A Poisonous Plot (14 page)

Bartholomew knew better than to embark on that sort of argument with a doting parent. They climbed the spiral staircase in silence, but when they reached the top, where two knights were standing guard, Tulyet turned to regard him and Michael bleakly.

‘You will be stunned by what you see, so be warned.’

He opened the door and ushered the scholars in, closing it quickly to prevent his warriors from following. Bartholomew thought he heard suppressed laughter before it clicked shut.

Dickon was standing by the hearth, and there were two things that were notable about him. The first was that the child had poured himself a very large cup of wine; he held it in one hand, while the other rested on the hilt of his sword, so that he appeared like a miniature version of the beefy, hard-drinking warriors Bartholomew had encountered during his sojourn with the English army in France. The second was that his face was a bright and startling shade of scarlet.

‘God’s blood!’ gulped Michael, crossing himself. He rarely swore, so the oath was a testament to the depth of his shock.

Bartholomew simply stared, wondering if the brat had also sprouted horns or a forked tail.

‘It is your sister’s fault, Matt,’ said Tulyet, angry and defensive at the same time. ‘We had a report that she was dumping waste in the river again, and when we went to investigate … well, suffice to say that Dickon accidentally submerged his face in one of her vats.’

‘It is dye?’ breathed Michael. He crossed himself again. ‘Thank God! I thought it was …’

‘Yes, it is dye,’ said Tulyet coldly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You must find a way to scour it off, because I cannot have him looking like that.’

‘I like it,’ said Dickon, whose small, bright eyes looked more malevolent than ever in his crimson skin. ‘People will be more ready to obey me if I frighten them – which I will, if they think I am a denizen of Hell.’

‘You do not need a red face for them to think that,’ muttered Michael.

‘It is coming off,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Today. And if it hurts, that is too bad, because your poor mother will be beside herself if she sees you in such a state.’

Bartholomew advanced cautiously. Dickon had a habit of punching, biting, kicking, clawing and scratching those who went too close, and the physician would have refused to tend him had he not been friends with his father. He stopped dead in his tracks when Dickon’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.

‘Draw that, and I will never train you to be a knight – you will go to a monastery instead,’ said Tulyet sharply. It was the voice that had instilled fear into the hearts of many seasoned criminals, and even Dickon knew better than to challenge it. The hand dropped away.

Bartholomew inspected the damage, and drew the conclusion that Dickon’s ‘accidental submersion’ had been nothing of the kind: the dye had been carefully applied, neatly following his hairline and ending tidily under his chin.

‘Nothing will remove this,’ he told the horrified Sheriff. ‘Well, nothing that will not harm him. I am afraid it will have to fade naturally.’

Dickon grinned, and the sight of large slightly jagged teeth in the red face was distinctly disconcerting. ‘Good,’ he said gleefully.

Tulyet scowled at him. ‘No,
not
good! How can I teach you how to run a large and turbulent shire when you look like one of Satan’s imps? People will laugh at you, and you cannot command respect if you are a source of mockery.’

‘No one will laugh,’ said Dickon with a determined menace that was disturbing from a child of ten. ‘And if they try, I will spear them with my sword.’

Tulyet regarded him uncertainly for a moment, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘How long will it take to disappear?’

‘A few days. Longer, if he does not wash.’

‘He will wash,’ vowed Tulyet. He glared at his son, an expression that softened when the lad favoured him with a smile of great sweetness. He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘Fetch us some wine, Dickon. Show our guests the pretty skills you have learned as my squire.’

Dickon obliged, slopping claret in Michael’s lap when his father was not looking, and contriving to bang Bartholomew’s shins with his sheathed sword. Once again, the physician marvelled that Tulyet, who was nobody’s fool, should be so blind when it came to his son.

‘Is this Shirwynk’s apple wine?’ he asked, taking a small sip and then placing the cup on the table in the hope that Michael would finish the stuff.

Tulyet nodded. ‘Dickon and my wife like it, although I prefer a drier vintage. It is potent, though, and I am sure it is the reason why so many men are drunk these days.’

‘It is expensive,’ said Michael. ‘Few will be able to afford it, especially townsfolk.’

‘Actually, I was referring to scholars. Wealthy Colleges and hostels have laid in great stores of it for Hallow-tide, and I believe it has turned some of them unusually belligerent.’

