Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘There is evidence at Barnwell. The canons’ elderflower wine has a reputation for being sour, but they gave me a cup on Tuesday and it was unbelievably sweet. Two clerics died, along with a cook and a gardener – who would certainly have been in a position to filch it from the kitchens. At first, I thought the culprit might have been river fish …’

‘You mean fish that had been poisoned by the dyeworks?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Nigellus identified the wine as the cause, which offended Prior Norton, but he was right. The two dead canons were elderly and in frail health, while the servants were fat, and probably sat around downing a lot of it.’

Michael was still unconvinced. ‘Did Norton admit that sucura had been added?’

‘Of course not. He claimed the wine’s sweetness was due to the sun ripening the grapes at the right time, but I could tell he was lying. Send a beadle to Barnwell to get the truth. Norton will confess if he knows it is important.’

Michael did so at once, urging the man to hurry. Then Bartholomew spotted Rumburgh scurrying along with his head down, aiming to conceal himself from scholars who thought that Anne had torn off her own dress in the fracas outside the dyeworks. The burgess blanched when Bartholomew ordered him to tip his head back and open his mouth. The grey line on his gums was thicker than it had been a few days before.

‘Do you like apple wine?’ Bartholomew demanded.

Rumburgh shook his head. ‘I am an ale man myself. There is nothing more delicious than ale and a cake of a morning. It–’

‘ Sweet cakes?’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Ones flavoured with sucura?’

‘Oh, no,’ gulped Rumburgh unconvincingly. ‘That would be illegal.’

‘This is not evidence, Matt,’ warned Michael, after Rumburgh had scuttled away. ‘Shirwynk will claim that you are trying to protect Edith by sacrificing him. And others will agree.’

‘Stephen wanted to be an architect, did he not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And he has a lot of books on the subject?’

Michael blinked at the abrupt change of topic. ‘Yes – a library that should have come to Michaelhouse. Why?’

But Bartholomew was already running towards the High Street. Michael hurried after him, and caught up just as he was hammering on Stephen’s door.

‘Why are you interested in architecture all of a sudden? How will Stephen’s books prove that Shirwynk is the poisoner?’

‘Years ago, I read something in De architectura by the Roman engineer Marcus Vitruvius Pollio,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Michaelhouse does not have a copy, but Stephen will.’

‘I still do not understand,’ snapped Michael. ‘Explain.’

‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘When I am sure myself.’

A servant conducted them to the pleasant room at the back of the house, where the lawyer was lying full length on a cushioned bench. The number of pots and packets on the table besides him suggested that he had been frantically dosing himself with all manner of medicines from the apothecary. He was pale, frightened, and the room had the unmistakeable odour of sickness.

‘You came fast, Bartholomew,’ he whispered with pathetic gratitude. ‘I thought you might refuse, given that I have aggravated the situation between town and University with my lawsuits, and our last meeting was less than amiable …’

‘Scholars are not vindictive men,’ averred Michael, before Bartholomew could remark that he had not received a summons. ‘But before Matt helps you, tell me whether you advised Shirwynk to sue Morys for trespass.’

Stephen paled even further. ‘Yes, but it is not for me to judge the ethics or wisdom of such cases, Brother. All I do is apply the law.’

‘Speaking of asinine counsel, did you urge the drunken Hakeney to steal Robert’s cross?’ asked Michael. ‘An honest answer, please, or you will get no cure from Matt.’

Stephen licked dry lips. ‘We have been through this, Brother – I had a letter from a well-wisher, saying that if Hakeney stole the almoner’s crucifix, I might win myself another client …’

‘That is not what I asked,’ said Michael sharply. ‘I want to know if you sneaked into a tavern wearing a disguise and incited Hakeney to commit a crime.’

‘You would have worn a disguise, too, if you had been obliged to enter that particular inn,’ retorted the lawyer, which Michael supposed was as close to an admission of guilt that they were likely to get. ‘And then I offered the Austins my legal services, as I told you yesterday.’

‘Who sent you this letter?’

‘I do not know, but it was good advice, because I did win myself another client.’ Stephen turned terrified eyes to Bartholomew. ‘I have answered your friend’s questions, so now you must help me. I have no strength in my wrists, and I feel dreadful. I hear you have cured several King’s Hall men, so do the same for me.’

‘How much sucura have you had recently?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Sucura? Me? Do I look like the kind of man to buy illegal substances?’

Bartholomew eyed him in distaste. ‘I cannot make an accurate diagnosis if you lie to me.’

Stephen gulped. ‘Well, then, perhaps a few grains do slip into the pastries I enjoy before I go to bed at night. They taste so much better than when made with honey, and it is difficult to deny oneself when the stuff is so freely available. If the Sheriff does not want us to have it, then he should restrict its import.’

‘He tries,’ said Michael. ‘But he is hampered by the fact that arrogant folk with money undermine his efforts to stamp the business out.’

While the monk went to fetch some Royal Broth from Agatha – although not before he had extracted a substantial fee to cover the cost of the ‘expensive ingredients’ – Bartholomew examined Stephen. It did not take him long to ascertain that the lawyer was suffering from all the same symptoms as Thelnetham, although he was most concerned about the weakness in his wrists.

‘May I consult your books while we wait for Michael to return?’ Bartholomew asked.

Stephen winced at what he mistakenly thought was a bald reminder of past shabby dealings. ‘Cure me, and I will willingly donate them to Michaelhouse. But you cannot blame me for withdrawing the original offer.’

Bartholomew went to the shelves and ran his finger along the displayed spines. The problem was that De architectura comprised ten volumes, and he could not recall in which one he had seen the section he wanted to check. While he began to look, Stephen continued to talk.

‘Blame the letters I was sent, warning me that Michaelhouse aims to move to the Fens. I asked Rougham about it, and he said the tale was true, but that Gonville would never leave, so I decided to favour them instead – until I had a message saying that they were going, too.’

‘The sender was lying – neither foundation has any intention of uprooting.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Did you tell anyone else that our Colleges might be relocating?’

‘I might have mentioned it to one or two people.’ The lawyer’s cagey response told Bartholomew that he had probably gossiped to anyone who would listen. ‘However, the story is true, because some scholars have already left. Not from Michaelhouse or Gonville, perhaps, but from other foundations. And more are set to follow.’

‘Your rumour-mongering is probably responsible for that – the notion that two powerful Colleges might be on the verge of departure is rather different than the defection of a handful of malcontents from the hostels. Where are these messages? Do you still have them, or did you throw them away?’ Like the priors had done, Bartholomew thought.

‘I keep everything that is sent to me,’ came the unexpected but welcome reply. ‘Lawyers like records of correspondence. They are on the table, along with the one about Hakeney.’