A Poisonous Plot by Susanna Gregory Page B

singing. People do not sing if they are ill. Is that not so, physician?’
    ‘I imagine it depends on the person,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously.
    Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look and turned back to Michael. ‘He was warbling happily as he loaded the dray with ale and wine. Right, Peyn?’
    ‘Wine,’ mused Michael. ‘I have been meaning to ask you about that. You are a brewer, not a vintner, so you have no right to produce wine. How do the town’s vintners feel about you treading on their professional toes?’
    ‘There is only one vintner in Cambridge, and he is a sot who would rather drink his wares than sell them,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘Peyn suggested that we expand into wine earlier this year, and the venture has been very successful.’
    ‘Which is why King’s Hall refuses to drop its case against Frenge,’ elaborated Peyn. ‘Our fine apple wine has made us rich, and they itch to relieve us of our profits.’
    ‘Do you keep toxic substances here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps for scouring—’
    He stepped back quickly when Shirwynk rounded on him with a face as black as thunder, while Peyn fingered the knife he wore in his belt.
    ‘You think to accuse us of Frenge’s death,’ the brewer snarled. ‘Well, you can think again – we would never harm a friend. But look around, if you must. You will find no poisons here.’
    Bartholomew took him at his word and began to explore. However, although he peered inside every vat, pot and cupboard, he saw nothing that could have caused the burns in Frenge’s mouth. Of course, that was not to say that Shirwynk and Peyn were innocent – wise killers would already have taken steps to dispose of incriminating evidence.
    ‘Your ale-making operation is impressively hygienic,’ he said when he had finished. ‘But where do you ferment the wine?’
    Still scowling, Shirwynk led the way to the back of the brewery, where three large lead tanks had been placed in a line.
    ‘We bought these from the Austin Friary,’ explained Peyn, leaning against one and beginning to pare his nails with the dagger. ‘They needed money to buy bread for the poor, so we got them cheap. We fill them with the juice from crushed apples, add yeast, and nature does the rest. This batch is ready for decanting. You may taste it if you like.’
    He filled a cup from a barrel. Bartholomew took a very small sip, but it was far too sweet for him, and he was glad to pass the rest to Michael. The monk sniffed it, carefully inspected its colour, then took a large gulp, which he swished noisily around his teeth.
    ‘It would slip down nicely with cheese,’ he declared eventually, while the others watched the performance with fascination. ‘And it has an agreeable punch.’
    ‘It does,’ agreed Shirwynk, pleased by the praise, although he tried to hide it. ‘It is popular with wealthy townsmen and scholars alike.’
    ‘Although we charge the University twice as much as we do the burgesses,’ added Peyn, then scowled defiantly when his father shot him a withering look – the Senior Proctor had the right to set prices for food and drink, so telling him his colleagues were being cheated was hardly wise.
    ‘It is so well liked that scholars break in here to steal it,’ said Shirwynk, going on an offensive in the hope that Michael would forget his son’s incautious remark. ‘Some disappears almost every night.’
    ‘How do you know an academic is responsible?’ asked Bartholomew, a little indignantly.
    ‘Because no townsman would raid me,’ replied Shirwynk, rather unconvincingly. ‘Peyn has taken to standing guard during the hours of darkness, but even he is obliged to slip away on occasion, and the villains always seem to know when the place is empty.’
    ‘Frenge,’ said Michael briskly, unwilling to waste time in idle chatter. ‘Did he have any friends who might be able to tell us about his final hours?’
    ‘Well, there is Robert de Hakeney,’ replied Shirwynk. ‘The