A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  Rain began to fall again as Michael and Bartholomew walked up the High Street towards Valence Marie. Although it was only early afternoon, the light was poor, and in one or two of the wealthier houses lamps already gleamed behind glazed windows. Tradesmen from the Market Square were already giving up for the day, and carts of all shapes and sizes were trundling towards the Trumpington Gate. There was a multitude of smells, from the warm, damp odour of trampled manure to the acidic stench of urine that trickled down the ditches at the side of the street, widening into little ponds where they were blocked with offal from the butcher’s shop and rotten vegetable parings from the Brazen George.

  The rain made the town seem drab and dismal. The thatches of roofs were dull and sodden, dripping brown rivulets of mould down the walls of the few houses the owners of which had bothered to paint. The others, chiefly wattle-anddaub, were scruffy with crumbling plaster, and everywhere was filth-impregnated mud. Bartholomew glanced up at the heavy grey clouds that slouched overhead and felt they matched his mood. The desire to see Thorpe confess to his crime, that he had felt so strongly when he had first recognised him, was tempered by the knowledge that Edith would hate him for it.

  As they reached the junction between the High Street and Piron Lane, they met Edith herself, with her husband and one of his smaller apprentices. Bartholomew started backwards guiltily, wondering if she already knew where they were going and why.

  ‘What are you two up to?’ demanded Edith suspiciously. ‘You look positively furtive.’

  Michael gave one of his most winning smiles, which served to make Edith more wary than ever. ‘University business, madam,’ he said suavely.

  ‘I suppose this University business involves Rob Thorpe?’ asked Stanmore bluntly. Bartholomew could not meet his eyes, and even Michael was hard pressed to lie so blatantly.

  ‘If the lad has done nothing wrong, he has nothing to fear,’ said the monk eventually. ‘What harm is there in our speaking with him? You can be present to ensure we treat him fairly.’

  Edith was reluctant. ‘But he has had nightmares!’ she protested. ‘He would be angry if he thought I had told you, but he wakes in the night and cries.’

  Perhaps there was hope for him after all, thought Bartholomew, if he felt a degree of remorse for what he had done.

  ‘We will handle him with care,’ said Michael. ‘We want only to ask him a few questions.’

  Edith sighed and exchanged a glance with her husband and then gestured to the apprentice who stood between them. He was holding Edith’s hand, and the dark green tunic that reached the knees of most of Stanmore’s boys was almost at his ankles. He had a head of coarse ginger hair, and a smattering of orange freckles on both cheeks and across his nose. His eyes were swollen, as though he had been crying, and he clutched at Edith’s fingers harder than ever when Bartholomew and Michael looked at him.

  ‘We were actually coming to see you anyway,’ said Edith miserably. ‘Francis has something he would like to say.’

  Francis looked as if he would like to say nothing at all, and stared uncomfortably at his feet.

  ‘Come on,’ said Stanmore, patting Francis’s tousled hair encouragingly. ‘They will not eat you.’

  Francis glanced up at Brother Michael, uncertainly. ‘Rob Thorpe has gone,’ he said unhappily. ‘He made us promise not to tell Master Stanmore until tomorrow.’

  ‘Made you?’ asked Michael gently.

  He hooked a finger under the boy’s chin, so that he looked up. Francis began to cry, and Michael drew the apprentice towards him, placing two large hands on his shoulders. Bartholomew was surprised to see the fat monk patient and gentle, but remembered Michael was popular with the youngsters in his choir, and possessed a talent for dealing with children that few who knew him would suspect he had.

  ‘You must tell us, Francis,’ said Michael, kindly but firmly. ‘It is important. Your friend Rob might be in some danger.’

  ‘Danger?’ wept Francis. ‘Not him! It was we who were in danger. I hate him!’

  ‘Did he bully you?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he make threats?’

  ‘All the time!’ howled Francis. ‘We all hated him, and we are all glad he has gone. He made us lie to you about where he was last Saturday. I do not know where he was: he was not with us. And I do not know where he is now, but I am glad it is not here.’

