A Poisonous Plot Read Online Free PDF Page A

Joliet, Hamo was also a talented artist, although it seemed impossible that such huge fists could produce such beautifully delicate images. He rarely spoke in more than monosyllables, and was a great mountain of a man who could have done with a much larger habit.
    Inside, the Austins’ domain was much like any other Cambridge convent. Its chapel formed the heart of the community, and huddled around it were dormitory, refectory, kitchen, stable, storehouses and sheds. Most were timber-built with thatched roofs, although the chapel was of stone, an intimate, pretty place pierced by lancet windows and famed for its fabulous murals. The sound of chanting emanated from within.
    Hamo led the way inside, and the clanking of the door made two of the kneeling brethren break off their prayers to greet the visitors. One was Prior Joliet, and the other was his almoner Robert, a tall, rangy man with a shock of long white hair and the eccentric bearing of the dedicated academic. Robert was the other friar Joliet took to Michaelhouse, although to teach rather than paint. He was responsible for distributing alms, which he did with a quiet, kindly compassion that did much to make the Austins the most popular Order in the town.
    ‘We were praying for Frenge’s soul,’ Joliet explained. His round face was pale, and his hands shook as he plucked agitatedly at a loose thread on his sleeve. ‘It seemed the right thing to do, although we have no experience of violence committed on holy ground.’
    ‘The Dominicans, Franciscans and Carmelites are used to it,’ elaborated Robert. ‘But we have always managed to remain aloof from the spats between University and town.’
    ‘“Aloof” is the wrong word,’ said Joliet unhappily. ‘ Apart might be better.’
    ‘What happened?’ asked Michael, unwilling to waste time on semantics.
    Joliet rubbed his eyes with unsteady fingers. ‘The town feels oddly dangerous today, so just before sext, Hamo went to check that our back gate was shut and found …’ He trailed off.
    ‘Frenge,’ finished Hamo helpfully.
    Robert hastened to supply a bit more detail. ‘The gate was open and Frenge was lying there, dead. The town is saying that he was murdered by King’s Hall, because of his vow that he would never pay for the damage he did there.’
    Joliet looked as though he might be sick. ‘When we heard Hamo shout, we raced to see what was the matter. We did our best to revive Frenge, but he was well past any help we could give.’
    ‘When terrible things like this happen, it makes me wonder whether our predecessors might have been wiser to found our University out in the Fens,’ said Robert. He fingered the cross he wore around his neck; it had been carved of wood so dark that it appeared black.
    ‘It would certainly have made for a more peaceful life,’ agreed Michael.
    Joliet led the way out of the chapel to the greasy grey snake of the King’s Ditch, an ancient waterway that had been built to defend the town from attacks from the east. It was as wide as the river but its flow was sluggish, which meant that anything tossed in it tended to stay. As a result, it comprised a reeking, sulphurous sludge of sewage, entrails from the slaughterhouses and miscellaneous rubbish.
    As they approached, they saw they were not the first to arrive. Sheriff Tulyet was already there. Tulyet was slightly built with a boyish face, and more than one criminal had lived to regret making the assumption that youthful looks equalled weakness. He and Michael had worked hard to develop an efficient working relationship, one unblighted by the usual jurisdictional spats.
    Puzzled, Bartholomew wondered why Joliet had not stayed with him – it was rude to leave a high-ranking official on his own – but the answer soon became clear: Tulyet had brought his son. Dickon was only ten years old, but was already taller than his father, and was a mean-spirited bully. Because he bore no resemblance to either of his parents, in