A Poisonous Plot

The hall looked better than it had done in years — bright, clean and welcoming. The mural was spectacular in the full light of day, with the four great thinkers holding forth under a spreading oak while the Fens stretched away in the distance. Prior Joliet stood next to it, accepting the praise of admirers, while Robert and Hamo served wine, managing it better than the students who had been allotted the task — they were more interested in reliving the triumph of the debate. Then Hakeney appeared, and shoved himself to the front of the queue.

‘Who invited him?’ hissed Langelee, glaring accusingly at his Fellows. ‘He is not rich — not now he drinks wine rather than makes it.’

‘No one did,’ surmised Wauter. ‘He just sniffed out free victuals.’

‘I see you wear my wife’s cross, Robert,’ the vintner said aggressively. He was already drunk, although Bartholomew’s remedy seemed to have worked on his constipation, as he looked better than he had when they had last seen him. ‘When will you return it to its rightful owner?’

‘I bought it in London,’ said Robert with weary patience. ‘You have seen the bill of sale.’

‘That is a forgery,’ stated Hakeney, staggering when he tried to lean against a table and missed. ‘And so is the letter from that so-called priest who you claim sold it to you. That cross belongs to me, and I demand it back.’

‘It does not,’ said Tulyet quietly. ‘I looked into this matter at your request. Do you not recall my verdict? Robert can prove ownership; you cannot. So stop this nonsense and let us enjoy this splendid repast.’

‘Unless you would rather talk to me instead,’ said Dickon. His evil leer turned into a grin of malicious satisfaction when Hakeney took one look at the crimson face and backed away.

‘Christ God, Tulyet,’ breathed Langelee, staring at the boy. ‘What have you done to him? Or is that his natural colour, and you have been deceiving us all these years?’

‘His mother insisted that he come,’ replied Tulyet stiffly, which Bartholomew interpreted as meaning that she wanted the brat out of her house. She, unlike her husband, was beginning to accept that there was something not very nice about their son. ‘Personally, I thought he should remain indoors until it wears off.’

‘Well, just make sure he does not fly up to the rafters, trailing his forked tail behind him,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I do not want potential benefactors frightened out of their wits.’

He turned abruptly to usher members of the wealthy Frevill clan towards the cakes, leaving the Sheriff scowling his indignation.

For the next hour, Bartholomew made polite conversation with the guests, who were so numerous that he wondered if Langelee had invited everyone with two coins to rub together. Edith was there with Anne and Rumburgh. They were talking to Wayt from King’s Hall, and he went to join them quickly when he saw anger suffuse his sister’s face.

‘I was telling her that Cew is getting worse,’ explained Wayt, when Bartholomew asked what was the matter. ‘He might have recovered from the fright Frenge gave him, but the dyeworks poison the air he breathes and send him ever deeper into lunacy.’

‘If that were true, you would be showing symptoms of madness, too,’ retorted Edith.

‘Perhaps he is, and he came here for a remedy,’ purred Anne, running one finger down Wayt’s sleeve, so that Bartholomew was seized with the sudden conviction that she already counted the Acting Warden among her conquests. ‘I know one that is better than any physick.’

‘In that case,’ Wayt said smoothly, ‘perhaps you will enlighten me, madam. Shall we step outside to discuss it? It is overly warm in here.’

Rumburgh started to protest, but Anne and Wayt sailed away without so much as a backward glance, leaving the burgess bleating his objections to thin air.

‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Frenge,’ Rumburgh muttered resentfully. ‘After all, I did overhear them arguing shortly before Frenge died — Frenge was telling Wayt that if he continued with his lawsuit, he would reveal a nasty secret about King’s Hall.’

‘What secret?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘I did not hear, but Wayt was livid.’ Rumburgh clenched his fists in impotent fury as his wife and the Acting Warden reached the stairs and disappeared from sight.

‘And Frenge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How did he seem?’

‘He yelled like a fishwife.’ Rumburgh lowered his voice. ‘I should not speak ill of the dead, but I could not abide him either. He had designs on my Anne, and she was hard-pressed to repel him on occasion. He was very persistent.’

‘What happened when he and Wayt parted ways?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not know. I could not bear to be in the same vicinity as either, so I walked to the dyeworks, where I listened to Edith and Anne talk about woad balls for the rest of the day.’