Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Why would anyone want that?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Who would benefit?’

‘Those who would like us to move to the Fens. What began as a silly rumour has become a movement with growing support. A lot of our scholars think it is a very good idea. And if there is open war between us and the town, even more will agree.’

‘But there is nothing in the Fens. It is a stupid notion.’

‘Is it? The priests among us have long deplored the University’s growing secularism, and a move to the marshes would make us more like a monastery – a self-sufficient foundation set apart from the vices of the laity.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘Let us assume you are right. Is Nigellus the sly mastermind behind this scheme?’

‘It is possible: he does think we should go. But so does another suspect, one who is much closer to home.’

Bartholomew regarded Michael in alarm. ‘You mean Wauter?’

‘Yes. He was a scholar in Zachary until the beginning of term – Nigellus’s hostel. Their terms of tenure did not overlap, but they still had dealings with each other.’

‘You think Wauter encouraged Nigellus to … No, Brother! This is too outlandish.’

‘Perhaps. Yet Zachary lies at the heart of all our problems: one of its masters assaulted Anne; he and two other members lie dead in odd circumstances; another has a licence to absolve scholars from violent acts; its new Principal has an unsavoury hold over the Chancellor; it lies on the same street as the brewery and the dyeworks; and its resident medicus stands accused of murder.’

‘And an ex -member is a strong supporter for a move to the Fens,’ added Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘Although I do not see Wauter as an arch villain who would sacrifice lives to get what he wants.’

‘I do not know what to think. However, there is only one way forward: Frenge’s murder started it all, and I have the sense that finding his killer will allow us to make sense of everything. You have never been happy with the evidence against Nigellus, so let us explore our other suspects for a while instead – the men of King’s Hall, Shirwynk and Peyn, Hakeney and Stephen.’

‘The last four would be glad to see the University leave Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the King’s Hall men would rather it stayed.’

‘So they claim – they may be lying in an effort to confuse us. We shall ask them as soon as we have had words with Stephen about his sly manipulation of our gullible priors.’

They walked directly to Stephen’s house on the High Street, only to be informed by his maid that her master was out with a client, although she was unable to say which one.

‘Tell him we called,’ ordered Michael, not bothering to hide his irritation. ‘And that he had better be in when we visit later, or there will be trouble.’

The girl gulped, clearly loath to repeat that sort of message to the man who paid her wages. ‘Then come in and wait for him,’ she suggested. ‘He will not be long – he is still not very well, so he will be keen to come home and lie down. He has pains in his wrists and he keeps being sick.’

‘I hope he will not use ill health as an excuse to avoid answering our questions – if he is fit enough to dash out after customers, then he is fit enough to speak to us,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘You can tell him that when he returns as well.’

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and began to stalk towards King’s Hall. However, he and Bartholomew had not taken many steps before they met Tulyet and Dickon. The boy’s face was as vividly scarlet as ever, so he remained an unsettling sight. He favoured the two scholars with a wide grin, and they blinked their astonishment: his teeth were blue.

‘You cannot blame that on the dyeworks,’ said Bartholomew to the Sheriff.

‘He drank some woad,’ said Tulyet, giving his son a disapproving glare. ‘It was a stupid thing to have done. He might have poisoned himself.’

‘I did not drink it,’ Dickon informed him chirpily. ‘I just took a mouthful, kept it there during Mass, then spat it out.’

‘I wondered why you were so quiet.’ Tulyet turned anxiously to Bartholomew. ‘It will not stain him permanently, will it?’

‘No, although he might want to remember in future that one of the ingredients of blue dye is urine.’

Horror stole over the lad’s face, and there followed a good deal of agitated spitting.

‘Relations continue to deteriorate between us and the University,’ Tulyet said to Michael, dragging his eyes away from the spectacle. ‘The situation is not helped by that tale you told me about Frenge.’

‘That he was a cattle thief,’ put in Dickon. ‘Which he was not, so you lied.’

‘Dickon!’ snapped Tulyet. He turned back to Michael. ‘I am sure it was an honest mistake on your part, Brother, but the fact is that you were wrong. Frenge’s only real failing was a fondness for his own wares, which led him to do reckless things.’

‘Like invading King’s Hall and the Austins,’ said Dickon. ‘It was stupid when he could have gone somewhere like Zachary, which has lots of lovely things to steal, but not much in the way of defences.’

Michael and Bartholomew regarded him askance, both unsettled that he should know which University foundation would be best to burgle. Tulyet hastened to change the subject.

‘I do not know how best to keep the peace,’ he confided unhappily. ‘Flooding the streets with troops amounts to martial law, which is more likely to inflame than soothe.’

‘Then do it,’ suggested Dickon keenly. ‘A massacre will show everyone who is in charge.’

A soldier arrived at that point to announce trouble in the Market Square. Tulyet hurried away to deal with it, Dickon dancing at his heels, flashing his blue fangs at anyone who glanced in his direction.

‘Why are men so blind when it comes to their offspring?’ said Michael wonderingly as he watched them go. ‘Shirwynk is another example: Peyn is a sullen lout who is barely literate–’

‘And who has never heard of Virgil,’ put in Bartholomew.

‘–but Shirwynk thinks he will sail into the Treasury and make his fortune. Perhaps it is as well I will never have brats. I should not like folk to see me as a doting fool, fawning blindly over some useless young wastrel.’

King’s Hall was ready to repel an invasion. Its gates were barred, its walls were patrolled by archers, and a stone smacked into the ground when Michael and Bartholomew approached, as a warning that they should come no closer. The monk stopped dead in his tracks and scowled upwards, outraged that anyone should dare try to prevent the Senior Proctor from going about his lawful business. Alarmed, the culprit dipped out of sight.

‘No, I will not withdraw my complaint against Frenge’s estate,’ snarled Wayt, when they had been admitted to his solar by a porter who wore full battle armour and carried a bow. ‘We suffered shamefully at his hands, so why should we not sue for compensation?’

‘Because it is damaging the fragile relations between the University and the town,’ Michael snapped back, watching intently as he tried to assess whether he was speaking to a killer.

‘I care nothing for the town’s paltry efforts to make war,’ spat Wayt. ‘And Frenge’s prank destroyed Cew’s mind, so we owe it to him to persist.’

‘Frenge is dead,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Is that not punishment enough?’

‘Not as far as we are concerned. And speaking of Frenge, I do not believe that Nigellus dispatched him. The culprit is far more likely to be Shirwynk, in the expectation that we would drop our case against him. Which is another reason why we will not do it.’