Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

Appalled, he grabbed it and began to pull, although the rational part of his brain told him that its owner was beyond any help he could provide. The bright yellow face that emerged, eyes open in death, meant nothing to him at first, but then he recognised the pugnacious jaw.

‘Christ God,’ he swore. ‘It is Kellawe.’

As they were worldly women, Edith’s staff were not unduly perturbed by the news that a Franciscan friar was dead in one of their vats, and were eager to scale the ladder and look for themselves. Bartholomew was hard-pressed to stop them, and it took a sharp word from his sister before they fell back. She was white-faced with shock.

‘Kellawe must have climbed up there for mischief, lost his balance and pitched in,’ surmised Yolande. ‘His accomplice, being a cowardly brute, ran away and left him to drown.’

Bartholomew thought she might be right, given that Kellawe had invaded the dyeworks once already, and the ladder was unstable, so it would have been easy to slip. While Yolande elaborated on her theory to the others, Bartholomew glared at Michael.

‘You should have arrested him the last time,’ he whispered accusingly. ‘Not just levied a fine. Then he might have been less inclined to reoffend.’

‘I thought five shillings would make him think twice about re-indulging his penchant for burglary – it is a veritable fortune,’ Michael hissed back. ‘And keep your voice down. I did not tell Edith that Kellawe was the guilty party, lest she or her ladies decided to take matters into their own hands. She will skin me alive if she learns the truth.’

She might, thought Bartholomew, and it would serve him right. But quarrelling with Michael was doing no good, so he forced down his irritation. ‘So what does this tell us – that Kellawe was the strategist and our troubles are over? Or that Kellawe was in the strategist’s pay, and came here under orders to cause all this damage?’

‘Who knows?’ Wearily, Michael turned to the women. ‘Are you sure you know nothing about this? You did not find him here and decided to deal with the matter yourselves? I understand why you might – he had no business breaking in and you are understandably indignant.’

‘Yes, we are,’ replied Yolande frostily. ‘However, if we had killed him, do you really think we would have left him in one of our vats? Of course not! We would have buried him in the Fens, where his corpse would never be found.’

‘That is a good point, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kellawe’s demise will do the dyeworks immeasurable harm, and may even see them closed down.’

‘So the bastard will achieve in death what he could not do in life,’ spat Yolande in disgust. ‘God damn him to Hell!’

Michael began to look around, noting that the footprints were dry, which suggested that Kellawe and his accomplice had broken in some hours before.

‘Morys told me earlier that Kellawe left home at midnight, to keep vigil in St Bene’t’s Church for his dead colleagues,’ he mused. ‘He–’

‘We finished work at roughly that time,’ interrupted Yolande. ‘However, I can tell you two things: first, I can see St Bene’t’s from my house, and there were no lights there all night – I would have noticed – which means Kellawe said no prayers for his friends. And second, we all have alibis in each other from midnight until now.’

‘It is true,’ nodded Edith. ‘Half came home with me and half went with Yolande, because it was late, and we did not want them walking home alone lest they were accused of …’

‘Plying their former trade,’ finished Yolande. ‘So none of us shoved your acid-tongued Franciscan in the dye, Brother.’

Bartholomew was relieved, as he had not liked the notion of investigating his sister’s workforce. He and Cynric began the complex operation of removing Kellawe from the vat without pulling the whole thing over. It was a messy business, even with the smocks and gloves that Edith lent them, and when they had finished, there were several shilling-sized stains on their clothes and skin that would be difficult to remove. Bartholomew began his examination, although he found the saffron-coloured face disconcerting, and so covered it with a cloth.

‘Do not tell the students what happened, boy,’ murmured Cynric. ‘They will refuse to wear tabards that have been soaking with a corpse. And who can blame them?’

‘That is a good point,’ whispered Michael. ‘We cannot afford to buy the material for new ones. So how did he die? Drowned? Overcome by fumes? That vat does reek.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Bartholomew sombrely. ‘He was strangled. Look, you can see the twine still embedded in his neck. Someone came up behind him, looped it over his head, and pulled until he was dead.’

‘Murdered?’ groaned Michael. ‘Not an accident? Are you sure?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Then he was toted up the ladder and dropped into the vat – not to hide the body, given that even I know that these tanks are inspected and stirred multiple times a day, but for its shock value.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘And all to exacerbate the trouble between us and the town. Is there anything to say who did this terrible thing?’

‘No, but our first task should be to check all our suspects’ footwear.’ Bartholomew pointed at the tracks that crisscrossed the floor. ‘The large ones are Kellawe’s – they match the hole in his heel. The others came from a pair of sturdy outside boots, almost certainly his killer’s.’

‘We shall do it at once,’ determined Michael. ‘Particularly Zachary’s. Kellawe is the fourth member of that place to die in odd circumstances, so something untoward is unfolding there. However, I can tell you someone who is innocent: Nigellus, who was in my gaol all night. Of course, there is an ex -Zachary man who is mysteriously missing …’

While Michael asked more questions of Edith’s staff, Bartholomew fetched a bier from St Mary the Great. He commandeered four beadles to carry it at the same time, and had just ushered them inside the dyeworks when he heard a commotion coming from the brewery next door. Beadle Meadowman followed him there to see what was happening.

They were greeted by a curious sight. Principal Morys was racing from barrel to barrel, attempting to peer behind them, while Shirwynk was trying to stop him. The brewer was large and powerful, but Morys buzzed about like an agile fly and easily evaded the bigger man. Peyn leaned against a wall and laughed at the commotion, although his tone was more mocking than amused, and did nothing to soothe ragged tempers.

‘Morys is looking for someone,’ Peyn replied in answer to Bartholomew’s questioning glance. ‘But he is wasting his time: we do not allow our nice clean brewery to be infested by grubby scholars.’

‘I know he is in here,’ shouted Morys. Bartholomew glanced at his boots, but if the Principal had been in the dyeworks, he had had the sense to change, because they were spotless. The same was true of the shoes worn by Shirwynk and Peyn. ‘What have you done with him?’

‘We do not know what you are talking about,’ declared Shirwynk, although his tone was taunting, and aggravated Morys even further.

‘Kellawe!’ Morys screeched furiously. ‘Where is he?’

Bartholomew watched him. Did his agitation mean he had no idea that his colleague was dead? Or was it a ploy to make the Senior Proctor believe him innocent of murder?

‘How should we know, hornet-face?’ asked Peyn, so insolently that Morys lunged at him.

Peyn jerked back in alarm, but his devoted father was there to protect him, and managed to grab Morys by the neck. When the Principal began to make unpleasant choking sounds, Bartholomew went to intervene, but one of Shirwynk’s meaty paws lashed out and caught him on the nose. Shock rather than pain caused him to stagger back, and when Meadowman surged to the physician’s rescue, Morys took the opportunity to slither free and resume his hunt.