A Poisonous Plot

The protesters in the cobbled square had swelled in number since the previous day. The University faction was led by Kellawe and included a number of his Zachary students, along with men from the other hostels on Water Lane. The fanatical Franciscan was stirring up their passions with an eye-witness account of the ‘atrocity’ committed by Edith’s ladies.

‘Those whores marched out with their buckets,’ he railed, ‘and I could see the defiance in their eyes as they hurled their vile effluent into the water. It is their fault that Cew from King’s Hall grows worse by the day, and they poisoned every man in Trinity Hall last week.’

The town faction was led by a potter named John Vine, an opinionated man who had been an infamous brawler in his youth. Age and experience had taught him to express his views with his tongue rather than his fists, but he was still usually to be found wherever there was trouble. He lived with an elderly cousin who was one of Bartholomew’s patients; she was an excellent and generous cook, and thus a great favourite with his ever-hungry students.

Vine had assembled his followers on the opposite side of the square, on the grounds that he had fewer of them than Kellawe, and would not fare well in any brawl that might ensue. However, they were still close enough to hear what was said, especially given that the voluble Franciscan tended to deliver his thoughts in a bellow.

‘Perhaps we should be supporting the dyeworks then,’ a baker jeered. ‘If enough scholars sicken, the University might leave our town. And good riddance!’

‘Yes, but unfortunately, they are not the dyeworks’ only victims,’ said Vine grimly. ‘There is illness and death among real people, too — such as my poor cousin. Did I tell you that she has not been well since this filthy venture came into being?’

‘Once or twice,’ quipped the baker, a remark that elicited sniggers from his cronies, although Bartholomew was sorry to hear that old Mistress Vine was ailing. He wondered if it would be presumptuous to pay her an unsolicited visit, and supposed he had not been called because Vine was reluctant to beg favours from the brother of the person he held responsible for her plight.

‘It is not just her, either,’ said Vine, fixing the baker with a fierce eye that wiped the smile from the man’s face. ‘Six folk in Barnwell have died, not to mention Letia Shirwynk and Will Lenne. The dyeworks killed them all.’

‘You cannot blame the Barnwell deaths on Mistress Stanmore,’ objected Isnard the one-legged bargeman. He had been Bartholomew’s patient for years and was an enthusiastic if untalented member of the Michaelhouse Choir. Like Vine, he had a nose for trouble, and was always to hand when it was unfolding, sometimes as an impartial spectator but more usually as a participant. ‘The village is a good walk from here, all across the marshes.’

‘The toxins did not cross the marshes — they were washed down the river,’ averred Vine, ‘which means they are even more potent than we feared.’

‘But the folk at Barnwell were already ill when the dyeworks opened,’ persisted Isnard. ‘The reeve’s wife had been ailing since the summer, and so had one of the canons.’

‘Yes, they were ill,’ acknowledged Vine, ‘but it was the dyeworks that finished them off. Mistress Stanmore should know better, especially as her brother is a medicus.’

Bartholomew took an involuntary step backwards when everyone — townsfolk and scholars — swung around to glower at him.

‘Well?’ demanded the baker. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, physician? Vine’s cousin is your patient, so surely you feel some responsibility for her health?’

‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Bartholomew, flailing around for a way to answer without being disloyal to Edith. ‘But-’

‘More importantly, what about the scholars of Trinity Hall?’ called Kellawe, jaw thrust out challengingly. ‘Their well-being is far more important than that of mere townsfolk, and Edith Stanmore did them serious harm.’

‘No, she did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Their illnesses were attributable to bad cr-’

‘My poor cousin became ill after eating fish from the river,’ declared Vine hotly. ‘Fish poisoned by this filthy place.’

‘The river has always been dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have warned you for years not to drink or eat anything from it. It is essentially a sewer and-’

‘You scholars are all alike, twisting the facts with your sly tongues.’ Vine turned angrily to his friends. ‘Not only did Bartholomew avoid the question, but he aims to blame us — saying my cousin’s illness is our fault for tossing the occasional bucket of slops into the water.’

‘It is a good deal more than the “occasional bucket”,’ argued Bartholomew, but his words went unheard, because Vine drowned them out.

‘Scholars are killers,’ the potter roared. ‘We all know King’s Hall murdered Frenge-’