  ‘No wonder you thought your apprentices were listless,’ said Bartholomew in an undertone to Stanmore. ‘You were worried that they were ill, but it seems as though they were subdued because they were terrified of Thorpe.’

  ‘There is no need to belabour the point, Matt,’ said Stanmore bitterly. ‘It seems we were wrong and you were right. Rob has taken his belongings from our house – along with all my petty cash, a ring Cynric gave to my seamstress and the necklace of your mother’s that Edith loved so much. The other apprentices were so relieved to see him gone that they were capering around their dormitory like lunatics. That is how I discovered he had left before the time they were supposed to tell me.’

  ‘And do you know anything of a dead apprentice?’ asked Michael of Francis.

  Francis went silent, while Edith gazed at Michael in disbelief. ‘Not this again,’ she groaned. ‘How many more times must we tell you? None of our lads is missing!’

  ‘Not one of us,’ said Francis, raising a white face to Edith. ‘Will Harper, Rob Thorpe’s cousin. He was a bully, too, and they brought that wine into our dormitory even though they knew you would be angry. Then, today, Will Harper was dragged out of the well. It was him, wasn’t it?’

  Michael nodded and Edith put a comforting arm around Francis’s thin shoulders. The apprentice took a shuddering breath, and continued his story.

  ‘The two of them – Rob Thorpe and Will Harper – took the wine to the far end of the room and started to drink it. Then Rob started yelling at Will, but he was lying on the floor in a swoon. Rob sent me for Father Philius – I wanted to get Doctor Bartholomew, but Rob told me not to. Philius said there was nothing he could do, and Rob made us carry Will to one of the storerooms. He said Will had died because the Devil had come up through the floor and snatched his soul away. He said the same would happen to us if we told anyone what had happened.’

  He paused and gave a great, wet sniff, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. Michael waited patiently while Francis composed himself.

  ‘The next day, we looked in the storeroom, but Will had gone. Rob said he had recovered, and had gone to join a monastery to be safe from the Devil if he should come again.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ asked Michael. ‘That Will was still alive, even after Father Philius had pronounced him dead?’

  Francis sniffed again and nodded. ‘We all wanted him gone – whether to a monastery or the Devil we did not care. But he was in the well, yes? So he is really dead this time and will not come back to haunt us?’

  ‘He is really dead, Francis,’ said Michael softly. ‘Thank you for having the courage to speak out. I promise neither Rob Thorpe nor Will Harper will be coming back to torment you.’

  Francis burst into tears, his face buried in Michael’s habit. Michael ruffled his hair comfortingly. ‘You seem to have nursed a viper at your breast,’ he said to Edith.

  ‘This cannot be happening,’ said Edith, looking from where Francis sobbed into Michael’s ample girth to her husband. ‘We have always been gentle with Rob. I felt sorry for him, his father being disgraced and all.’

  ‘It may have been your very gentleness that made him bitter,’ said Michael.

  ‘Do you think his father encouraged him in this?’ asked Stanmore, white faced.

  Michael shook his head. ‘I sincerely doubt it. Bitter and angry at his dismissal he might have been, but he would never have stooped to anything like this. And he certainly would not have encouraged his son to engage in anything so vile.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ pressed Edith.

  Bartholomew put a comforting hand on her shoulder, seeing how she was clutc
hing at straws in her desperation to shift the blame from the apprentice to someone else. It would not be easy for her to accept that the boy she had welcomed so generously into her household had repaid her kindness with such deception and wickedness.

  Michael nodded. ‘I am sure. I believe poor Master Thorpe will be appalled when he learns about the havoc his son has wreaked on his behalf. But enough of this wretched little ingrate. Go home, Edith. I think your other boys might need you now. They will be frightened and will need reassuring.’

  Edith gave a wan smile. ‘Thank you, Michael. You have been kind.’ She prised the sobbing Francis from Michael and turned away to take him home. ‘I still hope you are wrong,’ she said in a small voice, not looking back at them.

  ‘So do I,’ said Stanmore, watching her go. ‘This will break her heart, Matt. Rob was a favourite of hers. I think he reminds her of you when you were that age.’

