A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) by Susanna Gregory

Author:Susanna Gregory [Gregory, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2015-06-04T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

The Zachary men did not stay long in St Bene’t’s. They deposited Segeforde and left – all except one: Kellawe had announced in a fiercely ringing voice that he would remain there to pray by his three dead colleagues’ sides.

‘Now what?’ whispered Bartholomew, as the Franciscan dropped to his knees and began to intone a psalm in a loud, important bray that seemed to suggest the Almighty had better forget what else He was doing and listen.

‘Leave it to me,’ Wauter whispered back, and made a show of ‘arriving’ in the church to keep a vigil of his own.

‘You are not needed,’ Kellawe informed him curtly. ‘My petitions will be more effective than yours, because I am a Franciscan.’

‘Very well,’ said Wauter, displaying admirable restraint in the face of such hubris. ‘But come outside and share a flask of wine with me. The night will be long and cold, and you will need something decent inside you if you are to give of your best.’

Kellawe allowed himself to be escorted away, and the moment the door closed behind them, Bartholomew darted towards the bodies, sensing he would not have much time before the opinionated friar declared himself suitably fortified and returned to his self-imposed duties.

It was an unpleasant business, not only rushed and fraught with the fear that Kellawe might decide his devotions were more important than chatting to Wauter, but because of what he was obliged to do for answers: when an external examination of Lenne revealed nothing amiss, Bartholomew embarked on a more invasive one using knives and forceps. What he discovered prompted him to look inside Irby, Yerland and Segeforde as well.

‘Keep your sucura to hand,’ Cynric advised, glancing down as he passed by on one of his prowls, although his eyes did not linger on the body for long. ‘Irby’s spirit will not like you doing that to its mortal coil, so you will need the powder’s protection for sure.’

The remark unsettled Bartholomew even more. He had no idea why, when he had long been of the belief that much could be learned from the dead and that anatomy was a valuable tool for helping the living, but it was a feeling he could not shake. He finished quickly, put all to rights, and left the church with relief. It was not long before Michael, Cynric and Wauter joined him in the graveyard, the latter pale and agitated.

‘Kellawe has some very nasty opinions,’ the Austin said, indicating that Cynric should lead the way home. ‘He will have the entire town in flames before long. Perhaps that alone is reason enough for moving to the Fens – it will spare the town his vitriol.’

By the time they returned to the College, it was almost too late to go to bed. Bartholomew tried to sleep anyway, and passed two very restless hours before the bell rang to wake everyone for church. It was his turn to assist at the altar, and a cold chill ran down his spine when Clippesby passed him the Host and the candles guttered.

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