Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

Bartholomew was hard-pressed to fend off Shirwynk’s indignant assault, and was aware that if father and son attacked together, he and Michael would be dead. Shirwynk fell back eventually, circling as he considered his next move. Peyn had recovered sufficiently to try a jab or two, but he was tentative, unwilling to risk further injury.

‘If you must antagonise them, Brother, then at least grab a weapon,’ hissed Bartholomew urgently. ‘I cannot defend you indefinitely.’

Michael picked up a ladle from the floor and feinted at Peyn, who staggered backwards with an alarmed squeak.

‘You should have accepted my son,’ said Shirwynk coldly. ‘He would have been an asset to you, and I had set my heart on him becoming a lawyer. But his talent is such that he does not need your paltry degrees anyway. Not now he has won his post in Westminster.’

Confident in his father’s devotion, Peyn began to gloat. ‘It was so easy to fool you! I read how to make lead salts when I was preparing my application for King’s Hall – Stephen let me use his library. No one guessed it was me making and selling the sucura.’

‘Peyn!’ barked Shirwynk, horrified. ‘Say no more.’

‘Why?’ shrugged Peyn. ‘They will never repeat this conversation to anyone else, and they should know that their stupid University made a mistake by declining to take me.’

‘So I am beginning to understand,’ murmured Michael, ‘given that you promptly turned around and started to poison everyone.’

‘I have been making sucura for months,’ said Peyn tauntingly. ‘At first, I only sold it in Barnwell, thinking to keep the venture modest, but it was so successful that I could not resist expanding into Cambridge. People want it so badly that they pay stupidly high prices, and it has made me rich. How do you think I got my post at Westminster?’

Shirwynk blinked. ‘Because the Treasury heard about your remarkable abilities and invited you to join them, just as I have been telling everyone.’

Peyn laughed, although it was a bitter sound. ‘Nothing is free in this world, Father. I bought the position – with money from my sucura.’

‘But if the stuff has been causing the debilitas , as these scholars say, then it means you killed Letia,’ breathed Shirwynk, shocked. ‘Your mother.’

‘She was dying anyway,’ shrugged Peyn. ‘Or so she claimed. Personally, I thought it was just an excuse to lie around in bed eating cakes.’

‘You did not know your sucura might be dangerous,’ said Shirwynk. It was a statement, not a question, and there was a pathetic desperation in his eyes. ‘You sold it in all innocence.’

Peyn grinned malevolently, a response that made his sire’s face crumple in dismay. ‘I had my suspicions, which is why I never touch it myself. Not the sucura or the apple wine.’

‘But you let me drink it.’ Shirwynk’s voice was low and strained.

Knowing where his best interests lay, Peyn abandoned his air of gloating insouciance and became ingratiating. ‘I would not have let you come to harm. And I am not responsible for the deaths anyway. All the victims were old, ill or overly greedy.’

‘Was Frenge overly greedy?’ asked Michael. ‘I assume you poisoned him as well?’

Peyn shook his head. ‘His death was a nuisance, actually, because he was the one who took the sucura out to sell.’

‘No!’ snapped Michael. ‘I questioned any number of people who bought the stuff – Agatha, Cynric, Mistress Tulyet, Dodenho, Chancellor Tynkell – and none of them got it from Frenge.’

‘Stephen did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me so a few months ago.’

Peyn shot them both a pitying glance. ‘Frenge did not deal with the bulk of our customers himself, stupid! He hired petty criminals to do it – men who are used to hawking goods of dubious origin around the town’s taverns.’

‘Then it was all Frenge’s idea,’ said Shirwynk, still unwilling to see his beloved son in the role of arch villain. ‘He was a thief … there was a rumour that he stole cattle–’

‘He did not have the wits to devise a scheme of this audacity and cunning,’ interrupted Peyn. ‘Only I did.’ He smirked challengingly at Michael. ‘And incidentally, he never delivered ale to King’s Hall on the day he died. I made that up to confuse you.’

‘But you told me that tale as well,’ said Shirwynk hoarsely. ‘And I repeated it to others …’

‘Just as I intended,’ said Peyn, all smug triumph. ‘It put suspicion on King’s Hall, which serves them right for suing us.’

There was a moment when Bartholomew thought Shirwynk would be so stunned by his son’s nasty revelations that he would lay down his hook and surrender, but only a fleeting one. Peyn also sensed his sire’s weakening resolve, so took steps to remedy the situation. He put a loving arm around his father’s shoulders, and murmured in his ear. Whatever he said caused Shirwynk to take a deep breath and become businesslike.

‘Go and wait outside. I do not want your last memories of Cambridge tainted by murder.’

‘No, we shall dispatch them together,’ said Peyn, obviously not trusting him to go through with it. He gripped his blade purposefully. ‘Ready?’

Shirwynk nodded, his expression grim, and they advanced side by side. Bartholomew held his forceps in one hand and let his medical bag slide into the other, aiming to swing it in the hope of entangling one of their weapons.

‘Stop!’ ordered Michael, raising the ladle. ‘Desist immediately, or I will–’

‘Will what?’ sneered Peyn. ‘Arrest us? How? We are the ones with the pointed implements.’

‘By summoning HELP!’ Michael bawled the last word at the top of his voice, and the brewery door flew open to reveal Tulyet and several soldiers. Dickon was there, too, his face still scarlet, although his teeth were back to their normal yellowish white.

Shirwynk and Peyn whipped around in horror. In a frantic but ill-advised effort to save the day, Shirwynk went on a wild offensive, but a hook, however sharp, was no match for broadswords, and Tulyet disarmed him with ease. When he saw his father defeated, Peyn dropped his knife and held his hands in front of him, to show he was unarmed. They shook with fear.

‘I assume you heard everything, Dick?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew leaned against the wall and wished he had known that the Sheriff had been poised for rescue. No wonder Michael had been all cool composure in the face of death!

‘I did,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Every word.’

‘It was all Frenge’s idea,’ bleated Peyn. ‘I swear! He forced me to help him and–’

‘How?’ asked Tulyet mildly. ‘You just said he did not have the wits.’

‘No, but he does,’ said Peyn, pointing at his father. ‘I did learn about lead salts in Stephen’s books, but when I told him about them, he devised a way to make himself rich and to rid himself of an unwanted wife into the bargain. I did nothing wrong. It was all him.’

The blood drained from Shirwynk’s face, but even this final evidence of his son’s perfidy did not dent his devotion. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘The scheme was all mine. Peyn knew nothing about any of it. He is innocent of any wrongdoing.’

There was a flicker of something in Peyn’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly to say whether it was remorse. ‘So release me,’ the boy said. ‘I shall go to Westminster and our paths will never cross again. Unless you ever need a favour, of course, in which case I shall be delighted to oblige.’

‘Take them away,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him with disgust. ‘Thank God I have an upright, noble son, because I think I should die of shame if I had one like you.’