Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

Eagerly, Bartholomew snatched up the notes, and inspected them carefully. The writing was identical on each, and the message brisk and to the point. Unfortunately, there was nothing to reveal the sender’s identity: the parchment was undistinguished, and the ink a standard black. However, the culprit needed to invest in a new pen, because a split nib meant that every upstroke was bifurcated.

‘I am surprised you acted on these,’ remarked Bartholomew, disappointment rendering him testy. ‘Surely you must be suspicious of unsolicited anonymous advice?’

‘Why, when the sender clearly means me well? He must be a scholar, though, because who else knows Latin and has access to writing materials?’

‘Lawyers,’ replied Bartholomew promptly. ‘Town priests and vicars. Wealthy merchants with their own clerks.’ There was no reply, so he went on. ‘Are you sure you have no idea who sent them? Please tell me if you do – it is important.’

‘Well, no one from Michaelhouse or Gonville Hall,’ said Stephen drily. ‘It deprived them of a generous gift. Perhaps it was someone from the hostels, jealous of your good fortune.’

The obvious suspects would be from Zachary, thought Bartholomew, wondering if it was enough to exonerate Wauter. But would they really be so petty? Then the faces of the hostel men paraded through his mind – Kellawe, Nigellus, Segeforde, Morys – and he knew they would.

‘Tell me one more thing,’ he said. ‘What did you and Frenge discuss shortly before his death? You claimed earlier that he wanted your advice about gifts for Anne.’

Stephen looked away miserably. ‘He came to bring me some sucura.’

Bartholomew turned back to De architectura , and found the answer he was hunting in the eighth volume, just as Michael returned with the broth and young Bell, who had volunteered to feed it to the patient and sit with him afterwards. Briefly, Bartholomew told Michael what he had reasoned, speaking in a low voice so as not to be overheard by the loose-tongued lawyer.

‘But are you sure the brewery is to blame for the debilitas ?’ the monk asked worriedly. ‘Because if you are wrong, there will be a rift between us and the town that will never heal – Shirwynk will not let it.’

‘I cannot be absolutely certain until I have inspected his vats, but it makes sense.’

‘Does it mean he is the strategist, too? His hatred of the University gives him a powerful motive, and Peyn would not be beneath penning sly letters to greedy lawyers – although he must have had help, given that his Latin is poor and his handwriting worse.’

‘They could have hired a scribe. However, all this means that the dyeworks are innocent.’

‘That is what worries me, Matt. You have a vested interest in proving that the debilitas is not Edith’s fault, and I am afraid it might have clouded your judgement.’

Bartholomew was too fraught to be indignant that his professional opinion should be questioned, or to remark that Michael should know him better than to think he would fabricate or misread evidence where matters of health were concerned.

‘There is only one way to find out,’ was all he said.

Bartholomew was astonished to find the beadle who had been sent to Barnwell waiting for them when he and Michael emerged from Stephen’s house – not enough time had passed for the man to have run all the way there, spoken to the canons and trotted back.

‘Prior Norton is in town,’ the beadle explained. ‘So I was saved a journey. He was reluctant to admit to buying sucura at first, but confessed when I told him why I needed to know. He said Canon Wrattlesworth, who was the first to become ill, stirred some into a cup of elderflower wine one night, because he thought the priory’s brew was overly sour–’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘That would not do it – the exposure needs to be continuous over a period of weeks or even months.’

‘You did not let me finish,’ said the beadle. ‘He declared his sweetened drink so much nicer than the usual vintage that he added a massive dose of sucura to every vat made this year. Everyone agreed it was better, and it was quickly consumed. Wrattlesworth was the cellarer, and Norton thinks that he and his friend Canterbury – the other dead canon – had far more than anyone else.’

‘What about the cook and the gardener?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The same, because both spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Moreover, Norton gave several casks to Birton the reeve, who thought it too sweet, but his frail wife and elderly uncle loved it. And they are the other two who died.’

‘So you were right, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘The sucura is to blame, and we were wrong to accuse Nigellus. Damn! He will not let us forget this in a hurry. Still, Stephen will not represent him – unless he wants to be deprived of your healing Royal Broth.’

‘Prior Norton also told me that Shirwynk uses a lot of sucura in his apple wine,’ the beadle went on. ‘Shirwynk offered him some once, and being a man who knows his beverages, he was able to tell exactly what was in it. He says it is loaded with the stuff.’

‘Go to the castle and repeat all this to the Sheriff,’ ordered Michael. ‘Then ask him to come to the brewery as soon as he can. Matt and I will meet him there.’

Unfortunately, he and Bartholomew reached Shirwynk’s domain to find a cart piled high with boxes and a horse already in harness – Peyn was about to leave for Westminster. The apprentices were waiting, ready to make their farewells when he emerged.

‘No!’ whispered Bartholomew urgently, as the monk prepared to stride through them. ‘We should wait for Dick. There are too many of them, and if the situation turns ugly–’

‘We have no choice,’ Michael hissed. ‘Peyn is just as much to blame as his father, and we cannot risk losing him. And we certainly cannot have him appearing for work at the Treasury!’

Unhappily, Bartholomew followed him inside, the apprentices a menacing presence at their heels. They were just in time to see Shirwynk hugging his son. The brewer was furious, mortified that strangers should witness the unmanly tears that glittered in his eyes.

‘What do you want?’ he snarled. ‘Get out!’

‘We have reason to believe that your apple wine is giving people the debilitas ,’ began Michael briskly. ‘It is–’

‘Do you see what they are doing, Peyn?’ asked Shirwynk angrily. ‘They want me to drop my case of trespass against Morys, so they aim to bully me into submission by attacking my wares. It is sly and mean, but that is to be expected of the University.’

‘The architects of ancient Rome knew not to use lead containers for making wine,’ said Bartholomew, walking to the nearest vat and inspecting it closely. ‘But you ferment yours in these metal tanks, which you recently bought from–’

‘Ancient Rome?’ echoed Shirwynk in disbelief. He addressed Peyn a second time. ‘They must be desperate indeed if they are forced to quote examples from ancient Rome!’

‘Listen to me,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Vitruvius was a very wise man, and he recommended clay for storing foodstuffs, because lead has compounds that leach–’

‘There is nothing wrong with my wine,’ snapped Shirwynk, and to prove it, he went to the nearest vat, dipped a beaker into it and drank deeply. ‘Delicious! But am I dead? No, I am not. Now leave, before my lads toss you out.’

‘Wine is acidic,’ persisted Bartholomew, jigging away from the burly youth who tried to grab his arm. ‘It dissolves lead. You must have noticed the white granules that grow where–’

‘No,’ interrupted Peyn shortly. ‘We have not.’