A Poisonous Plot

‘They will certainly suspect a scholar,’ replied Tulyet. ‘If not an Austin, then someone from King’s Hall.’

‘They will deny it,’ said Michael.

‘They will,’ agreed Robert. ‘I have already heard several holler that Frenge broke in to make good on his threat to damage more University property, and was struck down for his temerity.’

‘The town will not appreciate that being said about one of its favourite brewers,’ said Tulyet. He scowled when Bartholomew jerked backwards suddenly. ‘Dickon! Step away from the corpse and let Matt work in peace. And sheathe your sword this instant!’

Bartholomew waited until Dickon had complied before resuming his inspection, much happier once there was no longer a sharp weapon waving about so close to his head.

‘So why was Frenge here?’ asked Michael of the Austins. ‘Was he visiting or was he intent on mischief?’

‘Mischief,’ replied Hamo tersely.

‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘As you know, there are only two ways into our grounds: the main gate and this one. Frenge did not come to the front, which means he must have crossed the ditch in a boat — slyly and secretly.’

‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Joliet tearfully. ‘We brew our own ale, so we are not among his customers. None of us know him other than by sight — and only then because his spat with King’s Hall earned him a certain notoriety.’

‘What about your servants?’ asked Tulyet.

‘We do not have any,’ replied Robert, slightly smug. ‘We prefer to channel our resources into alms, rather than catering to our own comforts.’

‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew stood. ‘What can you tell us?’

‘Frenge has not been dead long,’ replied the physician. ‘The damp mud on his boots indicates that he was walking around in them not long since, and there is a residual warmth in his body, despite the coolness of the day.’

‘More importantly, how did he die?’ asked Tulyet.

‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There are burns on his mouth and hands, and considerable damage to his throat. I have never seen a clearer case of murder.’

‘Damn it, Matt!’ muttered Michael. ‘I thought I told you to declare it accident or suicide.’

The reeking King’s Ditch was no place for a serious discussion, so once Frenge had been loaded on to a stretcher and taken to the nearest town church, Joliet invited everyone to his house, which transpired to be a modest cottage with spartan furnishings. It was spotlessly clean, though, and the only extravagance was a small collection of theological tomes.

‘I agree with Michael,’ said Tulyet, once they were settled with cups of watery ale. The convent did not run to cakes, so pieces of bread dusted with herbs were provided instead. Dickon took one bite, pulled a face and lobbed the rest out of the window, much to his father’s chagrin. ‘We cannot let this be murder: Frenge must have taken this toxin by mistake.’

‘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.’