Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

He looked hard at Bartholomew and Michael, the ones most likely to have business elsewhere, then went to take his place in the procession. The others followed in order of seniority – William directly behind Langelee, Bartholomew and Michael side by side, Suttone and Clippesby together, and Junior Fellow Wauter bringing up the rear.

‘We must interview all our suspects again as soon as we have a free moment,’ said Michael, while they waited for Langelee to set off. ‘I have little new to ask, but if they are guilty our questions may make them nervous – and nervous men make mistakes.’

Bartholomew listed them. ‘Rumburgh, Shirwynk, Peyn, Hakeney, Stephen, the three men from King’s Hall and Nigellus.’

‘And possibly Wauter,’ added Michael in a low voice. ‘But you should have put Nigellus first. Not only for his nine dead clients, but I learned last night that he was at Trinity Hall when everyone there was poisoned. He was not ill himself, and his advice to the sufferers was to stand on their heads to let the bad humours drain out. When that failed, they called you.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘His “remedies” beggar belief sometimes.’

‘You should be pleased by the news – if he is the culprit, your sister’s dyeworks will be exonerated. And there is another thing …’

‘Yes?’

‘The only people who have died of late have been wealthy: Letia, Lenne, the Barnwell folk, Arnold and now your burgess. There is not a pauper among them. Do you not find that odd?’

Bartholomew supposed that he did.

There was to be an academic parade through the town before the disceptatio , although many scholars thought it should have been cancelled, given the town’s current antipathy towards them. Luckily, it was only along a short section of the High Street, and the hope was that it would be over before any serious protest could be organised.

Unfortunately, the town was only part of the problem, and trouble broke out between rival factions within the University before anyone had taken so much as a step. Peterhouse thought they should lead the way, because they were the oldest foundation, but King’s Hall had been built by royalty, which they claimed made them more important. Their antagonism sparked quarrels between other Colleges and hostels, and it was not long before a dozen spats were in progress.

‘It is Tynkell’s fault,’ grumbled Michael, watching his beadles hurry to intervene. ‘He should have published the order of precedence in advance, so there would have been no surprises. I reminded him to do it, but he claims he forgot.’

‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would have given resentment longer to fester, and feelings would have been running even hotter.’

Michael sniffed, unwilling to admit that he might be right. ‘There is Peyn,’ he said, looking to where the brewer’s son was standing with his father. ‘Is he about to lob mud at King’s Hall?’

He was, and the missile sailed forth. Fortunately, Wayt chose that particular moment to adjust his shoe, so the clod sailed harmlessly over his head. Michael stalked towards Peyn, Bartholomew at his heels, but Shirwynk hastened to place himself between scholars and son.

‘You would be wise to take him home before he spends the rest of the week in the proctors’ gaol,’ growled Michael.

‘For what?’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘Accidentally flicking up a little dirt? You will have a riot on your hands if you try to arrest him for that.’

‘I am surprised to see you merrymaking when your wife is barely cold,’ said Michael, going on an offensive of his own. ‘Why are you not praying for her soul?’

‘My parish priest is doing that,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘A man with no connections to your University, because I would not want a scholar near her.’

He stared hard at Bartholomew, who wondered with a pang of alarm whether the brewer somehow knew that Letia had been examined without his consent. Or was it a guilty conscience that prompted another warning to stay away?

‘She and Frenge died on the same day,’ said Michael, apparently thinking likewise, and so launching into an interrogation. ‘That is an uncanny coincidence, do you not think?’

‘Not uncanny – cruel,’ said Shirwynk. ‘King’s Hall knew exactly how to inflict the maximum amount of distress on me. Thank you for the invitation to dine with you after this silly debate, by the way. However, I would sooner jump in the latrine than accept.’

‘ You were asked?’ blurted Bartholomew.

‘By Wauter,’ replied Shirwynk coolly. ‘Many of my fellow burgesses will demean themselves by setting foot on University property, but I shall not be among them.’

‘My father sent me to ask if all is well,’ came a voice from behind them. It was Dickon, resplendent in new clothes, and carrying a sword that was larger than the one he usually toted. However, what really caught their attention was his scarlet face and the fact that he had contrived to shape his hair into two small points just above his temples.

Peyn promptly turned and fled. Shirwynk followed with more dignity, treating the scholars to a final sneer before he went, leaving Bartholomew astonished that a boy with a dyed face and hair-horns could achieve what the formidable figure of the Senior Proctor could not. Dickon set off in pursuit and Michael opened his mouth to call him back, but then had second thoughts.

‘Did you see Peyn blanch when he saw that little imp?’ he chuckled. ‘He doubtless thought it was the Devil come to snatch his soul.’

‘We should have asked Shirwynk why he encouraged Frenge to attack King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Dickon had kept his distance for a little longer. ‘And why he consulted Stephen so soon after Frenge’s death.’

Michael nodded to where the lawyer stood not far away. ‘Shall we ask him instead?’

Stephen was so adept at twisting the law to suit the highest bidder that he was used to angry people ambushing him in the street, and was not in the slightest bit discomfited when the Senior Proctor bore down on him, all powerful bulk and flowing black habit. He smiled with smug complacency, an expression that Michael quickly determined to wipe off his face.

‘I understand that you are one of Anne de Rumburgh’s lovers,’ he announced, loudly enough to be heard by several merchants who were chatting nearby.

Stephen’s smirk promptly became a gape. ‘Who … how …’ he stammered.

‘I have my sources. Well? Is it true that you seduced the wife of a fellow burgess?’

Stephen grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him to where they could talk without an audience. ‘It only happened once,’ he whispered. ‘An isolated incident.’

‘Frenge was also one of her conquests,’ said Michael, not believing a word of it. ‘Did he know you were enjoying her favours as well?’

‘He was not!’ exclaimed Stephen. ‘She would never have accepted a man like him. The brewery he shared with Shirwynk might have made him wealthy, but he was hardly genteel.’

‘So you know her well enough to guess her habits,’ pounced Michael. He raised his hand when Stephen started to argue. ‘Never mind. I would rather hear what transpired when Shirwynk visited you on the day that Frenge died.’

‘You already know what transpired,’ snapped the lawyer. ‘Because I told you the last time we met: he asked me to abandon King’s Hall and represent him instead.’

‘Why would he do such a thing? Frenge was the one being sued.’

‘Yes, but any compensation that King’s Hall won would have come out of the brewery – the business that he and Frenge shared. Of course, he requires good legal advice.’

‘You do not consider it unethical to advise one party, then slither away to act for the other?’