‘You make her sound sly,’ said Bartholomew resentfully. ‘She is not.’
‘Not as a rule. However, she did commission Cambridge’s most slippery lawyer to look for a legal loophole – and Stephen’s contention that dyeworks are clean because they use a lot of water is disingenuous. I am surprised you support her in this, because such disgusting waste must surely be harmful to health.’
Bartholomew did not reply, because the truth was that he was concerned about the dyeworks’ effluent. He and Edith quarrelled constantly about it, so it was a sore subject for him – he hated being at loggerheads with her, and wished she had never started the scheme in the first place. Oswald Stanmore had not dyed his own wares in the middle of the town, so why did she have to do it? He supposed he would have to try again to persuade her to shut the place down, or move it somewhere out of sight and mind, although it was not a prospect he relished – Edith had thrown herself wholeheartedly into saving ‘her ladies’.
Seeing the physician was unwilling to discuss it further, Michael marched towards the brewery and rapped on the door. ‘Frenge owns … owned this business with a man named Shirwynk,’ he said. ‘Shirwynk is a very unpleasant individual, and I have had several altercations with him over the last few weeks.’
‘What about?’
‘Selling inferior brews, picking fights with scholars, grazing his horses on College land. I hope he does not turn violent when he learns that Frenge is dead.’ Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘And I hope our interview with him does not take long, because I should hate to miss the feast.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You think about your stomach as you are about to deliver news of an untimely death? Not to mention the fact that the town is on the verge of a riot, you have a murder to solve, and there is a bonfire next to our church that may set it alight at any moment?’
Michael shot him a disagreeable look and hammered on the door again. ‘I notice you say that I, not we, have a murder to solve. I shall need your help if I am to find the culprit.’
‘I cannot, Brother. Nigellus and Rougham are coming to put my students through a mock disputation in the morning, so I will be busy.’
‘You plan to let Nigellus loose on your pupils?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘Why? The man is an ass, and I would sooner die than call on him for medical assistance.’
‘Those are strong words, Brother. What has he done to vex you?’
‘He is smug, arrogant, overbearing and as clever as clay. He is probably an Oxford man.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘As am I, Brother, in case you had forgotten.’
‘Yes, but you had the intelligence to abandon the Other Place and come here as soon as you were qualified, whereas Nigellus has been stagnating at Barnwell for the past forty years. So am I right? Did Nigellus learn his medicine at Oxford?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Followed by practical training in Norwich. Or so he says.’
‘You do not believe him?’
‘He is probably telling the truth. Unfortunately, he seems to have learned nothing since, and some of his skills could do with updating.’
Michael grimaced. ‘Zachary should never have recruited him. His abrasive personality does nothing to make our University more popular among the townsfolk.’
‘He is not an easy man, which is why I must be there tomorrow, to make sure everything goes smoothly.’ Bartholomew sighed ruefully. ‘And to ensure that he and Rougham do not teach my lads a lot of nonsense. I should have refused when they made the offer, but I did not want to offend the only two other medici in the University.’
‘Your boys are more than capable of distinguishing the intelligent from the twaddle, and I need you. Besides, you always object to lending a hand but we both know you will do it in the end. We go through the same charade every time there is a suspicious death.’
‘I do not–’ began Bartholomew indignantly.
‘Just agree to help me, Matt,’ said Michael testily. ‘It will save us both a lot of trouble.’
Bartholomew knew the monk was right, although it galled him to admit it. He leaned against the wall and kicked moodily at the cobbles, resenting the loss of precious teaching time. Then there was a loud clatter from the dyeworks, followed by a rank smell that grew stronger with every breath. He detected the distinct tang of old urine, mixed unpleasantly with brimstone and something so powerful that he wondered if it was melting his lungs.
He and Michael were not the only ones who thought the dyeworks should move away from the town, and dozens of people had gathered to protest when Edith had first opened her doors. Most had given up when they realised the place was there to stay, but a few diehards persisted. That day, they comprised a handful of scholars from the nearby hostels, who claimed the fumes were distracting them from their studies, and an equal number from the town, who objected to the fact that laws had been twisted to allow Edith to start the business in the first place.
Bartholomew watched them wave their fists as the reek rolled out, although it was not long before the angry voices turned against each other – the two sides might have a common cause, but they still could not bring themselves to join forces. All he hoped was that the dyeworks would not provide the spark that would ignite the latest trouble that was bubbling.
It was some time before the brewery door was hauled open – by a great bear of a man who wore a sleeveless leather tunic that revealed hairy shoulders; his features were blunt and pugilistic.
‘You again,’ he said coolly to Michael. ‘What now?’
‘We bring sad news, Shirwynk,’ said Michael kindly. ‘May we come in?’
‘If you must,’ replied Shirwynk ungraciously. ‘Although no decent townsman likes having scholar-scum on his property, so say your piece quick and get out.’
He turned and stalked inside, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to follow as they would. The place smelled strongly but not unpleasantly of barley and yeast, and was full of the huge vats used to ferment ale. A lad of eighteen or nineteen lounged against one. He was unshaven, dour-faced, and he looked like the kind of youth who would find fault with everything. He scowled at the scholars and spat, narrowly missing Bartholomew’s foot.
‘My son Peyn,’ said Shirwynk, nodding towards him with obvious pride. ‘He is going to Westminster soon, to work in the Treasury.’
‘Is he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Such posts were highly sought after, and the slovenly Peyn did not look like the kind of person who would appeal to the fastidious and exacting officials who ran the country’s finances.
‘Yes,’ said Shirwynk tightly, sensing an insult in the response. ‘Now what do you want?’
‘It is Frenge,’ began Michael, but then could not resist taking the opportunity to fish for information before breaking the news. ‘Do you know where he might be?’
‘We are not his keepers,’ replied Peyn insolently. ‘All we can tell you is that he went out just after terce – five hours ago now – to deliver ale to King’s Hall.’
Bartholomew did some quick calculations: that left a three-hour window between when Frenge had left the brewery and when the Austins had found the body.
‘Why would he go there?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘He hates the place.’
‘Perhaps the barrel was a peace offering,’ said Peyn, with the kind of smirk that suggested he thought it highly unlikely.
Bartholomew experienced a growing sense of unease. Had Frenge done something sly to the ale, something that would lay an entire College low? And if so, had King’s Hall seen through the plot and forced him to swallow the stuff himself? It would certainly explain the bruises on his jaw. But then how had Frenge’s body gone from the College to the Austin Priory?