A Poisonous Plot

‘It is true,’ agreed Yolande. ‘And we provide a valuable service — everyone wants our cloth, because it is cheaper than materials that have been dyed elsewhere.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But you are not supposed to dump nasty residues in the river. The burgesses told you to ship them to the Fens instead.’

‘We do, most of the time,’ said Edith. ‘But it is not always practical. Like this morning — all four of our best big buckets were full of spent dye, but then we had a problem with some caustic cleaner — which really does need to go to the Fens — so we had to make a strategic decision.’

‘Besides, no one uses the river at night,’ added Yolande carelessly. ‘Unfortunately, we were a bit late in today, because of last night’s Hallow-Eve celebrations, and the spent dye was rather more potent than we had anticipated …’

Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘No one uses the river at night? Then where do you think the fish go when darkness falls? And there is the small matter of tides — anything deposited while the river is flowing will revisit the town when it ebbs.’

‘We are within our rights to use the waterways,’ said Edith, hands on hips and looking fierce. ‘We pay our taxes. And besides, we hired Stephen to check our rights and responsibilities before we started. Everything we do is perfectly legal — other than the occasional minor breach, such as happened today.’

‘Minor or not, the protesters have a point.’ Bartholomew gestured around him. ‘There are some very toxic substances here. Perhaps some of the illnesses or deaths in the town are a result of whatever you are putting in the water.’

‘I did not think you would side against us, Matthew,’ said Edith, anger turning to hurt. ‘There is no evidence that we are to blame. People sicken and die all the time, as you know better than most. You should be ashamed of yourself for accusing us.’

Her words were like arrows in Bartholomew’s heart, and he closed his eyes for a moment before continuing more gently. ‘Dropping stinking waste in the Cam will have an impact on public health — you know it will. Moreover, the people outside watch you like hawks: they might do you or your ladies harm the next time you have an “accidental” spillage.’

‘But we would never put anything toxic in the river,’ argued Edith. ‘Strong smells and bright colours do not equal dangerous, as you of all people should understand. You should also know that I would never put the health of townsfolk at risk.’

‘What about the health of scholars?’ asked Michael.

Edith gave a wry smile. ‘It is tempting to silence those men from Zachary with a dose of something nasty, but wishing is not the same as doing. And anyway, they do not use the river — they are too wealthy to eat its fish, and they have their own well for drinking.’

‘I am not sure I agree that your waste is harmless,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed out through the door, where the dyeworks’ pier and the one belonging to King’s Hall were a beautiful royal blue. ‘Would you really want that stuff inside you? Or inside me?’

Edith sighed irritably. ‘We will never agree on this, so let us talk about something else before we fall out. Yolande tells me that Frenge was killed by King’s Hall yesterday. Is it true?’

‘No,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We are on our way to visit Frenge’s friend Hakeney. Hopefully, he will tell us something that will allow us to put an end to these silly tales.’

‘Then you will be disappointed,’ said Yolande with a vengeful smirk. ‘He was drunk most of yesterday. He will be a useless witness.’

‘Did you know Frenge, Edith?’ Bartholomew asked. He was still cross with her for refusing to heed his advice, so it was not easy to keep his voice even. ‘You were neighbours, after all.’

‘Yes, but he went out delivering ale, while Shirwynk and Peyn stayed in to brew, so I did not meet him very often. I suppose Peyn will drive the dray now.’

‘He is going to Westminster,’ said Michael. ‘To become a Treasury clerk.’

Yolande burst out laughing. ‘Him? I doubt His Majesty will let a snivelling cur like that near his precious money. The boy is dreaming.’

Recalling Peyn’s appalling handwriting, Bartholomew suspected she was right. ‘If you do not know Frenge, then what about Shirwynk? What kind of man is he?’

‘A loathsome fellow,’ replied Edith with a moue of distaste. ‘Although Peyn is worse. He is a dreadful young man — sullen, arrogant and lazy.’

‘He told us that he was not sorry his mother was dead,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think he did something to hasten her end? Or did Shirwynk?’

Edith considered the question carefully. ‘It is possible. She was an awful shrew, always whining about her poor health and demanding to be waited on. Both of them grew to resent her.’

‘I do not suppose you know anything about Frenge’s relationship with Shirwynk and Peyn, do you?’ asked Michael, rather desperately. ‘Did you ever hear them fighting, for example?’