A Poisonous Plot

Unlike most of the river thoroughfares, Water Lane did not end in a muddy slope and a rickety pier. It finished in a spacious cobbled yard dominated by two very different but equally handsome buildings, and a spanking new jetty. Of the buildings, one was the brewery, while the other was owned by Bartholomew’s sister, Edith Stanmore.

A few weeks before, Edith had startled her brother and everyone else who knew her by announcing a decision to expand her late husband’s highly profitable cloth business. She had achieved this by entering the dyeing trade, and had acquired premises, equipment and a workforce before anyone had really understood what she was doing — which was unfortunate, as the venture had aroused a lot of ill feeling. There were two main reasons for this: first, dyeing was a noxious process, and generated a lot of bad smells and unwholesome effluent; and second, she had chosen to hire staff from a controversial source.

‘Prostitutes,’ said Michael, as two women emerged. ‘I understand Edith wanting to do something good for the town’s downtrodden, but did she have to open her doors to harlots?’

‘They are not harlots,’ objected Bartholomew. He loved his sister, who had raised him after the premature death of their parents, and disliked anyone disparaging her. Moreover, helping the women had allowed Edith to think of something other than how much she missed her beloved Oswald, and he was glad to see the sparkle back in her eyes after so many weeks of sorrow. ‘They might have walked the streets once, but now they are gainfully and decently employed.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, although doubt was clear in his face. ‘However, the place reeks and it fouls the river. All dyeworks do, which is why there are laws stipulating that they must be sited well away from any settlement. It is unfortunate she managed to find a way around them.’

‘You make her sound sly,’ said Bartholomew resentfully. ‘She is not.’

‘Not as a rule. However, she did commission Cambridge’s most slippery lawyer to look for a legal loophole — and Stephen’s contention that dyeworks are clean because they use a lot of water is disingenuous. I am surprised you support her in this, because such disgusting waste must surely be harmful to health.’

Bartholomew did not reply, because the truth was that he was concerned about the dyeworks’ effluent. He and Edith quarrelled constantly about it, so it was a sore subject for him — he hated being at loggerheads with her, and wished she had never started the scheme in the first place. Oswald Stanmore had not dyed his own wares in the middle of the town, so why did she have to do it? He supposed he would have to try again to persuade her to shut the place down, or move it somewhere out of sight and mind, although it was not a prospect he relished — Edith had thrown herself wholeheartedly into saving ‘her ladies’.

Seeing the physician was unwilling to discuss it further, Michael marched towards the brewery and rapped on the door. ‘Frenge owns … owned this business with a man named Shirwynk,’ he said. ‘Shirwynk is a very unpleasant individual, and I have had several altercations with him over the last few weeks.’

‘What about?’

‘Selling inferior brews, picking fights with scholars, grazing his horses on College land. I hope he does not turn violent when he learns that Frenge is dead.’ Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘And I hope our interview with him does not take long, because I should hate to miss the feast.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You think about your stomach as you are about to deliver news of an untimely death? Not to mention the fact that the town is on the verge of a riot, you have a murder to solve, and there is a bonfire next to our church that may set it alight at any moment?’

Michael shot him a disagreeable look and hammered on the door again. ‘I notice you say that I, not we, have a murder to solve. I shall need your help if I am to find the culprit.’

‘I cannot, Brother. Nigellus and Rougham are coming to put my students through a mock disputation in the morning, so I will be busy.’

‘You plan to let Nigellus loose on your pupils?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘Why? The man is an ass, and I would sooner die than call on him for medical assistance.’

‘Those are strong words, Brother. What has he done to vex you?’

‘He is smug, arrogant, overbearing and as clever as clay. He is probably an Oxford man.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘As am I, Brother, in case you had forgotten.’

‘Yes, but you had the intelligence to abandon the Other Place and come here as soon as you were qualified, whereas Nigellus has been stagnating at Barnwell for the past forty years. So am I right? Did Nigellus learn his medicine at Oxford?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Followed by practical training in Norwich. Or so he says.’

‘You do not believe him?’

‘He is probably telling the truth. Unfortunately, he seems to have learned nothing since, and some of his skills could do with updating.’