A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘It is morning, Matt!’ he whispered. ‘Although you might not believe it. It is dark and cold, and no time for sane men to be up and about.’

  ‘Then go back to bed and leave me alone,’ mumbled Bartholomew, pulling the blanket over his head in an attempt to escape the cold draught that flooded the chamber as Michael opened the window shutters. There was a flapping sound as the cockerel was startled into removing itself to crow outside someone else’s quarters.

  ‘I will have that thing in a stew with onions one of these days,’ muttered Michael viciously. ‘It is the third time this month it has kept me awake half the night. But come on, Matt, or we will be late. Do not look so irritable! You said you would take mass duties today, because Father William did your turn while you were enjoying yourself at Denny.’

  Still half asleep, Bartholomew hauled himself out of bed, and hopped from foot to foot on the icy flagstones while he washed and shaved. He grabbed a clean shirt with frozen fingers, and struggled into it, tugging hard enough to rip the stitches in one sleeve when it clung to his wet skin. It was several moments before he located his leggings in the dark and, by the time he was ready, Michael had already left for the church. Racing along the lane as fast as he could in a vain attempt to warm himself up, he almost collided with the solemn procession of scholars from Physwick Hostel, also making their way to St Michael’s Church for the early morning service.

  Michael had been unable to light the temperamental lamp, and was fumbling around the chancel in the dark, grumbling to himself, and swearing foully when he stubbed his toe against the sharp corner of Master Wilson’s marble tomb.

  ‘That man continues to be a bane in my life, even though he is five years dead!’ the monk snapped, pushing Bartholomew out of his way as he groped towards the altar.

  There was a loud crash that reverberated around the silent building, and made several of the Physwick scholars jump and cross themselves hurriedly. Michael’s stream of obscenities grew more expressive as he realised he had knocked over the vase of flowers Runham insisted on leaving on his cousin’s grave. Bartholomew lit the lamp quickly, and went to the monk’s rescue before he did any more damage. While he gathered up the wilting blooms and shoved them back into the now dented jug, Michael slapped the sacred vessels on the altar in an undisguised display of temper, limping far more than was necessary, and not always favouring the same foot.

  Michael had completed his preparations and Bartholomew had just kicked the flowers that remained on the floor out of sight under a bench, when the Michaelhouse procession entered the church, sleepy and shivering in their scholar’s tabards – with the exception of Alcote, who was clad in a gorgeous, fur-lined cloak that an earl would have been proud to wear.

  Father William’s leather-soled sandals skidded in the water that had been spilled from the vase, and he gazed up at the roof in concern, seeking signs of another leak. Runham frowned when he saw the state of his blooms, as many stalks pointing upwards as flower heads, and Bartholomew heard him muttering disparaging remarks about the parish children who sometimes played in the church when it was empty.

  Because it was the festival of the Conversion of St Paul, and therefore a feast day, a few parishioners had dragged themselves from their beds to attend the mass. Most of them were members of Michael’s choir, present because the College provided oatmeal and sour ale to anyone who sang on special occasions. Also present were Thomas Deschalers and his niece Julianna. Julianna stood at the front of the small congregation, watching everything with open interest. She caught Bartholomew’s eye and gave him a wink, and then did the same to Langelee. Afraid that the philosopher would see her smiling at him so brazenly and start some kind of fight over it, Bartholomew studiously avoided looking at her for the remainder of the service.

  When it was over, he waited until he was sure her attentions were fixed on Langelee, and then slipped past her quickly to walk back to Michaelhouse, without waiting for his colleagues. As he shoved open the wicket door, Walter started guiltily, and Agatha’s cockerel flapped out from under his arm. It rushed across the yard in a huff of bristling feathers and disappeared over the orchard wall. Bartholomew said nothing, although he suspected that he and Michael were not the only ones that the irritating bird was keeping from their sleep.

  Master Kenyngham’s procession – with the marked absence of Langelee – was not long in following, and Walter went to ring the bell for breakfast. Bartholomew was in his room, putting dirty clothes in a pile for Cynric to take to the laundry, and folding the others, when the book-bearer tapped on the door.

