephen a visit.’

  ‘No, you will not,’ said Edith firmly. ‘A quarrel with Zachary will do no one any good, least of all us. The University is our biggest customer – we cannot afford to offend it.’

  ‘You will not need its custom if you win funds from Zachary,’ coaxed Shirwynk.

  ‘We will make far more money by keeping its good graces,’ argued Edith. ‘There is—’

  ‘The dyeworks will make more money: you will not,’ called Shirwynk. ‘Be a man, Rumburgh. Take what is rightfully yours.’

  ‘I shall,’ declared Rumburgh, grabbing Anne’s hand and beginning to tow her towards the High Street. ‘We shall begin proceedings today, while memories are fresh.’

  Michael watched Rumburgh and Anne go with a sense of helplessness, while Shirwynk filled the street with mocking laughter. Robert began to edge away, his face a mask of dismay, but Michael rounded on him before he had taken more than two or three steps.

  ‘What were you thinking, to mention compensation?’ he snarled. ‘Surely you must have realised what their reaction would be?’

  ‘I was praising her prudence,’ said Robert defensively. ‘Of course I did not predict that the pair of them would be seized by a sudden rush of greed.’

  ‘Go home,’ Michael ordered crossly. ‘And please watch what you say in future, especially to townsfolk.’

  Robert bowed his head, cheeks red against his long white hair. Joliet opened his mouth to defend his almoner, but had second thoughts when he saw the dark expression on Michael’s face. He led his friars away, although Hamo felt compelled to have the final word.

  ‘Mistake,’ he murmured to Michael as he passed. ‘Sorry.’

  Meanwhile, Edith was still furious – about Segeforde’s lunge, Shirwynk’s goading, Anne’s response and Bartholomew’s perceived treachery. The brewer was the first to feel her tongue.

  ‘How dare you tell Zachary that we run a brothel,’ she barked, stalking towards him. ‘Perhaps I should visit Stephen and take out a case against you – for slander.’

  ‘You could try,’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘But no judge will convict me, because your dyeworks do contain prostitutes, and the men guarding them are repaid with sexual favours.’

  ‘The men are paid with coins from me,’ countered Edith icily. ‘I assure you, nothing immoral happens here. It is a respectable establishment.’

  Shirwynk attempted a sardonic laugh, although it was short-lived in the face of Edith’s wrath. He became defensive. ‘Well, it was not me who started that tale. Kellawe was lying when he claimed it was: I never said any such thing.’

  ‘Insult us again and you will regret it,’ hissed Edith, so venomously that the brewer blanched and retreated to his domain. When the door had closed behind him, she spun on her heel and stamped inside her dyeworks. Bartholomew followed, keen for her to know that Michael and Morys had misquoted him. He opened his mouth to explain, but the stench was far worse inside than out, and it took his breath away.

  ‘It really is foul, Edith,’ he gasped, once he had stopped coughing. ‘It cannot be doing anyone any good, especially the women who work here. Can you not open some windows?’

  ‘We could,’ replied Edith coldly. ‘But that would let the smell out, and we would have more complaints than ever. Besides, we barely notice it now.’

  Bartholomew looked around unhappily. Several buckets of evil-smelling waste stood near the door, almost certainly destined for the river, while he did not know how anyone could bear the toxic atmosphere in the annexe, where Yolande was stirring the fermenting woad.

  ‘This cannot continue,’ he said quietly, holding his ground when Edith glowered at him. ‘The protesters have a point: there have been mysterious deaths and illnesses over the last few weeks – roughly coinciding with the time that this place opened.’

  Edith’s expression went from angry to sad, which was much harder for him to bear as she doubtless knew. ‘So you are against us, too?’

  ‘I am against people becoming unwell and dying unnecessarily.’

  Edith pointed at the watching women. ‘If my dyeworks are responsible for making people sick, then why are they not ill? They work most closely with these so-called deadly compounds.’

  Bartholomew glanced at them, and thought that he had never seen a healthier horde. Every one was rosy-cheeked and sleek, and it was clear that regular meals and daytime work was doing them a power of good.

  ‘If you want a culprit, look to your own profession,’ Edith went on. ‘Everyone who has died – Lenne, Irby, Frenge, Letia, Arnold, Mistress Vine – was visited by a physician first.’

  ‘You mean Nigellus?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was not Mistress Vine’s medicus.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Edith. ‘You were.’

  Bartholomew winced. ‘But I never saw her. I meant to go, but …’

  ‘She was tended by Meryfeld in her final hours,’ said Yolande. ‘I am sure she would have preferred you, but she was too ill to argue, and Vine did not want to send for a physician who has ties to us.’