  Bartholomew, recalling Thorpe’s gloating smiles of triumph and murderous inclinations, sincerely hoped he was mistaken. ‘I suppose we had better see if he has fled to Valence Marie,’ he said, anxious to be away from Stanmore and his distress, since he felt as though he were at least partly responsible for it.

  Stanmore gave a huge sigh. ‘I suppose I should come with you to help you find Rob,’ he said, ‘but I have no stomach for this sort of confrontation. The University is no place for honest traders.’

  They left him sitting disconsolately on the low wall surrounding St Mary’s churchyard.

  ‘What do you plan to do?’ Bartholomew asked of Michael as they walked along the High Street. ‘Will you use Thorpe to flush out his accomplice?’

  Michael stared at him and pursed his lips. ‘Eligius? I think he is far too clever to be startled into a confession by us confronting Thorpe.’

  ‘Thorpe strikes me as the sort of person who will try to blame someone else if he sees the net closing in on him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure he will betray Eligius in an instant if he thinks it will work to his advantage.’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘It is worth a try, I suppose.’

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘This is a vile business. It has led us to consider how we will bring pressure to bear on someone who is little more than a child to force him to betray his accomplices’ identities.’

  ‘He is seventeen years old, Matt. He is a man, and he is certainly old enough to commit murder,’ Michael pointed out. He studied Bartholomew’s face, and saw the conflicting emotions there. ‘Edith cannot hold you responsible for Thorpe’s crimes. Grene was foully murdered, and it does not take a genius to predict that dropping a corpse down a well might poison the water. Yet Harper’s body was disposed of with a total disregard for the health of the people who live nearby.’

  ‘Do you think he was so calculating?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It strikes me that Thorpe is more careless than malicious – he saw the well as a convenient dump and used it without considering the consequences.’

  ‘Ask the poor people who have been drinking that tainted water whether they give a damn what Thorpe’s intentions were,’ snapped Michael. ‘And you, of all people, should not be excusing his actions, since you have been so desperately trying to physic those who have been ill. Thorpe might be little more than a child, Matt, but he must be apprehended before he does anyone else harm. And you had better hope you are successful because, now Edith and Oswald are no longer protecting him, Thorpe might well turn on them.’

  Bartholomew did not reply, but followed Michael through the Trumpington Gate. He was left behind when he recognised one of the guards as a fever victim, and stopped to enquire after his health. By the time he caught up again, Michael was engaged in a fierce altercation with the porter in the porch of the Hall of Valence Marie.

  ‘You cannot come in. There is a formal dinner in progress.’

  ‘I have not come to dine,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I have come to look for a young man who may have committed murder, and may be planning to do so again.’

  ‘But the Countess is here,’ objected the porter. ‘The Countess of Pembroke, our benefactor. She and the Fellows are having a private meal. I cannot let them be disturbed. I would lose my job.’

  ‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘The Countess! Thorpe is in there with the Countess, and there is still a bottle of poisoned wine unaccounted for!’

  Michael stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘So? He can hardly do her harm at the dinner table.’

  ‘Why not? He managed with Grene,’ said Bartholomew, and, ignoring the protests of the porter, he forced his way through the door, across the cobbled yard and threw open the heavy wooden door to Valence Marie’s spacious hall.

  Acting-Master Eligius and his colleagues were just taking their places at the high table on the dais when Bartholomew charged in, Michael at his heels. Valence Marie’s servants had gone to some trouble to make the Countess’s visit a memorable one: the table was covered by an embroidered cloth, and all the College silver was out, polished until it shone. Delicious smells came from behind the painted screen opposite the hearth, where serving-boys waited to bring out the platters of meat that had been prepared in the kitchens. It would be cold, but very little cooked food was served hot in Cambridge Colleges, given that the kitchens were usually some distance from the refectories. Michaelhouse occasionally managed warm oatmeal, but that was about all.

  At the seat of honour, in the centre of the table, the Countess was reaching for the goblet of wine set for her.

  ‘No!’ yelled Bartholomew, freezing the movements of all and sundry. ‘The wine, madam! Do not touch the wine!’

