Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘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.’

‘But why?’ asked Joliet, his round face perturbed. ‘To despoil our priory, as he did King’s Hall? I know he hated the University – especially after Wayt decided to sue him.’

‘I think he came for something else, said Michael, staring pointedly at Robert’s cross.

Robert blinked his astonishment, but then shook his head. ‘That cannot be true, Brother. Frenge came in the daytime, when I was wearing it. If his intention was to steal, he would have invaded at night, when it hangs by my bed.’

‘He was probably drunk,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Such men are not noted for their logic.’

‘But the cross does not belong to Hakeney,’ objected Joliet, distressed. ‘Do you think I would let one of my friars keep stolen property? Hakeney is mistaken.’

‘Poison,’ grunted Hamo, speaking for the first time. ‘Madness.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Joliet, although Bartholomew and Michael had exchanged a glance of mutual incomprehension. ‘Perhaps it was the toxin that encouraged Frenge to retrieve what he thought was his friend’s property – it addled his wits.’

‘Impossible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The poison was caustic, and Frenge would have felt its effects immediately. He could not have rowed across the King’s Ditch once it was inside him.’

Robert gazed at him, blood draining from his face. ‘But that means he swallowed it here – after he had snagged the boat and crossed the ditch.’

‘It means he was made to swallow it here,’ corrected Michael. ‘Do not forget the bruises on his jaw. He did not drink it willingly.’

‘But who would have done such a dreadful thing?’ cried Joliet. ‘Not only to kill, but to do it on hallowed ground?’

‘Who indeed?’ murmured Michael.

A soldier was waiting outside the Austin Priory when Bartholomew and Michael emerged, to say that the physician was needed at the castle. He would not explain why, but the amused gleam in his eye suggested it was probably something to do with Dickon.

‘I shall come with you,’ said Michael. He raised a plump hand when Bartholomew started to smile startled thanks. ‘Not to protect you from that little hellion – no friendship extends that far – but to brief Dick on our investigation. Then we must return to Michaelhouse and help our colleagues with the preparations for tomorrow.’

The castle lay to the north of the town. It was a grand affair, its curtain walls studded with towers and gatehouses, and it boasted a sizeable bailey. Its function was now more administrative than military, and the Sheriff preferred to spend his budget on clerks and tax assessors than repairs, so parts of it were rather shabby. That day, however, it teemed with soldiers, some preparing to go out on patrol and others returning. All were armed to the teeth.

‘The spats between town and University are escalating,’ said Tulyet grimly, hurrying to greet his visitors. ‘And I have the sense that we are heading for some major trouble. But that is not why I summoned you here. Come this way, please, Matt, and hurry. Dickon has had an accident.’

‘What kind of accident?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘One that has injured someone else?’

Tulyet was already halfway to his office in the Great Tower, but he turned to shoot the physician a reproachful look. ‘I do not know why you hold such a miserable opinion of my son. His scrapes and adventures arise from the fact that he has an enquiring mind.’

Bartholomew knew better than to embark on that sort of argument with a doting parent. They climbed the spiral staircase in silence, but when they reached the top, where two knights were standing guard, Tulyet turned to regard him and Michael bleakly.

‘You will be stunned by what you see, so be warned.’

He opened the door and ushered the scholars in, closing it quickly to prevent his warriors from following. Bartholomew thought he heard suppressed laughter before it clicked shut.

Dickon was standing by the hearth, and there were two things that were notable about him. The first was that the child had poured himself a very large cup of wine; he held it in one hand, while the other rested on the hilt of his sword, so that he appeared like a miniature version of the beefy, hard-drinking warriors Bartholomew had encountered during his sojourn with the English army in France. The second was that his face was a bright and startling shade of scarlet.

‘God’s blood!’ gulped Michael, crossing himself. He rarely swore, so the oath was a testament to the depth of his shock.

Bartholomew simply stared, wondering if the brat had also sprouted horns or a forked tail.

‘It is your sister’s fault, Matt,’ said Tulyet, angry and defensive at the same time. ‘We had a report that she was dumping waste in the river again, and when we went to investigate … well, suffice to say that Dickon accidentally submerged his face in one of her vats.’

‘It is dye?’ breathed Michael. He crossed himself again. ‘Thank God! I thought it was …’

‘Yes, it is dye,’ said Tulyet coldly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You must find a way to scour it off, because I cannot have him looking like that.’

‘I like it,’ said Dickon, whose small, bright eyes looked more malevolent than ever in his crimson skin. ‘People will be more ready to obey me if I frighten them – which I will, if they think I am a denizen of Hell.’

‘You do not need a red face for them to think that,’ muttered Michael.

‘It is coming off,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Today. And if it hurts, that is too bad, because your poor mother will be beside herself if she sees you in such a state.’

Bartholomew advanced cautiously. Dickon had a habit of punching, biting, kicking, clawing and scratching those who went too close, and the physician would have refused to tend him had he not been friends with his father. He stopped dead in his tracks when Dickon’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.

‘Draw that, and I will never train you to be a knight – you will go to a monastery instead,’ said Tulyet sharply. It was the voice that had instilled fear into the hearts of many seasoned criminals, and even Dickon knew better than to challenge it. The hand dropped away.