  ‘But she had this debilitas, which only affects the wealthy,’ added Edith stiffly. ‘And as I said earlier, the waste from our dyes cannot distinguish between rich and poor, so I suggest you find something else to blame.’

  And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

  ‘Come with me to talk to Shirwynk, Matt,’ said
Michael when Bartholomew emerged despondently from the dyeworks. ‘I want to know why he is so violently opposed to our University. We have had our detractors in the past, but none as vehement as him.’

  ‘Will you talk to Anne first?’ asked Bartholomew, hopeful that trouble might yet be averted. ‘She did not seem particularly upset by what happened – until Robert mentioned compensation.’

  ‘I will visit her later, but the prospect of “free” money is attractive, and nothing I say will make any difference now.’ Michael rubbed a hand wearily across his face. ‘That stupid incident will do much harm. The town will be offended on her behalf, and scholars will rally to Segeforde, especially when he claims it was an accident.’

  ‘Perhaps it was. I did not see what happened.’

  ‘He did make a grab for her, although I doubt he intended to tear off her clothes. However, it is clear that she has a certain history with him.’

  ‘She has a “certain history” with Stephen, Frenge and Wayt, too. Indeed, I wonder whether you and I are the only two men in Cambridge she does not count among her conquests.’

  Michael made no reply as he hammered on the brewery door, although there was a distinct pink flush to the plump cheeks. He continued to pound, loudly enough to prevent Bartholomew from asking questions, until Peyn came to answer it.

  ‘Have you come for a drink?’ Peyn asked insolently, staggering as Michael shoved past him. ‘What will you sup? Apple wine or ale?’

  ‘Neither – not with you,’ retorted Michael. ‘Latet anguis in herba, to quote Virgil.’

  Peyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘He said that about me? Perhaps I should sue him.’

  ‘You could try,’ said Michael caustically. ‘But he has been dead fourteen hundred years, so I doubt even Stephen will recommend it.’ He saw Peyn’s blank look and became impatient. ‘He was a Roman poet. Do you have no education? I doubt the clerks at Westminster will be impressed.’

  ‘Of course I know the poet Virgin,’ declared Peyn. ‘I read his verses when I am here at night, guarding the brewery against marauding scholars. He just slipped my mind.’

  ‘Then maybe you should drink less apple wine,’ said Michael, regarding him with dislike.

  ‘I never drink any apple wine,’ said Peyn sullenly. ‘I dislike sweet things.’

  ‘You prefer mud, which you enjoy lobbing at scholars. It was fortunate you missed Wayt yesterday, or you would have spent the night in my cells.’

  ‘Fortunate for you,’ sneered Peyn. ‘Because if you had laid so much as a finger on me, my new employers at the Treasury would have come here and crushed you like a worm. So perhaps you had better take your nasty University to the Fens, Brother – it is a place where you cannot get yourself into so much trouble.’

  ‘Was it you who started that ridiculous rumour?’ asked Michael in disgust. ‘I imagine it came from the town, because no scholar is foolish enough to have invented such a tale.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with it, but it is true. If you will not go of your own accord, then you will have to leave once these lawsuits begin in earnest – King’s Hall prosecuting us, us hitting back, and Anne suing Zachary. And if they do not force you out, the people suffering from the debilitas will do it – folk who are sick because his sister opened a dyeworks.’

  Peyn jabbed an accusing finger at Bartholomew and stalked out, slamming the door behind him with a noisy crack. Thinking they had been left unattended, Michael was about to indulge in a prowl when Shirwynk emerged from the shadows.

  ‘My son makes very good points, Brother,’ the brewer said smugly.

  ‘Your son is a fool,’ retorted Michael. ‘As are you, spreading lies about the dyeworks and encouraging Anne to sue Zachary. Do you want the town ablaze? What is wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong with me,’ replied Shirwynk coolly. ‘I just do not appreciate having my town infested with scholars. I want you gone.’

  ‘Then you are going to be disappointed, because we are here to stay. But you have done business with us for years, so what has turned you against us all of a sudden?’

  ‘It is not all of a sudden,’ snarled Shirwynk. ‘I have always disliked you, and the whole town feels the same. Now get off my property before my apprentices remove you forcibly.’

  ‘I have questions,’ said Michael, not moving. ‘And if you will not answer me, the Sheriff will put them to you instead. He will arrest you and keep you in a cell until he is ready, but he is a busy man, and it might be days before he finds the time. Will Peyn delay his journey to Westminster, to make ale and apple wine while you are indisposed?’

  Shirwynk scowled, trapped. ‘Questions about what?’

  ‘About your wife. I find it odd that she and Frenge died on the same day.’

  ‘It was a nuisance. Do you have any idea how much burials cost? And I had to fund two – no joke, when I have Stephen’s bills to pay as well. But all will be well when I win my case against King’s Hall, because then I shall have more money than I can count.’