  There was an appalled silence, until the Countess recovered from her surprise. Bartholomew had not taken much notice of her during the installation, and noted now that she was older than he had initially thought. Money for cosmetics and fine clothes made her appear younger than her years, especially from a distance, although tell-tale wrinkles around her throat and a worldly look in her eyes betrayed her. She wore a robe of rich blue with flowing sleeves that brushed the ground. Her fingers were laden with so many rings that Bartholomew was surprised she could still use her hands, and a ruby pendant around her neck glistened like a clot of blood.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded imperiously, her hand arrested in the very act of lifting the goblet to her lips. ‘Who are you to burst in unannounced and issue orders?’

  Bartholomew walked towards her. ‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he said, ‘but I have reason to believe that the wine you have been served might be tainted with a poison.’ He pointed at Thorpe, clad in his light blue tunic and with his hair hastily darkened with soot, standing just behind her. ‘He has already killed Master Grene.’

  The Countess looked at her cup suspiciously, and twisted round in her chair to look at Thorpe.

  ‘I know this man!’ exclaimed Thorpe suddenly, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘He is a lunatic from the hospital run by the Austin Canons. You should have him removed – he might be dangerous.’

  ‘The boy lies,’ said Michael, striding forward. ‘My colleague’s name is Doctor Bartholomew, and he is a Fellow of Michaelhouse. I am Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor. I beg you, madam, do not touch the wine.’

  The Countess looked at Valence Marie’s Fellows impatiently, waiting for them to explain what was happening. ‘What is going on, Father Eligius? Is this man Brother Michael as he claims?’

  Eligius rose, his Dominican habit hanging in untidy folds from his narrow shoulders, and opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘He is not!’ cried Thorpe desperately, before the logician could respond. ‘The good Canons at the hospital must be in their cups today to let two madmen escape!’

  ‘Test it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Give the wine to an animal. Better still, let Thorpe try it for you. If there is nothing wrong with it, he will not mind obliging.’

  ‘Thorpe?’ asked the Countess, turning her head again to stare at the apprentice.
‘But he is in York.’ She looked more closely. ‘You are his relative?’

  Thorpe bolted, clambering over the table and sending dishes and bottles flying, only to run straight into the iron embrace of Michael. He struggled violently, but uselessly.

  ‘It was not me!’ he yelled, frightened now. ‘It was him!’ His flailing hand encompassed at least half the room.

  ‘Who?’ asked the Countess coldly. ‘And what was not you?’

  ‘It was him! Grene!’ yelled Thorpe.

  ‘This is nonsense,’ said Eligius. ‘The boy is raving. Grene is dead.’

  ‘What is Master Grene supposed to have done?’ the Countess asked impatiently, addressing the struggling Thorpe.

  ‘Poison!’ screamed Thorpe. ‘It was his idea. He forced me!’

  The Countess indicated that Michael should let Thorpe go. Michael hesitated, but the sudden flash of anger in the Countess’s eyes convinced him that she was unused to having her orders disobeyed, and that she certainly did not like it. Thorpe shrugged himself out of Michael’s relaxed grip and advanced towards her.

  ‘You must believe me, good lady,’ he sobbed, taking her hand and gazing up into her face. ‘I am innocent of all this. I bought two bottles of wine from a thief in a tavern. I did not know it at the time, but they were poisoned, and one killed my cousin when he drank it. I came to Master Grene, who was my father’s best friend, for help. He suggested we throw my cousin’s body down the well, and told me to serve the other to him during the installation. He said it would avenge the wrong done to my father and would serve Bingham right.’

  ‘You suggest that Master Grene encouraged you to poison him at the installation?’ asked the Countess, scepticism written clear in her face.

  ‘Yes!’ said Thorpe desperately. ‘He made me! It was all his idea.’

  ‘Unlikely though it seems, he might be telling the truth,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Philius told me that Grene had been diagnosed with a fatal illness. If he was as bitter as everyone believes about Bingham’s election, it is entirely possible he might have decided to exchange his last few painful months for a quick death – and at the same time, take the opportunity to strike at Bingham in a most spectacular way.’