Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘You should have told Michael the truth,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘It was–’

‘And risk him betraying us to Tulyet? Do not be stupid! However, you cannot go running to him with this tale, because physicians are morally bound to keep their patients’ ramblings quiet. Ergo, anything that Cew brays is confidential.’

‘No one from Michaelhouse would blab about sucura anyway,’ interposed Dodenho. ‘Being so affluent, they purchase it by the bucket load themselves.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. Every College and wealthy hostel in the University had reported cases of the debilitas except one: Michaelhouse. Was it because no one there could afford sucura – that it was the illegally imported sweetener that was making everyone ill? Had it become contaminated somehow, perhaps from the dyeworks? Was that why no pauper had been afflicted by the debilitas , and why it remained exclusively a ‘disease’ of the rich?

He pulled the little packet that Cynric had given him from his bag, ignoring Dodenho’s triumphant hoot that he had been right, and poured some into his hand. He licked it cautiously. It did not taste as though it would do him harm, but only a fool thought that everything with a pleasant flavour was safe to eat.

‘Your theory is flawed,’ said Wayt, when Bartholomew explained tentatively what he was thinking, careful not to reveal that while Agatha had used sucura in the Hallow-tide marchpanes, all the other cakes had been made using the considerably cheaper honey. ‘Osborne of Gonville Hall has the debilitas , but he never touches sweet foods.’

‘The same is true of Lenne and the Barnwell folk,’ said Dodenho. ‘They had the debilitas so badly that it killed them, but they never ate sweetmeats either.’

But the more Bartholomew pondered the matter, the more he was sure that sucura had played a central role in the sudden rise of the debilitas . He decided to experiment, and sent to Michaelhouse for more Royal Broth. When it arrived, he gave instructions that the sick men were to consume nothing but it and boiled barley water for a week. Assuming they followed his advice, he might soon have the beginnings of a solution.

Michael was waiting for him outside King’s Hall, gloomily reporting that none of the Austins had remembered anything new. The killer had probably entered the convent at dusk, when there had been deep shadows to hide in, and there were no witnesses to the crime – at least, none that he had been able to find.

‘And now Kellawe has disappeared,’ the monk added. ‘Morys came to me in a panic about it an hour ago, although I suspect the fellow has just joined the exodus to the Fens.’

‘Have you checked the dyeworks? He may be making a nuisance of himself there.’

‘Come with me, then,’ said the monk tiredly. ‘Even I do not feel safe walking alone today, but the company of the Hero of Poitiers should serve to protect me.’

Bartholomew winced. Cynric had been with him when the tiny English army had met the much larger French one, and gloried in the fact that he and the physician had played a part in the ensuing battle. Bartholomew’s contribution to the fighting had been adequate at best, although he had been invaluable in tending the wounded afterwards. However, Cynric, with the blood of bards in his veins, had exaggerated their performance to the point where the rest of the Black Prince’s troops might as well have stayed at home.

They arrived to find the dyeworks closed. Unusually, there were no protesters outside, so Water Lane was strangely quiet. Then Edith appeared, Cynric hovering watchfully at her side, with a complex explanation about how long woad needed to soak, and as the previous day’s trouble had caused delays, the next stage of the process could not start until noon. It was midday now, so her women were beginning to trickle in. Anne de Rumburgh was among them, sensuously seductive in a new scarlet kirtle, which was not Bartholomew’s idea of obeying Edith’s instruction to ‘stay in the back and keep a low profile’.

‘We will be busy this afternoon with the first batch of Michaelhouse tabards,’ chattered Edith as she unlocked the door. ‘We dyed them with weld – yellow pigment – yesterday, so now we will overdye them with woad to make them green. Of course, we had to treat them with … certain substances first, because the garments are black.’

‘Toxic substances?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Which produce nasty residues?’

Edith glared. ‘Of course not. But do not ask me for details, because they are a trade secret.’

At that moment, Anne flung open the rear door, and then gave a cry of horror when light flooded in to reveal what had hitherto been in darkness. The entire back half of the dyeworks’ floor was submerged in a multicoloured lake – one that had seeped under the door and oozed towards the river in trails of yellow, red and orange. Her howl brought the other women running, and they stood at the edge of the spillage, gazing at it in stunned disbelief.

‘Our crimson!’ wailed Yolande. ‘Some spiteful beast has emptied out every bucket we made! And the weld, too! Who could have done such a terrible thing? It represents weeks of hard work!’

‘The window has been forced again,’ said Cynric, going to inspect it.

‘By the same villain as last time, I imagine,’ said Anne angrily. ‘For spite, because we almost caught him.’

‘He did it to “prove” that we pollute the river,’ said Edith in a strangled voice, while Bartholomew wondered if Kellawe had returned to finish the mischief he had started two days ago, before disappearing to the Fens to avoid another fine. ‘That we let our colorants escape into the water. And how can we deny it when the “evidence” is here for all to see?’

‘Then rinse it away before anyone sees,’ advised Michael urgently. ‘I have no idea if it is dangerous, but it looks terrible.’

‘It will be too late,’ said Yolande hoarsely. ‘The demonstrators are already gathering. They must have seen us coming to work …’

In the vanguard of the deputation was Morys, who looked small, mean and angry in his trademark yellow and black. When he saw the vivid stains, his eyes shone with delighted malice.

‘Look! Look!’ he yelled triumphantly. ‘The whores have poisoned the river again, and this time the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner cannot pretend they do not know what we are talking about, because they are staring right at it!’

At his nod, several Zachary students slipped away, clearly aiming to spread word of the outrage. In response, Edith clapped her hands, bringing her workers out of their shocked immobility. Immediately, they set about hauling buckets of water from the river to sluice the offending mess away, although Cynric’s strategy of digging it in with a spade was ultimately more successful. Unfortunately, their labours were all for naught, as the Zachary lads did their work all too well, and people were soon flocking to inspect the damage. Morys was on hand to explain what had happened.

‘The strategist has excelled himself this time,’ muttered Michael. ‘This will certainly cause trouble. And do not say we cannot prove he was behind this – of course he was.’

Bartholomew followed Edith back inside, where the light from the door revealed multihued footprints, made when the invader had hurried about wreaking his destruction. He bent to inspect them, and was surprised to identify not one but two different sets. One was larger and a mark on the sole was indicative of a hole. The other might have belonged to anyone.

He stood, and his eyes were drawn to the largest of the three great dyeing vats. The outside was liberally splashed with yellow, as it was where Michaelhouse’s tabards were soaking. The ladder, which allowed the women to climb up and inspect the contents, was lying on the floor, and his stomach began to churn when it occurred to him that the staff would never have left it like that. He set it in its clips and began to ascend, aware that Michael, Cynric and the ladies had caught his unease and were watching him intently. He reached the top, but all he could see was sodden material. Then he spotted a hand.