  ‘A messenger has just arrived to say that Master Stanmore’s steward returned with Egil’s body late last night,’ said the Welshman. ‘Master Stanmore and your sister have spent the night in town, and he wants you and Brother Michael to go to his premises immediately.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the warm oatmeal flavoured with honey and cinnamon that would be waiting for him in the hall. ‘Can it not wait a while?’

  ‘It sounded urgent,’ said Cynric. ‘Master Stanmore would not issue such a demand lightly.’

  Bartholomew sighed and told Cynric to fetch Michael, who was already at his place at the breakfast table. He waited in the yard and shivered. It was beginning to rain: the dry spell of the past two days seemed to be over, and the weather was reverting to its customary dampness. He leaned against the wall and kicked absently at the weeds that grew around the door. He saw Father Paul walking hesitantly from his room to the hall, and he went to offer him his arm when the blind friar skidded in the mud.

  Paul smiled. ‘How cold you are!’ he exclaimed, taking Bartholomew’s hand in both of his.

  ‘A problem with winter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially with no fires anywhere and Alcote the only one of us with enough money to buy wood to burn.’

  ‘Then you should inveigle yourself an invitation to his room,’ said Paul wisely. ‘Not only does he have roaring fires, but he has a lamp and comfortable chairs with woollen rugs.’

  ‘He is still indignant about three logs he thinks I stole,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. It was a shame, though: it would be worth enduring Alcote’s company for the pleasure of sitting in a comfortable chair by a fire with a lamp to read by.

  ‘Brother Michael took those logs,’ said Paul. ‘I quite clearly heard his distinctive puffing as he wrested with the stable door the night they disappeared. I put Alcote right about that, although you should not allow yourself to take the blame for things Michael does.’

  Bartholomew smiled, amused that Paul should consider him in need of advice about how to deal with Michael.

  Still clutching Bartholomew’s hand, Paul lifted his face to the sky. ‘It is beginning to rain; you are about to go out and you are not wearing your cloak.’

  ‘And how do you know all that?’ asked Bartholomew, laughing. He knew the friar relished playing such games, showing off his superior skills of detection.

  ‘The rain is simple,’ said Paul, showing an upturned palm. ‘I know you are going out because I heard Michael grumbling about missing breakfast; you are apparently waiting for him, which means you are going, too. And I know you are not wearing your cloak, because I would hear it moving around your legs. And I cannot.’

  ‘I lost it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shall I tell you how, or will you tell me?’

  It was Paul’s turn to laugh. ‘Tell me when Brother Michael is not glowering at you to hurry,’ he said. Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise. ‘I just heard his thundering footsteps coming down the stairs from his room,’ Paul explained.

  Bartholomew looked to where Michael waited impatiently by the gate.

  ‘I have several cloaks,’ said Paul. ‘I insist you borrow one.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but I could not. First, I do not seem able to take good care of clothes and will be sure to spoil it. Second, I cannot wear a cloak that is part of a Franciscan habit – Father William would construe it as heretical, and would ha
ve me burned in the Market Square.’

  ‘It is just a plain grey one,’ said Paul. ‘It is not part of my habit. And, as I said, I have several. If you find you like it, I can sell you one.’

  The rain began to come down harder, and Bartholomew relented and accepted Paul’s kind offer. He waited while the friar fetched it, and then ran across to meet Michael.

  ‘Oh, very nice,’ said Michael, eyeing the long garment with amusement. ‘Now you look like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Pestilence!’ He laughed uproariously, while Cynric crossed himself hurriedly, and muttered about the dangers of jesting about the plague.

  Stanmore had left an apprentice to direct them to the room to which Egil’s body had been taken. It was an empty storeroom, and the corpse had been placed on a table and covered with a large piece of black cloth. Bartholomew saw dark red stains on the floor, and winced. Edith was ushering the fascinated apprentices away from the window, but when she saw Bartholomew she abandoned them to their own devices, and ran into his arms.

  ‘Oh Matt!’ she sobbed. ‘What vile business have you been dragged into this time?’

  ‘It will all be solved soon,’ said Bartholomew gently.

