A Poisonous Plot

‘I have money invested in these dyeworks,’ Anne went on. ‘So I have a right to reassure myself that they are running smoothly. Besides, no one has my experience with the sales side of the business, so you need me here.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Edith. ‘We do. Very well, then, but stay in the back and keep a low profile. We do not want your presence to aggravate the University — our biggest customer.’

‘I know you are vexed with me for suing Segeforde,’ said Anne, coming to take her hand. ‘But he deserves it for what he did to me. Besides, I shall invest some of my compensation here, so the dyeworks will certainly benefit.’

‘Segeforde is dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will not be paying you anything.’

‘I heard,’ shrugged Anne. ‘But Stephen says we can just transfer our grievance to his estate. And better I get the money than Segeforde’s vile colleagues at Zachary Hostel. It would not surprise me if they dispatched him, in a desperate attempt to make me drop my complaint.’

Having had her say, she flounced off, all swinging hips and heaving bosom.

‘Do not let her beguile you, Matt,’ warned Edith, clearly of the opinion that no man would be able to resist such a tempting display. ‘Her husband might be impotent, but they are still married, and I doubt she would make you happy anyway.’

‘She hardly compares to Matilde and Julitta,’ said Bartholomew, offended that Edith should think he might allow himself to be enticed. He had standards and Anne was well below them.

‘No,’ agreed Edith softly. ‘She does not.’

Bartholomew left the dyeworks to find Michael and Kellawe outside, glaring furiously at each other, while Hakeney and his cronies watched intently from the other side of the road.

‘Here,’ said Kellawe, thrusting a flask at the physician. ‘Swallow this.’

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, declining to take it.

‘Water from the river. If your sister’s business is doing no harm, you will not mind downing it, to prove to everyone that it is safe.’

‘The river has never been safe,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And I have been advising people not to drink from it ever since I became a physician.’

‘You are refusing?’ pounced Kellawe triumphantly.

‘Yes. Not because of the dyeworks, but because of the sewage that is discharged into it from Trinity Hall, Clare College, the Carmelite Friary and every house and hostel in between.’

‘We know the truth,’ called a verbose but stupid priest named Gilby. ‘The Cam is poisoned, thanks to your sister and her whores. Her husband must be spinning in his grave.’

Oswald probably would have deplored Edith helping prostitutes, thought Bartholomew, but it was not for Gilby to say so. He reined in his temper with difficulty, ignoring the jeers that followed when Kellawe theatrically poured away the flask’s contents.

‘I am glad you refused, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘They probably added something to make you ill regardless. They are so determined to see Edith fail that no sly tactic is beneath them.’

‘Now perhaps you will answer some questions.’ Bartholomew addressed Kellawe, pointing at the Franciscan’s boots as he did so: they were speckled with spots of red, yellow and blue. Clearly, the friar had not gone straight home after finishing his vigil for Segeforde, Irby and Yerland in St Bene’t’s Church, but had made a detour. ‘Such as how did that happen?’

Kellawe flushed scarlet. ‘Painting,’ he replied, chin jutting out defiantly. ‘Touching up the murals in our hall. And you cannot prove otherwise.’

Bartholomew felt his blood boil. What if the Franciscan’s felonious antics had put Edith and her women in danger? He was about to launch into an accusatory tirade when Michael grabbed his arm and pulled him away, much to Kellawe’s obvious relief.

‘Exposing him as a burglar here will do nothing for the cause of peace,’ he muttered. ‘I shall fine him later, in the privacy of his hostel, where there will be no witnesses to turn it into an excuse for a fight.’

Bartholomew was not sure he agreed, but allowed himself to be steered away. ‘I will go to Barnwell this afternoon,’ he said, wondering if the Franciscan and his followers would leave the dyeworks alone if Nigellus was proven guilty. ‘To ask about the six people who died there.’

‘Go now,’ instructed Michael. ‘We should have as many facts at our fingertips as possible when we interrogate Nigellus.’

He was about to add more when he noticed Shirwynk and Peyn outside their brewery. Peyn was slouched in an attitude of sullen indolence, and Bartholomew felt like remarking that the lad would have to make himself more amenable if he aimed to succeed at the Treasury.

‘If you want the villain who invaded the dyeworks,’ Peyn said as the two scholars approached, ‘you need look no further than there.’ He nodded to Kellawe and his supporters.

‘My son is right,’ said Shirwynk, and there was pride and love in the way he looked at the youth. ‘The culprit will not be a townsman.’