A Poisonous Plot

There was a moment when Bartholomew thought Shirwynk would be so stunned by his son’s nasty revelations that he would lay down his hook and surrender, but only a fleeting one. Peyn also sensed his sire’s weakening resolve, so took steps to remedy the situation. He put a loving arm around his father’s shoulders, and murmured in his ear. Whatever he said caused Shirwynk to take a deep breath and become businesslike.

‘Go and wait outside. I do not want your last memories of Cambridge tainted by murder.’

‘No, we shall dispatch them together,’ said Peyn, obviously not trusting him to go through with it. He gripped his blade purposefully. ‘Ready?’

Shirwynk nodded, his expression grim, and they advanced side by side. Bartholomew held his forceps in one hand and let his medical bag slide into the other, aiming to swing it in the hope of entangling one of their weapons.

‘Stop!’ ordered Michael, raising the ladle. ‘Desist immediately, or I will-’

‘Will what?’ sneered Peyn. ‘Arrest us? How? We are the ones with the pointed implements.’

‘By summoning HELP!’ Michael bawled the last word at the top of his voice, and the brewery door flew open to reveal Tulyet and several soldiers. Dickon was there, too, his face still scarlet, although his teeth were back to their normal yellowish white.

Shirwynk and Peyn whipped around in horror. In a frantic but ill-advised effort to save the day, Shirwynk went on a wild offensive, but a hook, however sharp, was no match for broadswords, and Tulyet disarmed him with ease. When he saw his father defeated, Peyn dropped his knife and held his hands in front of him, to show he was unarmed. They shook with fear.

‘I assume you heard everything, Dick?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew leaned against the wall and wished he had known that the Sheriff had been poised for rescue. No wonder Michael had been all cool composure in the face of death!

‘I did,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Every word.’

‘It was all Frenge’s idea,’ bleated Peyn. ‘I swear! He forced me to help him and-’

‘How?’ asked Tulyet mildly. ‘You just said he did not have the wits.’

‘No, but he does,’ said Peyn, pointing at his father. ‘I did learn about lead salts in Stephen’s books, but when I told him about them, he devised a way to make himself rich and to rid himself of an unwanted wife into the bargain. I did nothing wrong. It was all him.’

The blood drained from Shirwynk’s face, but even this final evidence of his son’s perfidy did not dent his devotion. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘The scheme was all mine. Peyn knew nothing about any of it. He is innocent of any wrongdoing.’

There was a flicker of something in Peyn’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly to say whether it was remorse. ‘So release me,’ the boy said. ‘I shall go to Westminster and our paths will never cross again. Unless you ever need a favour, of course, in which case I shall be delighted to oblige.’

‘Take them away,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him with disgust. ‘Thank God I have an upright, noble son, because I think I should die of shame if I had one like you.’

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.