  She wiped her eyes and stood back to look at him. ‘How did you come by those scratches on your neck? This is not your cloak! And who put that awful red patch on your hose?’

  Bartholomew put his hands on her shoulders. ‘There is nothing to worry about. And I borrowed this cloak from Father Paul. I lost mine.’

  ‘It is fine cloth,’ said Stanmore, coming up behind him to feel it. ‘Best quality wool. He is a fool to lend it to you – you will have it spoiled in no time. I would recommend you use a hard-wearing worsted of some kind, perhaps–’

  ‘Oswald,’ prompted Edith, quelling the lecture that was about to begin. ‘We did not drag Matt from his breakfast to talk about cloth.’

  Stanmore’s face became sombre. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Putting off the moment, I suppose.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It took some time to find Egil’s corpse – your directions were understandably vague, and my steward had to make three journeys to the Fens before he could locate it. It had been moved, and Cynric’s stick-marker was some distance away from it. It is Egil’s body, without question, because I recall he had a prominent scar on his left calf. But …’ His voice trailed off, and his eyes went to the body lying on the table. Since Stanmore made no move towards it, and was clearly reluctant to offer a further explanation, Bartholomew walked over and lifted the cloth. And drew in a sharp breath of horror. Egil’s heavy body, clad in its thick, homespun clothes, lay under the sheet. But someone had hacked off his head and both of his hands.

  ‘I take it this is not how you left him?’ asked Stanmore, watching Bartholomew’s expression of shock. ‘You said he had been hit on the head. You did not say the blow had taken his skull from his shoulders.’

  Michael took a cautious peep and backed away hastily. Bartholomew inspected the rest of the body, and then covered it again with the cloth. There were no other injuries. He thought about what Tulyet had said – that Egil was a Fenman who knew his way around the area. If Egil had not been lying injured for two days – and there was nothing on what remained of his corpse to suggest that he had – then where had he been? And what had he been doing? Bartholomew wondered if Egil had somehow stumbled on an outlaw lair, and had been fleeing from them when he had his fatal encounter with the aggressive Julianna.

  ‘Who could have done this?’ asked Stanmore, looking at the corpse with a shudder. ‘Do you think the mutilation might be related to some satanic ritual?’

  ‘Well, I think we know who did it,’ said Michael, his face pale. ‘Some of these Fenland smugglers – such as that Alan of Norwich and his men. What we do not know is why, although I cannot believe the answer lies in witchcraft.’

  They were silent, and the only sounds were the apprentices shuffling and whispering outside, daring each other to sneak a look through the window. One, bolder than his fellows, hauled himself up onto the sill, his feet scrabbling against the wall. Stanmore pursed his lips and closed the shutters firmly.

  ‘Youthful curiosity,’ he said, shutting the door as well. ‘And Rob is always the first.’

  ‘He looks familiar,’ said Bartholomew, the young man’s long, thin nose and hooded eyes ringing the same bell of recognition he had experienced the last time he had seen him in Stanmore’s yard. He shook his head. ‘I have probably seen him working here.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Stanmore. ‘He is more often at my shop in Ely, although business has not been good there and I have had him here for the past few weeks. He is Robert Thorpe’s boy.’

  Bartholomew and Michael looked blankly at him. ‘Robert Thorpe,’ repeated Stanmore. ‘The disgraced Master of Valence Marie. The elder Thorpe took to teaching when his wife died, and he left his son in the care of relatives. They apprenticed him to me when he declared he did not want to follow in his sire’s footsteps and become a scholar.’

  ‘Who can blame him, given what happened to his father,’ said Michael. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes. There is a resemblance now that you mention it – around the eyes and nose.’

  ‘No!’ said Bartholomew suddenly, his raised voice making the others jump. ‘That is not it. I remember where I saw him before.’

  He walked briskly to the door and flung it open. The group of apprentices was startled into silence as Bartholomew strode purposefully towards Rob Thorpe. Thorpe stood his ground, looking insolently at Bartholomew, but his nerve failed him at the last moment, and he made a sudden dart towards the gate. Bartholomew was anticipating such a move, however, and reacted quickly. He dived after the young man and had a good handful of his tunic before he had reached the lane.

