Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘It is not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I repeat: leave the matter to me. Now, you say Hakeney is in the King’s Head still?’

‘Yes, lying on the floor. Do you want a word with him? Then I had better accompany you, to make sure you come to no harm.’

The King’s Head was a sprawling tavern on the edge of the town, famous for strong ale, vicious fights and rabid opinions. Scholars were not welcome, although Bartholomew and Michael were tolerated, one for physicking the poor and the other for running the choir. Even so, both were uneasy as they entered the dark, smelly room with its reek of spilled ale and rushes that needed changing. The clatter of conversation immediately died away.

‘They are with me,’ announced Isnard. ‘Come to disprove these lies about Hakeney.’

‘Good,’ said the landlord, a burly brute with scars. ‘Because he came here shortly after the squabble at the dyeworks and he has not left since. A dozen witnesses will tell you the same. Besides, can you really imagine a skinny wretch like him dispatching a great lump like Hamo?’

‘You would be surprised,’ said Michael. ‘Not all murderers are …’ He waved a vague hand, suddenly aware that if he attempted a description of the classic notion of a killer, any number of men in the room, including the landlord, might take it personally.

Bartholomew left the monk to verify Hakeney’s alibi, while he followed Isnard to the back of the tavern, where the vintner was fast asleep on a straw pallet, one of several thoughtfully provided for those patrons who found themselves unable to walk home. Isnard woke him with a jab from a crutch, and Hakeney sat up blinking stupidly. He wore a knife on his belt, but it was too large to be the murder weapon.

‘Why would I stab Hamo?’ he asked, when Isnard explained what was being said about him. ‘It is Robert who stole my cross.’

‘Perhaps you aimed to deter the Austins from suing you,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Is that a possibility?’ asked Hakeney eagerly, and the physician could see it was a notion that had not occurred to him before. The vintner was not the culprit.

‘Why choose now to snatch the cross?’ asked Bartholomew. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Or did someone encourage you to do it?’

‘I did meet a man who told me I was a fool to let myself be so wronged,’ confided Hakeney. ‘He suggested the best way to get my property back was just to take it.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

Hakeney shrugged, and the red-rimmed eyes and sallow features suggested he would not be a reliable witness anyway. ‘I never saw his face, and the tavern where he got me was one of the dark ones. He was a townsman, though. No scholar would have dispensed such sensible advice.’

‘Give it back, Hakeney,’ said Isnard disapprovingly. ‘You told me last night that Robert’s cross is different from your wife’s. Do the decent thing and admit you made a mistake.’

‘No, I shall keep it,’ said Hakeney, taking it in his hand and staring down at it. ‘It reminds me of Lilith, even if it was never hers in the first place.’

Bartholomew considered grabbing it himself, knowing that the vintner was not strong enough to stop him, but then came to his senses. They were in the King’s Head, and even Isnard would not be able to protect him if he assaulted one of its regulars.

‘The Austins are going to ask the Bishop to decide the case,’ he said instead. ‘It is a good idea – he will be an impartial judge.’

‘Oh, no, he won’t,’ declared Hakeney fervently. ‘I have crossed swords with him before – over a pig that was mine, but which he claimed was his. I will not get a fair hearing from the Bishop of Ely, and I refuse to accept him as an arbiter.’

‘Then stay low until Hamo’s killer is caught,’ advised Bartholomew, sure the sight of the vintner strolling free would infuriate some of the University’s feistier members, and the last thing they needed was another murder. ‘Do you have somewhere to hide?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hakeney, reaching for the jug of wine that he had not finished the previous night and taking a deep draught. ‘Right here. The landlord will not mind.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the tavern, and as they crossed the bridge over the King’s Ditch, the physician stopped to stare down at the sluggish, murky waters. When he looked up again, he saw the top of the Austins’ chapel over the chaos of rooftops in between, while several boats were tied up on the bank below. None were secure, and anyone might have jumped into one, rowed the short distance to the convent and gone in to commit murder.

‘I have been looking for you,’ came a voice at his side. It was Dodenho from King’s Hall. ‘Two more of our students have gone down with the debilitas , and we need another pot of your miraculous Royal Broth. It has eased all Cew’s symptoms, and he is better than he has been in days, although he is still mad, unfortunately. Still, one thing at a time.’

Loath to dispense a remedy, even vegetable soup, without examining the patients first, Bartholomew offered to accompany him to King’s Hall while Michael went to question the Austins again. As they walked, Dodenho regaled the physician with opinions, one hand on the sword he wore at his side. Bartholomew was grateful for his martial presence, given the amount of hostility he himself was attracting.

‘If the University does go to the Fens, we shall not join it,’ Dodenho declared. ‘It would be a bleak and impoverished existence, and our scholars are all from noble households, so they expect a degree of comfort. I imagine you feel the same, given the luxury in which you live.’

Bartholomew gave a noncommittal grunt, thinking that Langelee’s ruse had been successful indeed if even the elegant King’s Hall was convinced of Michaelhouse’s affluence.

When they arrived, Wayt gave reluctant permission for Bartholomew to examine the men who were ill. There were seven in total, exhibiting symptoms as varied as nausea, stomach pains, headaches, insomnia and dizziness. One lad, who had been ill longer than the rest, showed Bartholomew how his foot dropped when he tried to walk, a peculiar problem that had afflicted Cew, too.

Cew, on the other hand, was considerably improved. His gait was back to normal, there was colour in his cheeks, and he seemed much stronger. Unfortunately, he was again convinced that he was the King of France.

‘The metal has gone,’ he confided. ‘We cannot taste it any longer. It must have been in the oysters. They were brought here on the river, you see, and we all know the Seine is poisoned.’

‘He means the Cam,’ put in Dodenho helpfully. ‘The Seine is in France.’

‘Our sucura is imported via the Seine,’ Cew went on. ‘Our courtiers adore sweet things, and it is our pleasure to indulge them, especially as they put extra in our own soul-cakes as a reward. King’s Hall is awash with it, although Wayt will tell you otherwise. But Frenge knew.’

Bartholomew glanced at the Acting Warden, and when he saw the expression of weary exasperation on the hirsute face, something suddenly became abundantly clear.

‘You lied!’ he exclaimed. ‘You did not argue with Frenge about Anne the day he died – you quarrelled about sucura.’

Wayt opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but Cew clapped his hands in delight. ‘You have it! You have it! What a clever fool you are!’

Wayt cast a venomous glare at his colleague, who rocked back and forth, grinning wildly. There was a moment when Bartholomew thought the Acting Warden would attempt to dismiss the claims as the unfounded ravings of a lunatic, but then he threw up his hands in resignation.

‘Very well,’ he sighed irritably. ‘Yes – Frenge threatened to tell the Sheriff that we bought illegal sucura, and King’s Hall cannot afford to be seen breaking the law. However, I did not kill him. I merely informed him that if he ever breathed a word of our doings to another living soul, I would sue him for slander.’