Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘I have other plans, Master,’ said the Austin irritably.

‘Cancel them,’ ordered Langelee peremptorily.

‘I cannot – they are important.’

Langelee’s eyes narrowed. ‘More than the well-being of your College? What are they then?’

Wauter’s face became closed and a little sullen, an expression none of them had seen before. ‘I would rather not say. They are private.’

‘Then you will stay in the hall with William,’ decreed Langelee with finality.

When Bartholomew had delivered his students a stern warning that any mischief would result in them cleaning the latrines for a month, he climbed the stairs to Michael’s room. When he arrived, the monk began planning their day.

‘First, we must visit Zachary, to ask what happened to Yerland and Segeforde. Hopefully, Nigellus’s colleagues will have come to their senses now that the enormity of his crimes has been exposed, and will tell us the truth. Then we shall speak to Nigellus in the gaol.’

‘I will come with you to Zachary, but not the prison. Nigellus will think I am there to gloat.’

‘I do not care what he thinks and we need answers – there is no time for foolish sensitivities. Are you ready? Then let us be on our way.’

It was early, but the streets were busy, and the atmosphere was tense and dangerous. Townsmen glared at scholars, who responded in kind, and Bartholomew was shocked when some of his patients, people who had accepted his charity and professed themselves to be grateful, included him in their scowls. Perhaps more surprising was that several members of the Michaelhouse Choir hissed abuse at Michael – the man who provided them with free bread and ale. The monk did not react, but Bartholomew suspected they would be told to leave if they turned up for the next practice. Isnard was his usual friendly self, though.

‘They are angry that a scholar ripped the clothes from a townswoman,’ he explained. ‘And they wish the University would leave Cambridge instead of just talking about it.’

‘Are you among them?’ asked Michael coolly, hurt by his singers’ disloyalty.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Isnard indignantly. ‘It would mean the end of the best choir in the country. And who would tend me when I am ill? I do not let any old medicus near me, you know – I have standards. No, Brother. You cannot let the scholars leave.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael, mollified by the warmth of the response. ‘But you can help by telling folk that there will be no lawsuit between Segeforde and Anne, because Segeforde is dead. He passed away last night.’

‘Yes, of the debilitas ,’ nodded Isnard. ‘I heard. But it makes no difference. King’s Hall is still suing Frenge’s estate, even though he is dead, so Anne will still sue Segeforde’s.’

‘Stephen!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That will have been his idea.’

‘He is skilled with the law,’ agreed Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Have you seen your sister today? She had some trouble before dawn this morning.’

‘Trouble?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

‘Someone broke into the dyeworks and– Wait! I have not finished!’

Bartholomew sped along Milne Street, dodging carts, horses and pedestrians. He almost fell when he took the corner into Water Lane too fast, but regained his balance and raced on. As usual, there were knots of protesters in the square at the end, some led by Kellawe and others in a cluster around Hakeney and Vine the potter. The dyeworks door was open, so Bartholomew tore through it, barely aware that the stench was so bad that day that most of the women wore scarves around their mouths and noses. Edith was on her knees with a brush and pan.

‘What happened?’ he demanded breathlessly.

‘Matt,’ said Edith, climbing to her feet. ‘Do not worry. We drove him off before he could do too much harm.’

‘ We? You were here at the time?’

‘Yes, with Yolande. We came to … to stir the woad.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew drew his own conclusions when she would not look him in the eye.

‘The rogue had the fright of his life when he saw us,’ Edith went on, then gave a sudden impish grin. ‘I have never seen anyone run so fast in all my life.’

‘Who was it?’

‘He wore a mask, so we could not tell. Segeforde maybe, irked because Anne intends to sue.’

‘Not if it happened just before dawn – he was dead by then. I suppose it might have been one of his Zachary cronies though.’

‘Dead?’ asked Edith, shocked. ‘How? I hope it was not the debilitas , because we shall be blamed if so. Zachary already thinks we caused the deaths of Letia, Lenne, Irby and Yerland, just because they lived nearby.’

Bartholomew glanced around, aware of the reek now that he was no longer worried for her safety. In the annexe, Yolande was using a ladle to remove some foul residue from the bottom of a vat, while another woman was pouring buckets of urine over the fermenting balls of woad. Then he saw that a window had been forced, showing where the invader had broken in.

‘He was unlucky to find you here,’ he said. ‘He probably expected the place to be empty.’

‘We did not hear him at first, because we were out on the pier, getting rid of the alum-lye mix that …’ Edith trailed off in guiltily.

‘You put lye in the river?’ cried Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that is caustic! It will hurt anyone who drinks it. And what about the fish? It will kill everything that–’

‘No one drinks from the river at that time of the day,’ interrupted Edith defensively. ‘Besides, the tide is going out, so it is all washed away now.’

Bartholomew smothered his exasperation. ‘The tide is on the turn, which means some will come back again. And what about the people downstream, not to mention their animals? Besides, you are meant to be transporting of that sort of thing to the Fens.’

‘We do, usually, but it is a long way on isolated tracks, and two or three buckets of sludge hardly warrant the trouble.’

‘Two or three buckets a day ,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It adds up. You should store them until you have enough to make the journey worthwhile.’

‘We have tried that, but your colleagues will insist on moaning about the smell.’ Edith fixed him with a hard glare. ‘You criticise us, but what about all the Colleges, hostels and convents that throw sewage, kitchen waste and God knows what else into the water? And besides, a few pails in an entire river will do no harm. They will dilute.’

‘Will they?’ demanded Bartholomew. Lye could have caused the burns he had seen on Frenge – the King’s Ditch was not the river, but they were still connected. Could Frenge have been poisoned as he rowed to the Austin Priory, and the bruises on his face were not from someone forcing him to drink, but him clawing at himself in agony? ‘Are you sure? Because I am not.’

‘Our waste looks bad because it is brightly coloured,’ Edith went on, ‘whereas the stuff produced by everyone else just looks like dirty water. But theirs is just as dangerous.’

‘You cannot know that,’ Bartholomew said tiredly. ‘And what if the protestors are right – what if the spate of recent deaths is because of you?’

Edith scowled at him. ‘Use your wits, Matthew. Who drinks from the river and eats its fish? Paupers! And are paupers falling ill? No, the dead are all wealthy folk who go nowhere near the Cam for victuals. Besides, if you want a culprit, you should look to your own profession, as I have told you before. All the victims consulted a physician before they died.’

‘Yes – Nigellus mostly,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘So Michael arrested him last night.’