Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

Once Shirwynk and Peyn had been marched to the castle, Bartholomew examined the metal vats, to assure himself that his conclusions were right. He was, and Michael and Tulyet listened aghast as he explained in more detail how Peyn had made ‘sucura’, both appalled by the lad’s brazen disregard for the people who had sickened or died.

‘So it and the apple wine are insidious poisons,’ said Tulyet when Bartholomew had finished. ‘Ones that work gradually. Once they are unavailable, will the debilitas disappear?’

‘There should be no further cases, and I hope the symptoms of those already affected will be eased by certain treatments.’ Bartholomew glanced at Michael. ‘Lead poisoning explains the damage I saw in the stomachs and livers of Lenne, Yerland, Segeforde and Irby.’

‘We shall have to apologise to Nigellus,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Damn! It is certain to cost an absolute fortune – one he will doubtless use to fund his new studium generale in the Fens.’

‘You will have to apologise to Edith as well,’ added Bartholomew. ‘She said from the start that her dyeworks were innocent, and she was right.’

‘What about Frenge?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Can we attribute his death to sucura or apple wine?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He was fed an acidic substance that killed him quickly, one quite different from lead salts.’

‘Yes – we still have a killer at large,’ agreed Michael. ‘A person who stabbed Hamo and strangled Kellawe as well. Unfortunately, we are running out of suspects. Or do you think Shirwynk and Peyn are responsible?’

‘Not Shirwynk,’ said Tulyet. ‘He was too shocked by his son’s admissions to be a seasoned murderer himself. And to be frank, I do not think Peyn is brave enough to claim his victims face to face. What about Cew? His madness has always seemed rather convenient to me. After all, who will suspect a lunatic?’

‘I am fairly sure his affliction is genuine,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps so, but that does not preclude him from being the strategist,’ said Michael, and explained his theory about the criminal mastermind to the Sheriff. ‘After all, it requires a certain type of insanity to bring all this about – one that entails a good deal of ruthless cunning.’

‘Then perhaps the strategist is Stephen,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘He is ruthlessly cunning.’

‘He is currently suffering from a weakness in his wrists,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One that would make strangling anyone impossible.’

‘Who, then?’ demanded Tulyet, beginning to be exasperated. ‘Wauter, who rode away into the Fens, where he is welcoming scholars with open arms?’

‘We cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for his disappearance.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I appreciate that you do not want this strategist to be from Michaelhouse. I have a fondness for your College myself, and would far rather the culprit came from somewhere else – such as King’s Hall or Zachary.’

‘Not King’s Hall,’ said Michael. ‘They are determined to keep the University in Cambridge, no matter what they have to do to achieve it. The best suspects are Nigellus and Morys, who are leading proponents for the studium generale in the Fens.’

‘If it is Nigellus, you will not have to apologise for arresting him on suspicion of killing his patients,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘And I admit that it would give me pleasure to see such an arrogant devil behind bars.’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am with you there, Dick, so Matt and I will speak to him and Morys as soon as I have had something to eat. It is not something to be attempted on an empty stomach, and the confrontation with Shirwynk and Peyn has quite sapped my energy.’

‘There is no time for gorging,’ said Tulyet. ‘I should have told you at once: trouble is brewing between King’s Hall and some of the scholars who want to leave. I tried to quell it, but they took exception to my interference. You are the only one who can prevent a pitched battle.’

‘I am sure there are townsmen to hand, though,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Ready to join in. We must stand together if we are to keep the peace, so come with me.’

They secured the brewery and hurried to the High Street, where raised voices could be heard. Afternoon was fading to evening, and it would not be long before it was dark, at which point it was obvious from the tense atmosphere that fights would break out.

‘How long have you known that the University rejected Peyn?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Ever since he admitted it just now.’ Michael shrugged at the physician’s astonishment. ‘It was a guess, Matt. We do not keep records of failed applications.’

The quarrel was centred on the Trumpington Gate, where scholars from King’s Hall, along with students from several other Colleges, had taken up station, all armed to the teeth. Facing them was a horde from the hostels, many wearing religious habits and carrying bundles of belongings. Crowds of townsfolk had gathered to watch, clearly intending to weigh in should there be a brawl.

‘The hostels are appalled that Shirwynk is prosecuting Morys for trespass,’ explained Beadle Meadowman worriedly. ‘And fear they will suffer similar charges if they inadvertently set foot in the wrong place. Thus the sanctuary of the Fens is attractive, but the wealthier foundations want to stop them from going.’

‘We have arrested Shirwynk,’ said Michael. ‘He cannot sue anyone.’

‘That news was broken a few moments ago, but it has made the situation worse,’ said Meadowman. ‘The hostels think it is a lie – a ruse to keep them here.’

‘We must put an end to this nonsense fast, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘Your University is tearing itself apart over this Fen business, and my town will certainly home in on any weakness.’

‘You have soldiers and Michael has beadles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Send both groups in to disperse this gathering.’

Michael and Tulyet shot him withering looks. ‘That would ignite a riot for certain,’ said Tulyet. ‘This is not a situation that will be resolved by brute force.’

While he and Michael discussed strategies, Bartholomew turned his attention to the mob. Not surprisingly, some voices were louder than others. Nigellus and Morys were in the vanguard of those who wanted to leave, although neither had a pack, suggesting that they did not intend to stay long in the marshes – they would return for more converts.

Meanwhile, Wayt led the faction that aimed to stop them. He was yelling that the hostels had a duty to stay, but was unable to explain why, and side-stepped the issue when his opponents claimed, not without cause, that King’s Hall was prepared to put comfortable buildings before a better atmosphere for teaching. Then Nigellus bawled that scholars would be able to devote themselves to the lofty goal of learning far more readily when away from the filthy habits of seculars, and Tulyet’s men were hard-pressed to prevent offended townsmen from responding to the insult with their fists.

The soldiers were heavily armed, but were under strict orders not to use their weapons. Dickon ignored the edict, and scampered around with a drawn sword. Townsmen and scholars alike fell back whenever he was near, all eyeing the red-faced figure uneasily. Bartholomew took the opportunity afforded by the distraction to approach Wayt and Dodenho.

‘Take your men home,’ he begged. ‘Without them, the other Colleges will give up and–’

‘And the hostel rabble will escape,’ snapped Wayt, eyeing the opposition with icy disdain. ‘Which I refuse to allow.’

‘You cannot keep them here against their will,’ argued Bartholomew.