  ‘Frenge was frightened of you,’ said Michael, when he saw the brewer was not going to tell him anything useful about Letia. ‘He—’

  Shirwynk interrupted him with a braying laugh. ‘Rubbish! We were the best of friends.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is not what you said when we first discussed your relationship with him. Then you gave the impression that you were no more than working colleagues – men who endured each other’s company for the sake of the business.’

  ‘You misunderstood,’ said Shirwynk sullenly. ‘We were fond of each other.’

  ‘Then why did you encourage him to invade King’s Hall?’

  ‘Not this again,’ groaned Shirwynk. ‘I would not have done it had I known those humourless rogues would respond by killing him. It is them you should be persecuting, not me. They are probably the ones stealing our apple wine, too. Some disappears almost every night, despite the precautions we take to repel burglars.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael. ‘Your precautions. They involve Peyn standing guard, which suggests one of two things: either he quaffs the stuff himself and lies when he says it is stolen; or he abandons his post to go carousing with his friends.’

  Shirwynk regarded him with dislike. ‘He does not drink wine, and of course he is obliged to slip away on occasion – to visit the latrine or to patrol our yard at the back. The villains wait for him to leave and then they strike.’

  Michael snorted his scepticism. ‘Perhaps you should consider using your apprentices instead. Or do you not trust them?’

  ‘I trust my son,’ snarled Shirwynk. ‘And if he says scholars are stealing our wine, then scholars are stealing our wine.’

  ‘It is more likely to be a villain from the town,’ countered Michael. ‘There are far more seculars who know about theft than academics, and if you do not believe me, look in the castle prison. It is stuffed full of them.’

  It was drizzling as Michael stalked towards St Mary the Great to berate Tynkell for requesting a licence to absolve scholars from acts of violence. The Chancellor was in his office, so pale and wan that Bartholomew was concerned.

  ‘I have the debilitas,’ Tynkell whispered plaintively. ‘And Stephen will be here in a moment, to tie me in logical knots. Please do not leave me alone with him, Brother.’

  Michael’s ire evaporated at such a piteous appeal, and he flopped wearily on to a bench, which groaned under his weight. Bartholomew was about to dispense the mixture for distressed stomachs that he often gave to Tynkell, when he noticed a tremor in the man’s hands.

  ‘I have had it ever since Morys and I became kin by marriage,’ the Chancellor explained tearfully. ‘But it is worse today, because I have just had a letter from my mother, saying she is coming to visit. If she does, it will be the end for me.’

  ‘The end in what way?’ asked Bartholomew kindly.

  ‘In every way,’ replied Tynkell miserably. ‘Indeed, I might have to ask your book-bearer for a charm against evil spi
rits. She is a dragon, you see.’

  ‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what might be made of the fact that the head of the University consulted a Michaelhouse servant on matters of superstition. ‘I am sure she cannot be as dreadful as you think.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Tynkell disconsolately. ‘You have never met her.’

  ‘While we are on the subject of outrageous missives,’ said Michael, ‘perhaps you will explain why you applied to the Bishop for a certain licence.’

  ‘Oh,’ gulped Tynkell guiltily. ‘You have heard about that, have you? It was not my idea. Morys said that in any battle with the town, we would be hobbled by the fact some scholars will refuse to fight lest bloodshed stains their souls. Then he recommended Kellawe as a good man to dispense absolutions. It seemed like a good idea …’

  ‘It is not a good idea at all!’ exploded Michael. ‘It will make the town think we are planning an attack.’

  ‘I suppose it might,’ conceded Tynkell weakly, ‘but Morys gave me no choice. Then he went and summoned my mother anyway – he reneged on the agreement he made, the sly rogue!’

  Footsteps outside heralded the arrival of Stephen. He still looked unwell, but was clad in clothes of exceptional quality: clearly, the law was a lucrative business when clients like Edith and Shirwynk were willing to pay handsomely for sharp minds to find ways around it.

  ‘I have just been to King’s Hall to assess Cew,’ he began without preamble. ‘He is only pretending to be insane, purely to strengthen his College’s claim against the brewery. Thus the so-called assault on him will be excluded when we go to court.’

  ‘He is not pretending,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He is genuinely disturbed – and that is my professional medical opinion.’

  In truth, he was not sure what to think about Cew, but the lawyer’s presumption in making a diagnosis he was not qualified to give had annoyed him.

  Stephen considered for a moment. ‘Then he was already a lunatic, and King’s Hall aim to blame his illness on Frenge. Regardless, it will not form part of the case.’

  ‘I wish you could find a way to persuade both parties not to proceed,’ said Michael irritably. ‘The situation is causing untold harm to University–town relations.’