Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘How can that have happened?’ demanded Bartholomew archly. ‘I thought Peyn stayed here all night to guard it.’

He did not voice the thoughts that sprang instantly to mind – that Kellawe had gone to avail himself of a courage-generating tipple before turning his attention to the dyeworks next door. Or that Michael had hit the nail on the head when the matter had been raised before – that Peyn had either supped the stuff himself or he was not as assiduous with his duties as he would have his father believe.

Shirwynk glared at him. ‘The poor boy fell asleep for a few moments – protecting our property from thieving scholars is exhausting. The cunning bastards waited until he closed his eyes, and then they crept in.’

Unwilling to waste time arguing, Bartholomew and Michael went on their way, the physician wondering how Peyn had managed to persuade his father to be sympathetic to his napping on duty.

‘He adores the lad,’ said Michael. ‘God knows why. I should be ashamed if he were mine, and I cannot imagine the Treasury being very impressed when he appears on its doorstep, expecting access to the King’s money.’

The atmosphere was poisonous as Bartholomew and Michael walked up Water Lane – figuratively and literally. The dyeworks had started a process that involved a lot of foul-smelling ochre smoke, while it felt dangerous to be abroad in an academic tabard.

Bartholomew went directly to Michaelhouse, where Cynric was proud to learn that he was now responsible for Edith’s safety. Then, while Michael set about strengthening his case against Nigellus, Bartholomew aimed for the Barnwell road. He was relieved when it began to rain, giving him an excuse to raise his hood. It concealed his face, enabling him to walk without being subjected to a barrage of insults.

The Barnwell Causeway was a desolate place to be, even in good weather. It was elevated above the marshes through which it snaked, leaving its users cruelly exposed to the elements. That day, rain scudded across it in sheets and everything dripped. Bartholomew walked briskly, while wind hissed among the reeds and made his cloak billow around him. Eventually, he reached the huddle of buildings that comprised the Augustinian convent, and hammered on the door.

A lay-brother conducted him to the warm, cosy solar occupied by Prior Norton, a man who might have been nondescript were it not for a pair of unusually protuberant eyes. Bartholomew stated the purpose of his visit quickly, wanting to waste neither his time nor the Prior’s with aimless chatter. Norton listened carefully, then sent a canon to fetch Birton the reeve.

‘We lost Cellarer Wrattlesworth and his friend Canterbury in quick succession,’ Norton said while they waited. ‘And our cook and gardener the week before. All four were tended by Nigellus – I would have summoned you, but you were away. He assured me that he could cure them by calculating their horoscopes and prescribing specific remedies.’

‘Medicines?’

Norton nodded. ‘Electuaries, infusions, tonics, decoctions. His last recommendation was Gilbert Water, which was very expensive, although it did scant good.’

‘Were you happy with his suggestions at the time?’

‘At first. However, I began to doubt his wisdom when he blamed our elderflower wine for the deaths. We have been drinking it for years with no ill effects, so his claims were a nonsense.’

Bartholomew had been provided with a cup of it when he had arrived, and although it was generally believed that the Augustinians’ devotion to their beverage was undeserved, he had to admit that the one he sipped now was sweeter than usual, and so almost palatable.

‘Of course, we did not part on the best of terms,’ confessed Norton sheepishly. ‘I was fond of Wrattlesworth, and was angry that Nigellus had failed to save him. I am afraid I said some rather cruel things about his competence – things of which I am now ashamed.’

‘Physicians understand grief,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘And we have learned not to take such remarks to heart. Nigellus will not have been offended.’

‘Actually, I think he was,’ said Norton ruefully. ‘Indeed, I believe he still is. I have tried to apologise several times, but he will not give me the time of day.’

The reeve arrived at that moment, a gruff, competent man in middle years with thick-fingered hands and skin that was reddened from time spent out of doors.

‘My wife died the same day as Wrattlesworth,’ he said, when he heard what Bartholomew wanted to know. ‘The day after my Uncle Egbert. Nigellus said it was my fault, because I refused to rub snail juice on Olma’s face, but she was a fastidious woman and would not have liked it. Of course, now I wish I had done as he ordered …’

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew. He did not usually gainsay his colleagues’ opinions, but he did not see why Birton should torture himself with needless guilt. ‘It might even have caused distress in her final hours. You were right to refuse.’

Birton’s eyes filled with tears, and he grasped Bartholomew’s hand gratefully before he took an abrupt leave. Norton watched him go unhappily.

‘Olma was never in good health, while Egbert, Wrattlesworth and Canterbury were elderly. However, the cook and the gardener were in their prime, and should not have been taken from us so soon. They did spend too much time in the kitchen eating – both were very fat – but they had never suffered a day’s illness in their lives until the debilitas struck them down.’

‘How do you know it was the debilitas ?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because Nigellus told us,’ replied Norton. ‘Not at the time – he was always rather vague about what was wrong – but he said so a few weeks later.’

‘Did any of them drink from the river? Or eat fish caught in it?’

‘None of us would touch river water,’ said Norton with a moue of distaste. ‘We may live in the marshes, but we are not insane! However, we all eat fish, and Wrattlesworth and Canterbury liked it especially well, particularly when served with a cup of our elderflower wine.’

‘Did Olma and Egbert eat fish, too?’

‘Of course. Nigellus recommends it for anyone who is frail or elderly, because it is easy to digest. Do you think we should avoid it then? I know your sister puts unpleasant things in the Cam, but they will surely be diluted by the time it reaches us?’

‘It might be wise to avoid river-caught foods until we have identified the problem,’ replied Bartholomew, although he felt disloyal to Edith for saying so.

‘Then please do not take too long, Bartholomew. We rely on it in the winter when game is scarce. And our victuals are miserable enough as it is.’

‘Are they?’ Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, given that the priory was comfortably wealthy, and he had always been extremely well fed when he had been invited to dine there.

‘Mealtimes are no longer as enjoyable as they were,’ confided Norton with a sorrowful sigh. ‘You see, the elderflower wine we made this year was the best we have ever produced – pure nectar. You have the honour of drinking the very last cup. Is it not exquisite?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Bartholomew dutifully, although he would not have accepted a refill. Clearly, Norton’s definition of ‘exquisite’ was rather different from his own.

‘But now it is gone, and our older brews are rough by comparison. It was the sun, you see – it ripened the grapes at exactly the right time.’

There was something about the remark that made Bartholomew wonder if he was being told the whole truth, but the Prior asked him to tend two lay-brothers at that point – a sprain and a festering finger – obliging him to turn his mind to medicine. When he had finished, he walked home, thinking about what he had learned.