A Poisonous Plot

‘Prior Norton also told me that Shirwynk uses a lot of sucura in his apple wine,’ the beadle went on. ‘Shirwynk offered him some once, and being a man who knows his beverages, he was able to tell exactly what was in it. He says it is loaded with the stuff.’

‘Go to the castle and repeat all this to the Sheriff,’ ordered Michael. ‘Then ask him to come to the brewery as soon as he can. Matt and I will meet him there.’

Unfortunately, he and Bartholomew reached Shirwynk’s domain to find a cart piled high with boxes and a horse already in harness — Peyn was about to leave for Westminster. The apprentices were waiting, ready to make their farewells when he emerged.

‘No!’ whispered Bartholomew urgently, as the monk prepared to stride through them. ‘We should wait for Dick. There are too many of them, and if the situation turns ugly-’

‘We have no choice,’ Michael hissed. ‘Peyn is just as much to blame as his father, and we cannot risk losing him. And we certainly cannot have him appearing for work at the Treasury!’

Unhappily, Bartholomew followed him inside, the apprentices a menacing presence at their heels. They were just in time to see Shirwynk hugging his son. The brewer was furious, mortified that strangers should witness the unmanly tears that glittered in his eyes.

‘What do you want?’ he snarled. ‘Get out!’

‘We have reason to believe that your apple wine is giving people the debilitas,’ began Michael briskly. ‘It is-’

‘Do you see what they are doing, Peyn?’ asked Shirwynk angrily. ‘They want me to drop my case of trespass against Morys, so they aim to bully me into submission by attacking my wares. It is sly and mean, but that is to be expected of the University.’

‘The architects of ancient Rome knew not to use lead containers for making wine,’ said Bartholomew, walking to the nearest vat and inspecting it closely. ‘But you ferment yours in these metal tanks, which you recently bought from-’

‘Ancient Rome?’ echoed Shirwynk in disbelief. He addressed Peyn a second time. ‘They must be desperate indeed if they are forced to quote examples from ancient Rome!’

‘Listen to me,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Vitruvius was a very wise man, and he recommended clay for storing foodstuffs, because lead has compounds that leach-’

‘There is nothing wrong with my wine,’ snapped Shirwynk, and to prove it, he went to the nearest vat, dipped a beaker into it and drank deeply. ‘Delicious! But am I dead? No, I am not. Now leave, before my lads toss you out.’

‘Wine is acidic,’ persisted Bartholomew, jigging away from the burly youth who tried to grab his arm. ‘It dissolves lead. You must have noticed the white granules that grow where-’

‘No,’ interrupted Peyn shortly. ‘We have not.’

Bartholomew ran his finger down the tank, then held it up so they could see the whitish powder that adhered to it. ‘Lead salts — formed when the acid from the fermenting apples eats into the metal. They are sweet to the taste, which is why your wine has a sickly flavour. It is not the kind of sucura you can buy in London, imported from Tyre and taxed at ninety per cent, but something else altogether.’

‘Most of Cambridge does not call my apple nectar sickly,’ said Shirwynk dangerously. ‘It is extremely popular.’

‘I am sure it is — far more than the sour stuff you could brew in wooden barrels. But you bought these metal ones from the Austin Priory this year-’

‘Then it is their fault, not ours,’ Peyn interrupted again. ‘Not that it matters, because you are wrong anyway. You say our wine is causing the debilitas, but my mother died of that disease, and she never touched wine of any description.’

‘But she ate food made with your “sucura”,’ argued Bartholomew. He raised his finger again. ‘And this is it — a by-product of brewing apple wine in lead tanks. It is not smuggled into the town, but manufactured here. You are the ones who have flooded Cambridge with it.’

‘We most certainly are not,’ declared Shirwynk indignantly. ‘Yes, there is usually a white crust in the vats, but not enough to “flood” an entire town. As everyone knows — except you, it would seem — sucura comes through the Fens.’

‘No, it does not, which is why the Sheriff has never been able to catch anyone bringing it in. You have complained several times that someone steals your wine at night, yet Peyn stays here to keep guard, so how can thieves break in? But I know the answer.’

‘Do not listen,’ Peyn instructed his father nervously. ‘He is just jealous that I am about to become a successful Treasury clerk. He wishes it was him that was going to Westminster.’

‘I will hear no slander against my son, Bartholomew,’ warned Shirwynk. He nodded to his apprentices. ‘Throw him out.’