A Poisonous Plot

‘Not at Michaelhouse,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘None of us were unwell.’

‘Suttone was,’ contradicted Bartholomew. ‘He called me at midnight with stomach cramps, and so did one of William’s students.’

‘Because they overindulged,’ countered Michael sharply. ‘I sampled everything on offer, and I was not ill.’

Tulyet took the opportunity to ask Lister a few questions about sucura and how it might be smuggled into the town, but while the landlord was willing to confide in an old and trusted customer like Michael, sharing confidences with the Sheriff was another matter entirely. He mumbled a vague reply and fled.

‘How am I supposed to stop these illegal imports when no one will talk to me?’ sighed Tulyet crossly. ‘I am sure everyone knows exactly who is responsible. Everyone except me, that is.’

Michael shrugged. ‘No one likes paying taxes, and why should the King receive money for the ingredients we put in our cakes?’

‘Because it is the law,’ replied Tulyet tartly.

‘Then perhaps His Majesty should consider setting a more reasonable levy. Sucura is expensive without the tax, but with the import duty, it is beyond the reach of everyone except him and his wealthiest barons. You cannot blame folk for buying it from smugglers.’

‘You buy it from smugglers?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘Which ones? Their names, if you please.’

‘I was speaking hypothetically,’ replied Michael. ‘I do not shop for foodstuffs myself — I am far too busy for that sort of indulgence.’

Tulyet glared accusingly at him. ‘But I imagine Agatha has laid in a store of it for Michaelhouse.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ grumbled Michael, before remembering the trouble that had been taken to convince everyone that the College was a good proposition for potential investors. He trusted Tulyet with the truth, but Dickon was there, small eyes alight with interest, so he settled for saying, ‘We do not break the law, Dick.’

Tulyet shot him a lugubrious glance, which suggested that Wauter had failed to keep him away from the marchpanes. Eager to avoid trouble, Michael changed the subject.

‘Go away, Dickon. I need to discuss Frenge’s murder with your father. Privately.’

‘You can talk in front of my son,’ said Tulyet. ‘I trust him to be discreet.’

‘He was not discreet when he gossiped about the physicians’ experiments to refine lamp fuel last summer,’ Michael shot back. ‘His loose tongue caused all manner of harm.’

‘He has learned his lesson.’ Tulyet was stung by the reminder. ‘He is older now. And anyway, what do you expect if a group of medici gathers in the garden next door, and sets about making explosions? Of course a bright boy will be intrigued.’

‘Do you have any more tests planned, Doctor?’ asked Dickon keenly. ‘Because if so, I want to watch. You never meet in Meryfeld’s house any more.’

And Dickon was the reason why, thought Bartholomew. ‘We are too busy these days.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘Because it was irresponsible. But tell me about Frenge, Brother. In front of Dickon, if you please — he needs to understand how investigations are conducted.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘We have discovered that Frenge was engaged in some very dark business, which may have led to his demise.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk askance: they had done nothing of the sort.

‘What manner of dark business?’ asked Tulyet curiously.

‘Cattle rustling,’ lied Michael. ‘Which explains why he was on the King’s Ditch. After all, what better way to transport stolen livestock than by water? The poison must have struck him down when he reached the Austins’ convent, and he staggered towards it for help.’

‘I had no idea he was a criminal,’ said Tulyet wonderingly. ‘Perhaps an accomplice killed him then — an argument over profits. I shall look into the matter whenever I have a spare moment.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘But do you have nothing to report, Dick? Not even a snippet?’

‘Well, I learned that Frenge visited Stephen shortly before his death,’ replied Tulyet. ‘I have tried to speak to Stephen, but he is never in. I am beginning to think he is avoiding me.’

‘He will not avoid me,’ vowed Michael. ‘Leave him to us. Is there anything else?’

‘Only that Morys has written to Chancellor Tynkell’s mother to complain about the way his hostel is treated by the University. Word is that she is on her way to assess the situation for herself, which I sincerely hope is untrue. She is a friend of the Queen, and we do not want our troubles reported to royal ears.’

‘She is a dragon,’ interposed Dickon. ‘Chancellor Tynkell told me so, and I am looking forward to meeting her. I hope she can breathe fire, because I shall be disappointed if it turns out to be one of your scholars’ inventions.’

The discussion was cut short by an urgent summons for Tulyet to go to the dyeworks, where a group of burgesses had gathered to complain about the volume of water that was being extracted from the river — water that was needed for their own businesses downstream. Bartholomew stood to go with him, but Tulyet waved him away.