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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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why you should ask the sheriff to come. It is his job to ascertain what happened, not a passing physician’s.’
A tall man with dark hair stepped out of the watching throng and crouched next to his fallen comrade. He wore a priest’s robes, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Suttone; as he inspected the dead man, Bartholomew wondered whether he was one of the Carmelite’s Lincoln kin.
‘This is odd,’ said the priest, sniffing the air with apuzzled expression. ‘He smells of fish. The last time I encountered such a stench, it was on Nicholas Herl after he threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. There is a medicine for women that carries a similar reek, although I do not know why Flaxfleete should have swallowed any – just as I did not know why it should have been inside Herl.’
Kelby was bemused. ‘Medicine will not harm anyone – it is supposed to make folk better.’
‘Many medicines are poisonous when administered wrongly,’ said Bartholomew. He did not add that the one imbibed by Flaxfleete must have been unnaturally concentrated to produce such a dramatic result – and to smell so strongly on his body.
Kelby pointed at the wine keg, which had already been broached. ‘Did anyone other than Flaxfleete drink from this? Do you know, John?’
The priest was thoughtful. ‘He tapped the barrel himself, and swallowed the first cup because someone told him it might be bad. He said he was less drunk than the rest of us, so better able to assess its quality.’
‘You do not seem drunk,’ observed Michael.
John inclined his head. ‘I never touch strong brews. And when men are poisoned while in their cups, it makes me glad I practise abstinence.’
Kelby was unimpressed with his sanctimonious colleague. ‘Then, since you are so steady in your wits, you can tell us what happened to Flaxfleete.’
‘It would be wrong of me to try – I am no sheriff. But I can say Flaxfleete was the only one to drink from this barrel. He downed the first cup in a gulp, declared it good, then poured himself a second. He did not fill the jug for the rest of you, but went back to the table and sat down. I was filling the pitcher – at your request, Kelby – when he complained of feeling unwell. And we all know what happened next.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, earning himself a glare from Michael for his curiosity.
‘He said he was cold, even though he was next to the fire,’ replied John. ‘And that there was a pain in his chest and a numbness in his hands. Then he clutched his head and dropped to the floor. You saw the rest.’
Bartholomew went to the cask, where the familiar fishy odour was just recognisable under the scent of strong wine.
‘Is it tainted?’ asked Kelby. ‘Poisoned?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Call the sheriff, and let him establish what happened.’
‘We shall,’ declared Kelby, grief turning to anger. ‘Dalderby will fetch him.’
‘Me?’ asked a fellow with a thick orange beard and an expensive cote-hardie of scarlet and yellow. ‘I have a sore foot and will be too slow. Send someone else.’
‘You will not mind enduring a little discomfort for Flaxfleete,’ said Kelby harshly, shoving him towards the open door. Bartholomew wondered why Dalderby was loath to leave. Was it because he felt unsafe when a fellow guildsman had been murdered? Or was he simply more interested in what was unfolding in Kelby’s hall, and did not want to miss anything?
‘This barrel came from the Swan,’ said John, when the unwilling Dalderby had been dispatched on his errand. ‘So, someone from the Swan must have tampered with it – put the medicine inside.’
‘Master Quarrel has sold me good wine all my life,’ cried Kelby. ‘Why would he change now? Besides, can you imagine what impact it would have on his trade, if it became known that he poisons his wares? It was not Quarrel or anyone at the Swan. I will stake my life on it.’
John pointed to the floor. ‘Do you see those drops? They
A tall man with dark hair stepped out of the watching throng and crouched next to his fallen comrade. He wore a priest’s robes, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Suttone; as he inspected the dead man, Bartholomew wondered whether he was one of the Carmelite’s Lincoln kin.
‘This is odd,’ said the priest, sniffing the air with apuzzled expression. ‘He smells of fish. The last time I encountered such a stench, it was on Nicholas Herl after he threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. There is a medicine for women that carries a similar reek, although I do not know why Flaxfleete should have swallowed any – just as I did not know why it should have been inside Herl.’
Kelby was bemused. ‘Medicine will not harm anyone – it is supposed to make folk better.’
‘Many medicines are poisonous when administered wrongly,’ said Bartholomew. He did not add that the one imbibed by Flaxfleete must have been unnaturally concentrated to produce such a dramatic result – and to smell so strongly on his body.
Kelby pointed at the wine keg, which had already been broached. ‘Did anyone other than Flaxfleete drink from this? Do you know, John?’
The priest was thoughtful. ‘He tapped the barrel himself, and swallowed the first cup because someone told him it might be bad. He said he was less drunk than the rest of us, so better able to assess its quality.’
‘You do not seem drunk,’ observed Michael.
John inclined his head. ‘I never touch strong brews. And when men are poisoned while in their cups, it makes me glad I practise abstinence.’
Kelby was unimpressed with his sanctimonious colleague. ‘Then, since you are so steady in your wits, you can tell us what happened to Flaxfleete.’
‘It would be wrong of me to try – I am no sheriff. But I can say Flaxfleete was the only one to drink from this barrel. He downed the first cup in a gulp, declared it good, then poured himself a second. He did not fill the jug for the rest of you, but went back to the table and sat down. I was filling the pitcher – at your request, Kelby – when he complained of feeling unwell. And we all know what happened next.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, earning himself a glare from Michael for his curiosity.
‘He said he was cold, even though he was next to the fire,’ replied John. ‘And that there was a pain in his chest and a numbness in his hands. Then he clutched his head and dropped to the floor. You saw the rest.’
Bartholomew went to the cask, where the familiar fishy odour was just recognisable under the scent of strong wine.
‘Is it tainted?’ asked Kelby. ‘Poisoned?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Call the sheriff, and let him establish what happened.’
‘We shall,’ declared Kelby, grief turning to anger. ‘Dalderby will fetch him.’
‘Me?’ asked a fellow with a thick orange beard and an expensive cote-hardie of scarlet and yellow. ‘I have a sore foot and will be too slow. Send someone else.’
‘You will not mind enduring a little discomfort for Flaxfleete,’ said Kelby harshly, shoving him towards the open door. Bartholomew wondered why Dalderby was loath to leave. Was it because he felt unsafe when a fellow guildsman had been murdered? Or was he simply more interested in what was unfolding in Kelby’s hall, and did not want to miss anything?
‘This barrel came from the Swan,’ said John, when the unwilling Dalderby had been dispatched on his errand. ‘So, someone from the Swan must have tampered with it – put the medicine inside.’
‘Master Quarrel has sold me good wine all my life,’ cried Kelby. ‘Why would he change now? Besides, can you imagine what impact it would have on his trade, if it became known that he poisons his wares? It was not Quarrel or anyone at the Swan. I will stake my life on it.’
John pointed to the floor. ‘Do you see those drops? They
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