Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘I think it is time you left, Principal Morys,’ said Meadowman, releasing Shirwynk when Bartholomew indicated that he was unharmed. ‘You are not wanted here.’

Morys ignored him, and went instead to one of the big lead cisterns and peered inside.

‘Your friend will not be in there,’ jeered Shirwynk.

‘We have found Kellawe,’ said Meadowman. ‘He is in the dyeworks.’

‘He would never set foot in that place,’ declared Morys, darting around Shirwynk and aiming for another vat. ‘It is full of whores.’

‘He is dead,’ said Meadowman bluntly. Bartholomew winced: he had intended to break the news somewhere more private. ‘He forced his way in for mischief and was murdered there.’

Morys stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him, while Shirwynk and Peyn exchanged a glance that was impossible to interpret.

‘Murdered?’ echoed Morys, fists clenched at his side. ‘How?’

‘He was strangled and his corpse tossed in a vat,’ replied Meadowman, before Bartholomew could phrase it more delicately.

‘So,’ snarled Morys, more angry than distressed, ‘yet another scholar killed by the town.’

‘Do not blame us,’ Shirwynk flashed back challengingly. ‘It is far more likely to have been another academic. God knows, you all hate each other enough.’

‘Lies!’ hissed Morys. ‘The town dispatched him for certain. I will hunt out the culprit and–’

He stopped when realisation came that threatening vengeance in front of a beadle was hardly wise. His lips clamped together and he stalked out to stand in the street, breathing heavily as he fought to control his temper. Bartholomew and Meadowman followed.

‘Is it true that Kellawe went out at midnight?’ Bartholomew supposed it was as good a time as any to ask questions. ‘To pray for Irby, Yerland and Segeforde?’

Morys nodded tightly. ‘He took his religious duties seriously, God bless his sainted soul. I saw him out, then retired to bed. When there was no sign of him this morning, I reported my concerns to the Senior Proctor – who ignored them.’

‘Why were you both still up at midnight? It seems an odd time to–’

‘Losing three members of our hostel in such quick succession has been upsetting, and neither of us felt like sleep. We sat talking until he decided to go to church. And before you ask, I went to bed alone. However, you accused Nigellus of murder without foundation, so do not make the same mistake with me.’

‘Did Kellawe take anyone with him to St Bene’t’s?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Or were other Zachary men already there?’

‘I do not recall,’ replied Morys shortly.

‘Footprints tell us that Kellawe was with someone,’ put in Meadowman. Bartholomew winced again, and wished the beadle would be quiet. ‘We shall be wanting to inspect all of Zachary’s boots today.’

Morys glared at him. ‘Then I shall go and assemble my scholars.’

He raced away before they could stop him. Meadowman followed, but the Principal scuttled up the road with impressive speed, shot inside his hostel and slammed the door. Bartholomew stifled a groan. Michael would find no stained footwear now, and any culprit would be told exactly what to say to exonerate himself.

From the door of the brewery Peyn laughed, a forced, jeering cackle that Bartholomew found intensely irritating. Ignoring the fact that he did not have the authority to interrogate townsmen, the physician strode towards him. Peyn promptly disappeared inside, but as he neglected to close the door, Bartholomew was able to barge in after him.

‘Where were you between midnight and dawn?’ he demanded.

‘In here,’ replied Peyn, bold again now that his father was there to protect him. ‘Guarding our wares against the scholars who come to steal.’

‘And I was asleep in the room at the back,’ added Shirwynk. ‘But before you ask, no one was with us. I am recently widowed, while Peyn was too busy being vigilant for company.’

‘So you will have to take our word for it,’ smirked Peyn. ‘You have no choice – the town will not take kindly to you trying to blame one of us for Kellawe’s murder.’

‘Of course, the University will not be pleased when it learns that I am going to sue Morys for trespass,’ said Shirwynk slyly. ‘But I do not care. Look at the mess he made. And you and your beadle will be our witnesses.’

‘There will be a riot!’ chortled Peyn in delight. ‘After which the University will be ousted from our town once and for all. We do not want you here, and I cannot imagine why I ever thought I might become a scholar.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, thinking of the lad’s awful writing and the fact that he had never heard of Virgil. He seriously doubted Peyn would have been accepted, even at those foundations where academic merit came second to the size of parents’ donations.

Sensitive to any perceived slight against his son, Shirwynk shoved the physician rather vigorously, so that he stumbled against one of the wine tanks. ‘It was a passing phase, and one he grew out of, thank God. Now get out, before I sue you for trespass, too.’

Bartholomew was glad to leave the brewery, although he wished he had more to take with him than a host of unanswered questions and suspicions. He returned to the dyeworks to find that Michael had already gone to Zachary, and hoped the monk had arrived before Morys had warned everyone to hide any stained footwear.

‘What is this?’ asked Edith, turning him around to inspect the back of his tabard. ‘You are covered in white dust. Take it off. I will wash it and then dye it with the others.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting a garment he was obliged to wear every day to go in a vat that had recently held a corpse. It was silly, he knew, especially given his occupation, but he could not help it. ‘Shirwynk pushed me against one of his tanks. That dust must have–’

‘If he pushes you again, tell me,’ instructed Cynric grimly. ‘And I will push him back.’

While Bartholomew had been gone, the women had done their best to return the Franciscan to some semblance of normality. They had scrubbed his hands and face, and although he was still more amber than he should have been, at least he was recognisably human. They had been unable to do much with his habit, though, so Edith had sent Cynric to Michaelhouse to beg one from William. What had arrived was a vile article, thick with filth and fleas, but Bartholomew put it on the body anyway. Then he loaded Kellawe on the bier and sent the beadles away with it.

He walked to Zachary Hostel, and arrived to find Morys refusing to let Michael inside. He was at an upstairs window, Nigellus at his side.

‘You cannot keep me out,’ Michael was stating indignantly. ‘I am the Senior Proctor.’

‘You arrested me on patently false charges,’ shouted Nigellus. ‘So I took legal advice from Stephen. He says that any contact with you should be through him from now on.’

‘It is not you I want,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is everyone else.’

‘Then you should have thought about that before hounding an innocent man,’ Morys shot back. ‘Because you are not coming in.’

Michael spread his hands. ‘How am I supposed to solve Kellawe’s murder if you will not help me? Do you want his killer to go free?’

‘ You will not solve it,’ sneered Nigellus. ‘You are an incompetent. Now go away. If you have questions for us, you can ask them through our lawyer. But not today. Stephen’s debilitas is worse and keeps him in his bed. However, he was not too ill to assure me that your University will be obliged to pay me a fortune.’

‘It is your University, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And suing it is hardly the best use of its resources. We should be channelling them into averting the trouble with–’