A Poisonous Plot

‘I keep everything that is sent to me,’ came the unexpected but welcome reply. ‘Lawyers like records of correspondence. They are on the table, along with the one about Hakeney.’

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.’