A Poisonous Plot by Susanna Gregory Page B

lower than was decent. Her lips were red and full, and her eyes bright with the suggestion of fun.
    But Bartholomew only inclined his head in a brief nod before turning back to Edith. He had suffered some recent mishaps with his love life, which had wounded him deeply, and he was unwilling to risk another encounter with the opposite sex just yet.
    ‘Yes,’ said Edith, a little crossly. ‘She runs the sales side of the dyeworks for us, and I praised her financial acumen to you for at least an hour. You gave every appearance of listening. Was your mind on something else, then?’
    ‘Of course not,’ mumbled Bartholomew, although he felt the colour rise into his cheeks at the lie. He had been thinking about his lost loves, Matilde and Julitta, as he always did when he was not occupied with patients or teaching.
    ‘Good,’ said Edith coolly. ‘Because I have better things to do than chat to myself. The dyeworks are a major undertaking, and there are many issues that require my attention.’
    ‘You mean like finding ways to avoid tipping waste in the river?’ asked Bartholomew.
    Edith shot him a sour look. ‘Such as who to hire. So many Frail Sisters have applied to work with us that we are having to make some very difficult choices.’
    Bartholomew experienced a sharp stab of loss. ‘Frail Sisters’ had been Matilde’s term for the town’s prostitutes, and she had championed their cause, organising them into an unofficial guild whereby they united to create better and safer working conditions. Now Edith was a widow, there was no one to tell her that they were unsuitable company for a respectable lady, and she had elected to take up where Matilde had left off. Bartholomew glanced at Anne, wondering whether she was one of them.
    ‘No,’ said Edith, reading his thoughts. ‘She is the wife of William de Rumburgh the goldsmith. You know him – he is one of your few wealthy patients.’
    ‘The one with the inflamed gums,’ supplied Anne, seeing Bartholomew rack his brains.
    ‘Oh, yes.’ The physician was often better at recalling ailments than the people who displayed them. ‘He has trouble eating.’
    ‘That is the least of his problems,’ said Anne with a grimace. ‘More annoying is that his condition adversely affects his performance in the marriage bed. You suggested ways in which we might remedy the matter, but none have worked. I am now a lonely and desperate woman, especially in the evenings when he is out at the guildhall.’
    Another sultry smile came Bartholomew’s way.
    ‘Are you going to watch the procession, Matt?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject, clearly fearing he might be tempted by Anne’s none-too-subtle invitation.
    ‘No scholars can go,’ he replied. ‘The University has imposed a curfew.’
    ‘Ignore it,’ suggested Anne with yet another smouldering look. ‘And come to my house instead – to keep me company until my husband returns. He will be very late and—’
    ‘You heard him – he is obliged to stay in tonight,’ interrupted Edith sharply. ‘And you had better go home to change, Anne, or you will be late.’
    Anne fluttered her eyelashes and sashayed away, hips swaying provocatively.
    ‘Are you sure it is a good idea to employ her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She does not seem to be your sort of … person.’
    ‘No,’ sighed Edith. ‘But so many folk want to close the dyeworks down that it is a relief to find someone who not only understands what I am trying to do, but who wants to be part of it. And do not say that you do, because you cannot see past the fact that we sometimes create a few smelly by-products.’
    ‘It worries me – I do not want you blamed if people become ill. And you have always been a considerate neighbour, so this sudden callous indifference to their health is a mystery to me.’
    ‘I am not indifferent to it – I just know that my dyeworks will not harm them. Ours is a good scheme, Matt. It has given desperate women a new chance in