A Poisonous Plot

At his nod, several Zachary students slipped away, clearly aiming to spread word of the outrage. In response, Edith clapped her hands, bringing her workers out of their shocked immobility. Immediately, they set about hauling buckets of water from the river to sluice the offending mess away, although Cynric’s strategy of digging it in with a spade was ultimately more successful. Unfortunately, their labours were all for naught, as the Zachary lads did their work all too well, and people were soon flocking to inspect the damage. Morys was on hand to explain what had happened.

‘The strategist has excelled himself this time,’ muttered Michael. ‘This will certainly cause trouble. And do not say we cannot prove he was behind this — of course he was.’

Bartholomew followed Edith back inside, where the light from the door revealed multihued footprints, made when the invader had hurried about wreaking his destruction. He bent to inspect them, and was surprised to identify not one but two different sets. One was larger and a mark on the sole was indicative of a hole. The other might have belonged to anyone.

He stood, and his eyes were drawn to the largest of the three great dyeing vats. The outside was liberally splashed with yellow, as it was where Michaelhouse’s tabards were soaking. The ladder, which allowed the women to climb up and inspect the contents, was lying on the floor, and his stomach began to churn when it occurred to him that the staff would never have left it like that. He set it in its clips and began to ascend, aware that Michael, Cynric and the ladies had caught his unease and were watching him intently. He reached the top, but all he could see was sodden material. Then he spotted a hand.

Appalled, he grabbed it and began to pull, although the rational part of his brain told him that its owner was beyond any help he could provide. The bright yellow face that emerged, eyes open in death, meant nothing to him at first, but then he recognised the pugnacious jaw.

‘Christ God,’ he swore. ‘It is Kellawe.’

As they were worldly women, Edith’s staff were not unduly perturbed by the news that a Franciscan friar was dead in one of their vats, and were eager to scale the ladder and look for themselves. Bartholomew was hard-pressed to stop them, and it took a sharp word from his sister before they fell back. She was white-faced with shock.

‘Kellawe must have climbed up there for mischief, lost his balance and pitched in,’ surmised Yolande. ‘His accomplice, being a cowardly brute, ran away and left him to drown.’

Bartholomew thought she might be right, given that Kellawe had invaded the dyeworks once already, and the ladder was unstable, so it would have been easy to slip. While Yolande elaborated on her theory to the others, Bartholomew glared at Michael.

‘You should have arrested him the last time,’ he whispered accusingly. ‘Not just levied a fine. Then he might have been less inclined to reoffend.’

‘I thought five shillings would make him think twice about re-indulging his penchant for burglary — it is a veritable fortune,’ Michael hissed back. ‘And keep your voice down. I did not tell Edith that Kellawe was the guilty party, lest she or her ladies decided to take matters into their own hands. She will skin me alive if she learns the truth.’

She might, thought Bartholomew, and it would serve him right. But quarrelling with Michael was doing no good, so he forced down his irritation. ‘So what does this tell us — that Kellawe was the strategist and our troubles are over? Or that Kellawe was in the strategist’s pay, and came here under orders to cause all this damage?’

‘Who knows?’ Wearily, Michael turned to the women. ‘Are you sure you know nothing about this? You did not find him here and decided to deal with the matter yourselves? I understand why you might — he had no business breaking in and you are understandably indignant.’

‘Yes, we are,’ replied Yolande frostily. ‘However, if we had killed him, do you really think we would have left him in one of our vats? Of course not! We would have buried him in the Fens, where his corpse would never be found.’

‘That is a good point, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kellawe’s demise will do the dyeworks immeasurable harm, and may even see them closed down.’

‘So the bastard will achieve in death what he could not do in life,’ spat Yolande in disgust. ‘God damn him to Hell!’

Michael began to look around, noting that the footprints were dry, which suggested that Kellawe and his accomplice had broken in some hours before.

‘Morys told me earlier that Kellawe left home at midnight, to keep vigil in St Bene’t’s Church for his dead colleagues,’ he mused. ‘He-’

‘We finished work at roughly that time,’ interrupted Yolande. ‘However, I can tell you two things: first, I can see St Bene’t’s from my house, and there were no lights there all night — I would have noticed — which means Kellawe said no prayers for his friends. And second, we all have alibis in each other from midnight until now.’