Susanna GREGORY: A Poisonous Plot

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Finger-shaped bruises on his jaws suggest that he was forced to drink it. And even if I am wrong, and he did swallow it willingly, why would he kill himself here? It is not on the beaten track, so I sincerely doubt he just happened to be passing when he was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to commit suicide.’

‘He would not have killed himself here,’ stated Joliet firmly. ‘We have done nothing to earn his ire. If he had wanted to make that sort of point, he would have gone to King’s Hall.’

‘But security has been increased at King’s Hall,’ countered Michael. ‘He may have tried to break in, but failed, so came here instead.’

‘But why?’ pressed Joliet. ‘Why not another College? Or better yet, a hostel – few of them have walls or fortified gates.’

‘Perhaps he did break into King’s Hall,’ suggested Tulyet soberly, ‘but was caught. Then, keen to avoid trouble, the scholars brought his murdered corpse here.’

‘They are not stupid,’ said Michael bitingly. ‘They would have dumped him in the town, not in another part of the University.’

‘Assemble our brethren, Hamo,’ ordered Prior Joliet tiredly. ‘Perhaps one of them knows something that will allow us to solve this mystery. I am afraid I have nothing to report – as I said, I knew Frenge by sight and reputation, but I never met him.’

‘Nor had I,’ said Robert, watching Hamo shuffle from the room. ‘He never came here for alms. Well, why would he? Brewers are not poor.’

Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘Tell us about the poison. If we can identify it, perhaps it will lead us to the culprit.’

‘It will not,’ predicted the physician. ‘It was the kind of caustic substance that can be found in many homes and businesses – used for cleaning, scouring, killing fleas and dissolving residues. Some everyday solutions are extremely toxic.’

‘So it might have been something Frenge owned himself?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘All brewers like to sample their wares, so perhaps he gulped down a jug of this stuff before he knew what he was doing, and staggered here in search of help.’

‘Staggered across the town, into a boat and over the King’s Ditch?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That seems unlikely for a dying man.’

‘But we cannot allow a verdict of murder!’ said Tulyet irritably. ‘The town will blame scholars, regardless of who is the culprit, because of the bad blood between Frenge and King’s Hall. And then we shall have another of our interminable spats.’

‘So what do you suggest, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘That we lie?’

‘I have heard worse ideas. And in the interests of keeping the peace …’

Michael considered for a moment but then regretfully shook his head. ‘We would never succeed in keeping it quiet, not when a whole convent knows what really happened.’

‘My friars can be trusted,’ objected Joliet, offended.

‘Even so, the truth will out,’ said Michael. ‘It always does. The best we can do is stress that the Sheriff and Senior Proctor will leave no stone unturned in their pursuit of the truth.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet reluctantly. ‘Although the villain will not be a townsman. This crime has University written all over it.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘I beg to differ, but we shall see. Ah! Here is Hamo with the other Austins. Let us hope they know something useful, because the best way to avert trouble will be to arrest the culprit as quickly as possible.’

Unfortunately, none of the twenty or so friars could help. No one had been near the back gate that day, because they had either been beautifying the chapel for Hallow-tide, or helping to cook the huge vat of soup they planned to distribute to beggars as a special treat.

‘I am sorry,’ said Joliet gloomily, after the last one had gone. ‘Obviously, if we knew such a terrible thing was in the offing, we would have been more observant.’

‘We had better lock the back gate from now on, Father Prior,’ said Robert worriedly. ‘We do not want this happening again.’

‘No,’ agreed Joliet fervently, and then sighed. ‘Perhaps you are right to wish that our University had been founded in the Fens, Robert. I dislike living in a place that does not want me.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the town will accept us eventually.’

‘Will it?’ asked Joliet bleakly. ‘We have been here for a century and a half, and it shows no sign of welcoming us yet. I am beginning to think it never will.’

‘Look!’ cried Dickon with sudden glee, pointing a plump and grubby finger at the sky. ‘Sparks and flames! All coming from St Michael’s Church. It is on fire!’

St Michael’s Church was a pretty place, and Michaelhouse revelled in the fact that it alone of the eight Cambridge Colleges actually owned the place where it performed its daily devotions. But it was more than a status symbol to Bartholomew: it was a haven from the hectic round that comprised his life, and the final resting place of many much-loved colleagues. Heart in his mouth, he raced towards it, hating the notion that it might be lost.

‘Thank God,’ gasped Michael, when they arrived to find the bonfire blazing merrily but the church unscathed. ‘I was sure disaster had struck.’

Bartholomew nodded as he leaned against a buttress to catch his breath, thinking sourly that there had been no need for the townsfolk to have built their pyre quite so high. Perhaps they did hope it would damage University property, which was galling, as Michaelhouse had tried hard to win their affection. Not only did he physick many of them without charge, but Michael ran a choir that was essentially an excuse to provide the needy with free food, while the other Fellows gave money they could ill afford to charitable causes or said free Masses for anyone who asked.

‘People have short and selective memories,’ said Michael soberly, reading his friend’s thoughts. ‘But our church still stands – for now, at least – so we had better visit the brewery to break the news of Frenge’s death before they hear it from someone else.’

They began to walk along the High Street. It was busy with people who were either ‘souling’ – earning cakes in return for prayers for the dead – or making last-minute adjustments to their bonfires. Those who were to take part in the torchlit procession were beginning to assemble, but the atmosphere was more menacing than celebratory, and both scholars were glad to turn down a road that was devoid of revellers.

Water Lane, where Frenge’s brewery was located, was one of several alleys that ran between Milne Street and the river. It was fairly well maintained because it was in constant use by the wagons that carried goods to and from the wharf, and boasted a number of fine houses. Some belonged to the merchants whose warehouses stood nearby, but most had been bought by scholars after the plague had emptied the area, and were now hostels. The largest and grandest was Zachary, which had recently been fitted with new window shutters – a gift from one of its many wealthy members.

Unlike most of the river thoroughfares, Water Lane did not end in a muddy slope and a rickety pier. It finished in a spacious cobbled yard dominated by two very different but equally handsome buildings, and a spanking new jetty. Of the buildings, one was the brewery, while the other was owned by Bartholomew’s sister, Edith Stanmore.

A few weeks before, Edith had startled her brother and everyone else who knew her by announcing a decision to expand her late husband’s highly profitable cloth business. She had achieved this by entering the dyeing trade, and had acquired premises, equipment and a workforce before anyone had really understood what she was doing – which was unfortunate, as the venture had aroused a lot of ill feeling. There were two main reasons for this: first, dyeing was a noxious process, and generated a lot of bad smells and unwholesome effluent; and second, she had chosen to hire staff from a controversial source.