A Poisonous Plot Read Online Free PDF

looks or temperament, there was a rumour that he had been sired by the Devil. By rights, he should have been sent to another wealthy household to begin knightly training, but his reputation had gone before him and Tulyet had been unable to find one that would take him.
    ‘This is bad news,’ said Tulyet without preamble. ‘Even if Frenge’s death is natural, the town will assume the worst. Dickon! Do not prod the body with your sword. It is disrespectful.’
    ‘I hope people do not think that we had anything to do with the poor man’s demise,’ said Joliet unhappily, as Bartholomew, one wary eye on Dickon’s blade, knelt next to Frenge and began his examination.
    ‘They will certainly suspect a scholar,’ replied Tulyet. ‘If not an Austin, then someone from King’s Hall.’
    ‘They will deny it,’ said Michael.
    ‘They will,’ agreed Robert. ‘I have already heard several holler that Frenge broke in to make good on his threat to damage more University property, and was struck down for his temerity.’
    ‘The town will not appreciate that being said about one of its favourite brewers,’ said Tulyet. He scowled when Bartholomew jerked backwards suddenly. ‘Dickon! Step away from the corpse and let Matt work in peace. And sheathe your sword this instant!’
    Bartholomew waited until Dickon had complied before resuming his inspection, much happier once there was no longer a sharp weapon waving about so close to his head.
    ‘So why was Frenge here?’ asked Michael of the Austins. ‘Was he visiting or was he intent on mischief?’
    ‘Mischief,’ replied Hamo tersely.
    ‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘As you know, there are only two ways into our grounds: the main gate and this one. Frenge did not come to the front, which means he must have crossed the ditch in a boat – slyly and secretly.’
    ‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Joliet tearfully. ‘We brew our own ale, so we are not among his customers. None of us know him other than by sight – and only then because his spat with King’s Hall earned him a certain notoriety.’
    ‘What about your servants?’ asked Tulyet.
    ‘We do not have any,’ replied Robert, slightly smug. ‘We prefer to channel our resources into alms, rather than catering to our own comforts.’
    ‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew stood. ‘What can you tell us?’
    ‘Frenge has not been dead long,’ replied the physician. ‘The damp mud on his boots indicates that he was walking around in them not long since, and there is a residual warmth in his body, despite the coolness of the day.’
    ‘More importantly, how did he die?’ asked Tulyet.
    ‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There are burns on his mouth and hands, and considerable damage to his throat. I have never seen a clearer case of murder.’
    ‘Damn it, Matt!’ muttered Michael. ‘I thought I told you to declare it accident or suicide.’
    The reeking King’s Ditch was no place for a serious discussion, so once Frenge had been loaded on to a stretcher and taken to the nearest town church, Joliet invited everyone to his house, which transpired to be a modest cottage with spartan furnishings. It was spotlessly clean, though, and the only extravagance was a small collection of theological tomes.
    ‘I agree with Michael,’ said Tulyet, once they were settled with cups of watery ale. The convent did not run to cakes, so pieces of bread dusted with herbs were provided instead. Dickon took one bite, pulled a face and lobbed the rest out of the window, much to his father’s chagrin. ‘We cannot let this be murder: Frenge must have taken this toxin by mistake.’
    ‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Finger-shaped bruises on his jaws suggest that he was forced to drink it. And even if I am wrong, and he did swallow it willingly, why would he kill himself here? It is not on the beaten track, so I sincerely doubt he just happened to be passing when he was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to