A Poisonous Plot

When the friars had finished burying their colleague, three hurried to the chapel to recite more prayers, while the rest trooped to the modest building that served as their refectory. Then four disappeared to the kitchen to finish cooking and three served the others, so fewer than ten sat down to eat. The meal was frugal, with watery soup, a few prunes and some grated onion. Moreover, the presence of guests meant there was not really enough to go around. Michael regarded it in dismay, feeling he had been misled when told the fare would be ‘wholesome and plentiful’.

‘We are sorry about Arnold,’ he said, refusing a sliver of onion with ill grace. ‘Robert said he suffered from insomnia.’

Prior Joliet nodded. ‘For about a month, along with pains in the innards. He would have been ninety next year, and he had planned to celebrate in style — well, what passes for style with us. It is not what you would consider extravagant, I am sure. I heard last night’s feast was very impressive, and the reception after tomorrow’s disceptatio is predicted to be equally magnificent.’

‘We intend it to be an occasion our founder would have appreciated,’ said Michael, ‘as it is the anniversary of his death. Your mural is certain to draw much admiration.’

Joliet flushed with pleasure. ‘Perhaps it will encourage others to hire our services, and we shall earn enough money to mend the roof in our dormitory. Another prune, Brother?’

When the meal was over, Joliet led the way to the back gate, where Bartholomew and Michael scoured the area for clues. Robert and the burly Hamo helped, but there was nothing to find. Moreover, the spot was shielded by overhanging trees, and so was invisible from the road — appealing for witnesses would be pointless.

‘Is that yours?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to a boat that was tied to the pier with a scrap of ancient rope.

Robert nodded. ‘We use it when one of our older residents fancies an outing. It is easier to transport them by boat than in a cart — less jostling for ancient bones.’

Bartholomew bent to examine it, noting a fresh scratch near the back, and then stared at the opposite bank. It comprised a strip of land that was too boggy for building, so was used for grazing sheep. He stepped into the boat and paddled across. There were footprints in the silt at the water’s edge, and although some were smudged, he was fairly sure they came from one person. And Frenge’s boots had been muddy. When a brief search of the reeds revealed a grapnel, he thought he knew what had happened. He rowed back again.

‘Frenge stood over there,’ he said, pointing to where he had just been. ‘He tossed this hook across the water, snagged your boat and drew it towards him. That gouge on the stern is where it bit. The mooring rope is rotten with age, so it would have been easy to snap.’

‘But why?’ asked Joliet, his round face perturbed. ‘To despoil our priory, as he did King’s Hall? I know he hated the University — especially after Wayt decided to sue him.’

‘I think he came for something else, said Michael, staring pointedly at Robert’s cross.

Robert blinked his astonishment, but then shook his head. ‘That cannot be true, Brother. Frenge came in the daytime, when I was wearing it. If his intention was to steal, he would have invaded at night, when it hangs by my bed.’

‘He was probably drunk,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Such men are not noted for their logic.’

‘But the cross does not belong to Hakeney,’ objected Joliet, distressed. ‘Do you think I would let one of my friars keep stolen property? Hakeney is mistaken.’

‘Poison,’ grunted Hamo, speaking for the first time. ‘Madness.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Joliet, although Bartholomew and Michael had exchanged a glance of mutual incomprehension. ‘Perhaps it was the toxin that encouraged Frenge to retrieve what he thought was his friend’s property — it addled his wits.’

‘Impossible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The poison was caustic, and Frenge would have felt its effects immediately. He could not have rowed across the King’s Ditch once it was inside him.’

Robert gazed at him, blood draining from his face. ‘But that means he swallowed it here — after he had snagged the boat and crossed the ditch.’

‘It means he was made to swallow it here,’ corrected Michael. ‘Do not forget the bruises on his jaw. He did not drink it willingly.’

‘But who would have done such a dreadful thing?’ cried Joliet. ‘Not only to kill, but to do it on hallowed ground?’

‘Who indeed?’ murmured Michael.

A soldier was waiting outside the Austin Priory when Bartholomew and Michael emerged, to say that the physician was needed at the castle. He would not explain why, but the amused gleam in his eye suggested it was probably something to do with Dickon.