  Stanmore ran towards them, followed by the others.

  ‘What is happening?’ he demanded. ‘Matt! Leave him alone! You are frightening him.’

  ‘I know exactly where I have seen you before,’ said Bartholomew, not relinquishing his hold on Thorpe’s clothes. ‘You were standing behind Grene at Bingham’s installation. You helped me carry his body to the chapel.’

  ‘Not me!’ protested Thorpe, struggling free of Bartholomew’s grip. He brushed himself down indignantly, small eyes flicking from Bartholomew to Stanmore. ‘I was here all night.’

  The other apprentices, who had clustered round to watch the excitement, nodded, although Bartholomew noted not all did so with conviction.

  ‘You were not,’ he said firmly. ‘You were at the installation, wearing a light blue tabard and serving wine at the high table.’

  Thorpe brandished a handful of his dark green tunic at Bartholomew with a sneer. ‘Does this look light blue to you? And before you ask, I have another and that is green, too. You can go and look if you want.’

  ‘Matt!’ said Stanmore, trying to pull Bartholomew away. ‘The lad is telling the truth. You know that all my apprentices’ tunics are this colour. It helps me to keep an eye on them in a crowd.’

  Bartholomew grabbed Thorpe by the scruff of the neck. ‘We are going to see Harling.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ said Stanmore, indignant for his apprentice. ‘You have heard what Rob has to say. He has done nothing wrong.’

  ‘If he has done nothing wrong, why did he try to run away from me?’ demanded Bartholomew.

  ‘I would have run if I had seen you bearing down on me like something from hell!’ retorted Stanmore, becoming irate. He tried to prise Bartholomew’s fingers from his apprentice’s collar. Bartholomew pushed him away, and took a few steps towards the gate, the wriggling Thorpe firmly in his grasp.

  Edith blocked his way. ‘Matthew, let him go!’ she ordered, incensed. Startled by the fury in her voice, Bartholomew obeyed. ‘Rob has told you he was here on Saturday night and the other apprentices have supported his claim. They have no reason to lie. Do you think I would not have noticed one of our lads serving at the installation? Or Oswald?’

  She had
a point. Bartholomew backed away, and Stanmore ushered the apprentices out of the yard and back to work.

  The merchant turned to Bartholomew, his temper only just under control. ‘I suppose you are still thinking about that accusation of Father Philius’s – that he came here to see one of my apprentices die? Well, I hear Philius is dead himself – murdered in fact – and so it is quite clear that he is involved in all this foul business, and was lying to you. Look to him and to his acquaintances for your poisoner, but leave my lads alone! Rob is a good boy. If you cannot bring yourself to believe your own family, then you can ask the priests at St Botolph’s Church; he does odd jobs for them in his spare time and they think very highly of him.’

  Bartholomew had rarely seen Stanmore so enraged and certainly never with him. He looked at Edith, standing with her hands on her hips and regarding him furiously. Edith had always taken a close interest in the apprentices, and she watched over them like a mother hen. Her instinct to protect one of them now was apparently stronger than her trust in her brother’s accusations. Bartholomew glanced over her head to where Thorpe walked with his friends towards the kitchens. The apprentice twisted round and favoured Bartholomew with a triumphant sneer that was anything but innocent.

  ‘He is the deposed Master Thorpe’s son, and he was at the installation,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into making rash accusations by Thorpe’s gloating. ‘He is the killer of poor James Grene!’

  Edith and Stanmore gaped at him.

  ‘That seems to represent something of a leap in logic,’ remarked Michael, his eyebrows almost disappearing under his hair in his astonishment. He leaned over and whispered in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Have a care, Matt. You are distressing your sister.’

  ‘Rob is seventeen years old!’ said Edith hotly. ‘How can you accuse a young lad of so vile a crime? First, he was here all night and nowhere near Valence Marie. Second, he has alibis to prove it. Third, how would he come by poisoned wine with which to kill anyway? Fourth, Oswald and I would have seen him had he been at the installation – which he was not. And, fifth, since you seem to believe that wicked Father Philius rather than Oswald, you imply that our household is involved in something sinister.’