‘It is not just scholars who are aggressive,’ objected Michael. ‘The town is just as bad. Look at Frenge – invading King’s Hall and the Austin Priory. And when we went to tell Shirwynk that Frenge was dead, he was unreasonably hostile.’

Tulyet was thoughtful. ‘In my experience, people are hostile if they have something to hide – and Shirwynk lost his wife and business partner in the same day. Perhaps we need look no further for the killer. He would have a willing accomplice in Peyn – the lad is a monster.’

Without thinking, Bartholomew’s eyes strayed to Dickon. Worn out by excitement, the boy had curled up in a window seat and gone to sleep. Even in repose, he looked dangerous, not only for the weapons he carried – two knives and a cudgel in addition to the sword – but because he still scowled and it was not a pleasant expression.

‘It would be a convenient solution,’ Michael was saying. ‘But we have other suspects, too. Frenge made a cuckold of Anne de Rumburgh’s husband and, although I hate to say it, there are three men from King’s Hall with no satisfactory alibi – Wayt, Dodenho and the lunatic Cew.’

Tulyet listened carefully while Michael outlined all he had learned, although it was pitifully little. When he had finished, Bartholomew stood to leave, feeling it was time to do their share of the preparations for the
disceptatio
, but Tulyet began to hold forth about sucura.

‘The import taxes are so high – ninety per cent – that no Cambridge grocer is willing to trade in it,’ he grumbled. ‘Yet the town is awash with the stuff, which means that every grain has been brought here illegally. If the King knew the full extent of the problem, he would have my head.’

‘Perhaps His Majesty should lower his levies, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Ninety per cent is downright greedy.’

‘I shall let him know you think so,’ said Tulyet acidly, then winced. ‘Even my wife bought some. Luckily, I was able to dispose of it before the servants saw. How does she expect me to confiscate it from others when it is in our own larder?’

‘It would be hypocritical,’ agreed Michael. ‘But time is passing and we—’

‘Of course, the best way to deal with the problem would be to arrest the smugglers – who must be rolling in money, given the amount of sucura they have sold – but I have no idea who they are. Or how they sneak their wares into my town.’

‘Barges, probably,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘Just like any other contraband. I am told that sucura comes from Tyre, so it must be shipped across the Mediterranean Sea around Spain and France—’

‘Impossible! I search every boat that docks here, and I
know
none has slipped past me.’

‘Then concentrate on who is selling it,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You can start with your wife: where did she buy hers?’

‘From a friend,’ said Tulyet sourly. ‘Who had it from a cousin, who got it from a man in a tavern. And there the trail ended. Have you attempted to investigate, Brother?’

‘I do not have the time – and it is not my business anyway. It is yours.’

Tulyet shot him an unpleasant look. ‘I suppose you – like most of Cambridge – think that smuggling serves the King right for imposing such high taxes. But we will all suffer if he finds out what is going on, so if you know anything, I strongly urge you to tell me.’

‘I have nothing to tell,’ shrugged Michael, although Bartholomew suspected Tulyet was right to imply that the monk was not being entirely honest with him. Perhaps Michael
did
look the other way because he disapproved of a levy that put sucura out of the reach of all but the very wealthy.

‘Then come to me when you do,’ advised Tulyet shortly. ‘Because I know for a fact that scholars like sucura just as much as townsfolk.’

‘Not my College,’ declared Michael. ‘We prefer honey.’

‘Good luck for tomorrow,’ said Tulyet. His sardonic expression suggested that he did not believe Michael, but was not about to call him a liar. ‘I shall attend the debate with the town’s burgesses, who tell me I can expect to be impressed.’

‘You will be impressed,’ promised Michael. ‘We are the University’s best and most stable foundation, and I would appreciate you saying so to your wealthy friends.’

‘So they will give you donations?’ asked Tulyet, amused by the bald instruction.

‘So we can say prayers for their immortal souls,’ said Michael grandly.

Bartholomew and Michael arrived home to find Michaelhouse in the grip of frenzied activity, and the hall was in such disarray that they regarded it in horror, sure it would not be ready in time. The Austins were at their mural, while all around them was a frantic hubbub of scrubbing, dusting, buffing and brushing. Agatha the laundress was standing on a table in the middle of the room, screeching orders at Fellows, students and servants alike.

