A Poisonous Plot

Wayt’s expression turned shifty. ‘We did not buy it — it was donated by a benefactor, so it would have been rude to question its origins. Besides, it is for Cew. Soul-cakes are one of the two things he will eat, so we have no choice but to use sucura. Or do you suggest we let him starve?’

Cew’s peculiar diet had done nothing to help him regain his wits. He sat in his bed with the pewter bowl on his head, and swiped with the poker at anyone who came close. After suffering a nasty crack on the elbow, Bartholomew decided to question him from a distance.

‘You cannot ask the King of France about his bowel movements,’ declared Cew indignantly. ‘It is treason. Now go away — unless you can cure our terrible pains.’

‘I might, if you let me examine you,’ said Bartholomew crossly.

‘Very well,’ said Cew, capitulating abruptly. ‘But do not touch our crown. Now hurry, because we shall be sick soon.’

Unfortunately, even a lengthy examination did not tell Bartholomew what was wrong with Cew. He prescribed a mild anti-emetic of chalk and herbs, and recommended that the oysters and cakes were replaced with a simple barley broth.

‘We will try,’ said Wayt. ‘But he is shockingly mobile for an invalid, and will simply get what he wants from the kitchens himself if we do not oblige. I suppose we could lock him in …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘It would cause him distress and might hinder his recovery. Just watch him as often as you can.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Wayt, uncharacteristic tenderness suffusing his hirsute face. ‘He is one of our own, and we look after those. He shall have whatever he needs.’

Michael and Bartholomew reached the brewery eventually, where they found business in full swing, despite the deaths of Frenge and Letia. Apprentices moved among the great vats, stirring or adding ingredients, while Shirwynk sat at a table dictating letters to his son. A quick glance told them that the brewer was illiterate — if he had been able to read, he would have ordered Peyn to redo them, as the lad’s grammar left much to be desired, while his writing was all but illegible.

‘Why must we talk about Frenge again?’ demanded Shirwynk, when Michael told him what they wanted. ‘It is obvious what happened: King’s Hall poisoned him, and deposited his body in the Austin Priory to confuse you. Of course, they need not have bothered with such a complicated ruse — you will never find a scholar guilty, no matter how compelling the evidence.’

‘I have found scholars guilty in the past,’ said Michael icily. ‘I could cite a dozen examples.’

‘Then arrest Wayt and his cronies,’ snapped the brewer. ‘Frenge was perfectly healthy when he left here to take ale to King’s Hall yesterday.’

‘Was he?’ pounced Michael. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he was singing. People do not sing if they are ill. Is that not so, physician?’

‘I imagine it depends on the person,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously.

Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look and turned back to Michael. ‘He was warbling happily as he loaded the dray with ale and wine. Right, Peyn?’

‘Wine,’ mused Michael. ‘I have been meaning to ask you about that. You are a brewer, not a vintner, so you have no right to produce wine. How do the town’s vintners feel about you treading on their professional toes?’

‘There is only one vintner in Cambridge, and he is a sot who would rather drink his wares than sell them,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘Peyn suggested that we expand into wine earlier this year, and the venture has been very successful.’

‘Which is why King’s Hall refuses to drop its case against Frenge,’ elaborated Peyn. ‘Our fine apple wine has made us rich, and they itch to relieve us of our profits.’

‘Do you keep toxic substances here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps for scouring-’

He stepped back quickly when Shirwynk rounded on him with a face as black as thunder, while Peyn fingered the knife he wore in his belt.

‘You think to accuse us of Frenge’s death,’ the brewer snarled. ‘Well, you can think again — we would never harm a friend. But look around, if you must. You will find no poisons here.’

Bartholomew took him at his word and began to explore. However, although he peered inside every vat, pot and cupboard, he saw nothing that could have caused the burns in Frenge’s mouth. Of course, that was not to say that Shirwynk and Peyn were innocent — wise killers would already have taken steps to dispose of incriminating evidence.

‘Your ale-making operation is impressively hygienic,’ he said when he had finished. ‘But where do you ferment the wine?’

Still scowling, Shirwynk led the way to the back of the brewery, where three large lead tanks had been placed in a line.

‘We bought these from the Austin Friary,’ explained Peyn, leaning against one and beginning to pare his nails with the dagger. ‘They needed money to buy bread for the poor, so we got them cheap. We fill them with the juice from crushed apples, add yeast, and nature does the rest. This batch is ready for decanting. You may taste it if you like.’