A Poisonous Plot by Susanna Gregory Page A

will be without King’s Hall.’
    ‘There are no plans to relocate,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Who told you that there were?’
    ‘Weasenham the stationer.’ Wayt held up a hand when Michael started to object. ‘I know he is a gossip and his “facts” are often wrong, but my Fellows have heard the same tale from several other sources, too, so it must be true.’
    ‘Well, it is not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘How could we survive in the Fens without the services a town provides – bakeries, breweries, candle-makers, mills, potteries, clothiers, tanneries, saddlers? I know monasteries do it, but we are different: we would founder within a year.’
    Wayt sniffed. ‘Then make sure you tell the Chancellor so, should he moot the idea.’
    Michael’s eyes narrowed as a servant hurried past carrying a bowl. It was not a very big one, but he carried it with considerable care. It was full of grainy white crystals.
    ‘Sucura,’ he said accusingly. ‘The substance banned by the Sheriff, which you assured me that King’s Hall would never buy, despite the fact that I tasted it in your soul-cakes.’
    Wayt’s expression turned shifty. ‘We did not buy it – it was donated by a benefactor, so it would have been rude to question its origins. Besides, it is for Cew. Soul-cakes are one of the two things he will eat, so we have no choice but to use sucura. Or do you suggest we let him starve?’
    Cew’s peculiar diet had done nothing to help him regain his wits. He sat in his bed with the pewter bowl on his head, and swiped with the poker at anyone who came close. After suffering a nasty crack on the elbow, Bartholomew decided to question him from a distance.
    ‘You cannot ask the King of France about his bowel movements,’ declared Cew indignantly. ‘It is treason. Now go away – unless you can cure our terrible pains.’
    ‘I might, if you let me examine you,’ said Bartholomew crossly.
    ‘Very well,’ said Cew, capitulating abruptly. ‘But do not touch our crown. Now hurry, because we shall be sick soon.’
    Unfortunately, even a lengthy examination did not tell Bartholomew what was wrong with Cew. He prescribed a mild anti-emetic of chalk and herbs, and recommended that the oysters and cakes were replaced with a simple barley broth.
    ‘We will try,’ said Wayt. ‘But he is shockingly mobile for an invalid, and will simply get what he wants from the kitchens himself if we do not oblige. I suppose we could lock him in …’
    ‘No,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘It would cause him distress and might hinder his recovery. Just watch him as often as you can.’
    ‘Do not worry,’ said Wayt, uncharacteristic tenderness suffusing his hirsute face. ‘He is one of our own, and we look after those. He shall have whatever he needs.’
    Michael and Bartholomew reached the brewery eventually, where they found business in full swing, despite the deaths of Frenge and Letia. Apprentices moved among the great vats, stirring or adding ingredients, while Shirwynk sat at a table dictating letters to his son. A quick glance told them that the brewer was illiterate – if he had been able to read, he would have ordered Peyn to redo them, as the lad’s grammar left much to be desired, while his writing was all but illegible.
    ‘ Why must we talk about Frenge again?’ demanded Shirwynk, when Michael told him what they wanted. ‘It is obvious what happened: King’s Hall poisoned him, and deposited his body in the Austin Priory to confuse you. Of course, they need not have bothered with such a complicated ruse – you will never find a scholar guilty, no matter how compelling the evidence.’
    ‘I have found scholars guilty in the past,’ said Michael icily. ‘I could cite a dozen examples.’
    ‘Then arrest Wayt and his cronies,’ snapped the brewer. ‘Frenge was perfectly healthy when he left here to take ale to King’s Hall yesterday.’
    ‘Was he?’ pounced Michael. ‘How can you be sure?’
    ‘Because he was