A Poisonous Plot by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online Page A

tastefully understated elegance as he hurried through the College on the heels of the porter, but he did notice the students. All wore some form of armour and carried weapons, even though University rules forbade it. A few were in major holy orders, but even these had donned leather jerkins and toted thick wooden staffs.
    ‘We are expecting trouble,’ explained the porter. ‘There is a tale that Frenge is dead, and we will be blamed, even though we had nothing to do with it. Rough men from the town have been drinking all morning, so it is only a matter of time before they attack.’
    ‘Have you received a delivery of ale today?’ Bartholomew asked urgently. ‘From Frenge?’
    ‘We would not have accepted anything from him! He might have spat in it – or worse.’
    ‘Then what about from another brewer?’
    The porter shook his head. ‘The only thing to arrive was a horoscope from Nigellus for Master Cew. Then Acting Warden Wayt said we should not open our doors again – other than to you – because too many townsmen are stupid with drink.’
    ‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew, sagging with relief. ‘Now tell me what ails Cew.’
    ‘Impending death,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘Would you like a soul-cake?’
    ‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the non-sequitur.
    ‘A soul-cake,’ repeated the porter, stopping to take one from a platter that stood on a table in the hallway; the air around them was rich with the scent of butter and spices. ‘Then you can say a prayer for my mother, who died last year.’
    He turned at the sound of footsteps – Michael had caught up at last. Without a word, the monk snatched the biscuit from the porter’s hand and rammed it into his own mouth.
    ‘I need nourishment,’ he muttered, spraying crumbs down the front of his black habit as he spoke, ‘if I am to gambol around the town like a spring lamb.’
    ‘Then take several,’ said the porter, beginning to hurry forward again. ‘It is a shame to waste them, and I doubt we will be giving them to friendly callers this Hallow-tide. Wise scholars will stay home and townsmen will not be welcome. Not if they plan to accuse us of murder.’
    ‘That is a pity, because these are very nice,’ said Michael, who considered himself an expert on pastries. ‘A little sweet, perhaps, but there is a good balance of cinnamon and nutmeg.’
    ‘I am sorry Warden Shropham is away,’ whispered Bartholomew as they followed the porter through a labyrinth of corridors and halls. ‘He is much more reasonable than Wayt, and would never have sued Frenge in the first place.’
    ‘Wayt is a menace,’ agreed Michael, almost indecipherable through his next cake. ‘Shropham should have appointed someone else as his deputy, although from what I understand, Wayt simply announced that he was doing it and Shropham was too taken aback to object.’
    Eventually, they reached the library, a huge room with a magnificent hammer-beam roof and purpose-built bookcases. Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement when he saw that Cew was not breathing his last, but standing on a shoulder-high windowsill with a dish on his head, a poker in one hand and an apple in the other. John Cew was a small man in his fifties, and the physician wondered how he had managed to scramble up there.
    Two men were pleading with him to come down. One was Acting Warden Wayt, who was distinctive by having an unusually hairy face. The other was Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic prowess was nowhere near as impressive as he thought it was.
    ‘Your porter told me that Cew was dying,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly.
    ‘He is,’ averred Wayt. ‘Every day that passes sees more of his mind destroyed – and it is all Frenge’s fault. Cew was the greatest logician our College has ever known, but now look at him.’
    ‘He thinks he is the King of France,’ elaborated Dodenho. ‘The bowl is a crown, and the poker and apple his sceptre and orb.’
    ‘Have you come to pay homage to