Women were not generally permitted in University foundations, but exception could be made if they were old and ugly, and thus unlikely to inflame carnal desires among the residents. Agatha was not particularly old or notably ugly, but it would be a very reckless scholar who would foist himself on her. She had been part of the College for so long that no one recalled how she had come to be there, and she was comfortable in the knowledge that she was a permanent fixture.

‘Polish the benches, Doctor,’ she instructed, shoving rags and a jar of beeswax into Bartholomew’s hand. ‘And do not stop until you can see your face in them. Brother? I need you to taste the marchpanes in the kitchen, because I think I used too much sucura.’

‘Sucura?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘But the Sheriff is coming, and I have just told him that we do not have any.’

‘He dislikes sweet food,’ said Wauter, who was folding tablecloths. ‘So I doubt he will find out. However, sucura is a sign of wealth, and if we fail to flaunt it, people will think we are poor – which defeats the whole exercise.’

‘Then make sure no one offers Dick a marchpane or he may think we are so rich that we can afford to pay a fine for defrauding the King of his taxes,’ said Michael, not much comforted.

‘Who bought the stuff?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘I am not at liberty to say,’ replied Agatha haughtily, although the physician was sure Michael had made some sly signal to her behind his back. ‘Lest someone decides to tattle and we are made an example of – which would be unfair, as we only have a few grains, while places like King’s Hall buy it by the bucket-load.’

‘Hakeney the vintner,’ said Michael to Wauter, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘He told us today that you knew Frenge.’

‘Did he?’ asked Wauter, startled. ‘Then he is mistaken. I might have exchanged nods with Frenge on occasion – as I do with many people – but I did not
know
him.’

‘So Hakeney was lying?’

Wauter smiled. ‘I imagine we Austins all look alike in our habits, so perhaps he thought I was someone else.’

‘He identified you as an ex-member of Zachary Hostel,’ Michael persisted, ‘which suggests he
can
tell you apart from the others.’

Wauter raised his hands in a shrug. ‘It still does not alter the fact that I did not know Frenge. Of course, Hakeney likes a drink, and his wits are somewhat pickled.’

‘True,’ conceded Michael. ‘Which is a pity, as we have no idea why Frenge should have died in the Austin Friary, and information from you would have been most welcome.’

‘I wish I could help, Brother, but I know nothing about it. Yet the whole business concerns me greatly, and makes me feel that the University should leave the town and resettle in the Fens. I have heard that you and the Chancellor are considering such a move, which is excellent news.’

‘It is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘A tale started by misinformed gossips. Pay it no heed.’

‘Really?’ asked Wauter, disappointed. ‘That is a pity. I dislike the ill-feeling we engender among townsmen, and I have no wish to antagonise anyone unnecessarily – if they want us gone, we should accede to their wishes and leave them in peace. How is Cew, by the way? Any better? It is a terrible thing when a gifted man loses his mind.’

‘It is,’ agreed Michael soberly. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘Not
very
well, but I spent many an evening with him, debating points of logic.’

‘You did not enjoy the intellects of your Zachary comrades? Kellawe, Irby, Nigellus, Morys and Segeforde. All charming men, I am sure.’ Michael’s dour expression made it clear he was not.

‘Irby is a fine man,’ replied Wauter. ‘But Kellawe is quarrelsome, Morys an ass, and Segeforde dull company. And as for Nigellus, I moved here before he was officially installed at Zachary, so he was never a colleague.’

‘Wauter!’ called Langelee, hurrying up with bustling urgency. ‘Deynman tells me that you have not put your
Martilogium
in the library, and it is a work that
must
be displayed to our visitors tomorrow. Fetch it at once!’

‘I cannot, Master,’ said Wauter, a little testily. ‘It is not finished.’

‘No one will know.’ Langelee turned to Bartholomew. ‘And you must exhibit that treatise on fevers you have been writing for the past five years. Its size alone will impress, although we must make sure no one opens it – Deynman tells me it contains some very nasty illustrations.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, as the Master dashed away hauling Wauter with him. ‘We must present ourselves as active scholars, and Deynman has all my academic scribblings. Yet I shall be glad when tomorrow is over. We have made scant progress with Frenge, and the
disceptatio
is a distraction we could do without.’