Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Do not worry,’ said Wayt, uncharacteristic tenderness suffusing his hirsute face. ‘He is one of our own, and we look after those. He shall have whatever he needs.’

Michael and Bartholomew reached the brewery eventually, where they found business in full swing, despite the deaths of Frenge and Letia. Apprentices moved among the great vats, stirring or adding ingredients, while Shirwynk sat at a table dictating letters to his son. A quick glance told them that the brewer was illiterate – if he had been able to read, he would have ordered Peyn to redo them, as the lad’s grammar left much to be desired, while his writing was all but illegible.

‘ Why must we talk about Frenge again?’ demanded Shirwynk, when Michael told him what they wanted. ‘It is obvious what happened: King’s Hall poisoned him, and deposited his body in the Austin Priory to confuse you. Of course, they need not have bothered with such a complicated ruse – you will never find a scholar guilty, no matter how compelling the evidence.’

‘I have found scholars guilty in the past,’ said Michael icily. ‘I could cite a dozen examples.’

‘Then arrest Wayt and his cronies,’ snapped the brewer. ‘Frenge was perfectly healthy when he left here to take ale to King’s Hall yesterday.’

‘Was he?’ pounced Michael. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he was singing. People do not sing if they are ill. Is that not so, physician?’

‘I imagine it depends on the person,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously.

Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look and turned back to Michael. ‘He was warbling happily as he loaded the dray with ale and wine. Right, Peyn?’

‘Wine,’ mused Michael. ‘I have been meaning to ask you about that. You are a brewer, not a vintner, so you have no right to produce wine. How do the town’s vintners feel about you treading on their professional toes?’

‘There is only one vintner in Cambridge, and he is a sot who would rather drink his wares than sell them,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘Peyn suggested that we expand into wine earlier this year, and the venture has been very successful.’

‘Which is why King’s Hall refuses to drop its case against Frenge,’ elaborated Peyn. ‘Our fine apple wine has made us rich, and they itch to relieve us of our profits.’

‘Do you keep toxic substances here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps for scouring–’

He stepped back quickly when Shirwynk rounded on him with a face as black as thunder, while Peyn fingered the knife he wore in his belt.

‘You think to accuse us of Frenge’s death,’ the brewer snarled. ‘Well, you can think again – we would never harm a friend. But look around, if you must. You will find no poisons here.’

Bartholomew took him at his word and began to explore. However, although he peered inside every vat, pot and cupboard, he saw nothing that could have caused the burns in Frenge’s mouth. Of course, that was not to say that Shirwynk and Peyn were innocent – wise killers would already have taken steps to dispose of incriminating evidence.

‘Your ale-making operation is impressively hygienic,’ he said when he had finished. ‘But where do you ferment the wine?’

Still scowling, Shirwynk led the way to the back of the brewery, where three large lead tanks had been placed in a line.

‘We bought these from the Austin Friary,’ explained Peyn, leaning against one and beginning to pare his nails with the dagger. ‘They needed money to buy bread for the poor, so we got them cheap. We fill them with the juice from crushed apples, add yeast, and nature does the rest. This batch is ready for decanting. You may taste it if you like.’

He filled a cup from a barrel. Bartholomew took a very small sip, but it was far too sweet for him, and he was glad to pass the rest to Michael. The monk sniffed it, carefully inspected its colour, then took a large gulp, which he swished noisily around his teeth.

‘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.’