A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Suicide?’ whispered Michael uncertainly. ‘I do not think so. He would go straight to hell.’

  ‘Perhaps he did not see it so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or perhaps he was so eaten up with resentment and envy that he did not care.’

  ‘It would certainly explain his morose manner that night,’ muttered Michael. ‘Most people would have at least tried to be a little more gracious in defeat.’

  ‘Why do you two whisper so?’ called the Countess in aggrieved tones. ‘If you have something to say, say it aloud so we can all hear.’

  She sounded like a schoolmaster, thought Bartholomew. Before he could respond, Eligius had stepped forward, his dark habit swinging several inches above his thin white ankles.

  ‘I apologise for this unseemly interruption, my lady,’ he said. He looked hard at Thorpe. ‘This boy has served at our high table on occasion recently, but I did not know he was a relative of Master Thorpe. We know him only as Rob. Yet I cannot believe that Brother Michael’s accusations are true. I am certain Grene’s death was at the hands of Bingham – as indeed I told the Sheriff when I petitioned for his arrest. I have already told you of how poor Grene voiced his fears to me the night before his death. So, I believe Rob will not mind tasting the wine, to assure you of his innocence.’

  He picked up the Countess’s cup and held it out to Thorpe with an encouraging smile.

  ‘I do not like wine,’ said Thorpe, licking his lips nervously. ‘It makes my head swim.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Eligius, ‘let us put an end to this nonsense here and now.’ Before Bartholomew or Michael could stop him, he had put the cup to his lips and drained it in a single draught. There was a deathly hush in the hall. Eligius replaced the cup on the table and raised his hands. ‘Well, Brother? I am still here. I am not struck down in an instant like Grene. You have clearly been mistaken in your logic.’

  Michael gazed at him in disbelief. Thorpe’s disbelief, however, was the greater. He looked at Eligius in horror and the blood drained from his face, leaving him an unhealthy grey-white colour.

  ‘You seem to have made a grave mistake, Brother Michael,’ said the Countess. ‘You have accused a young man of a vile crime of which he appears to be wholly guiltless.’

  She rested her elbows on the table and steepled her beringed fingers. Meanwhile, Eligius walked around the table to the seat next to her and sat, leaning back in his chair to fix his gaze on Michael and wait for an explanation. Michael strode forward and seized the cup, his face almost as pale as Thorpe’s. For quite some time there was no sound in the hall as everyone watched Michael staring at the goblet. Bartholomew racked his brains for an answer, but he had been so convinced that Rob Thorpe had intended to harm the Countess, for some warped reason of his own, that his mind was nothing but a blank. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Eligius should be gasping his last, his lips and throat blistering from the same poison that had killed Grene, not reclining easily in his chair with his bony hands folded in his lap.

  Eventually, when the Countess began to show signs of impatience, and the mutters of the cook at the rear of the hall that the food was spoiling grew embarrassingly audible, Michael spoke.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, turning the cup over in his hands in bewilderment. ‘I was certain we were correct in our beliefs. You see, we reasoned that Thorpe had killed Grene using one of six bottles of wine sold by a thief named Sacks. An apprentice – Thorpe’s cousin – was dredged from the well today and his body shows similar signs of poisoning as those we observed on James Grene.’

  The Countess pulled a face of disgust. ‘I heard about the body in the well. But it seems as though your reasoning is flawed, Brother. Why should Thorpe – or anyone else for that matter – poison me? I am no candidate for the Mastership, and I played no part in his father’s dismissal.’

  Michael raised his hands in defeat and took a few steps towards the Countess. ‘What can I say? I am sorry, my lady. My only thought was that you might be in danger, and I acted without giving the matter sufficient thought. But despite Father Eligius’s conviction regarding Bingham’s guilt, Thorpe has admitted that he gave the poisoned wine to Grene, and we must be allowed to question him further on the matter. He has also stolen from his employer. If he will come with us now, we will leave, and you will be able to finish your meal in peace.’

  He turned to Eligius, whose eyes were closed, as if in prayer. For the third time since their dramatic entry, there was a heavy silence as everyone waited for him to give Michael permission to take Thorpe away. Thorpe swallowed hard as Bartholomew looked more closely at Eligius, and then he darted past them, aiming for the door and freedom. Bartholomew dived at him, and both went tumbling to the floor. Thorpe scratched, kicked and bit like an animal as Bartholomew fought to pin him down. The Countess leapt to her feet.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she exclaimed in angry exasperation. ‘Eligius has just proved the boy’s innocence: Bingham killed poor Grene and there is an end to it. Eligius? Order Brother Michael and this brawling physician to leave my presence at once. I will not be insulted in this way!’

  ‘Eligius will not be ordering anything ever again,’ gasped Bartholomew, still struggling with Thorpe. ‘He is dying.’

  It was not until much later that Bartholomew and Michael were able to leave Valence Marie and go to make their report to Harling. He listened to their description of events in silence.

  ‘So,’ he said, when Michael had finished. ‘Thorpe maintains the whole affair was Grene’s idea?’

  Michael nodded, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. ‘He says he fled to Grene – his father’s best friend – when Will Harper died from the poisoned wine. Apparently, Thorpe and Harper liked to drink together – Stanmore disapproves of his apprentices frequenting taverns and had forbidden Thorpe to meet his cousin on pain of dismissal from his service. When Harper died on Stanmore’s premises, Thorpe was afraid he would be sacked for disobedience – or, worse, that he would be accused of his cousin’s murder. Thorpe described Harper’s quick, and seemingly painless, death to Grene, and Grene conceived the notion of revenge for them both.’

  He rubbed his chin, and continued. ‘According to Philius, Grene was dying anyway, and had very little to lose. His death at the installation was not as painless as Thorpe had probably led him to believe it would be, but the rest of the plan went perfectly. Over the previous week, Grene made claims to three other Fellows that he was in fear of his life from Bingham, including to Father Eligius on the eve of his death. The scene was set: Grene died; Bingham was arrested for his murder; Grene was avenged for his defeat; and Rob had struck a blow against the College that he felt had wronged his father over the business of the false relic.’

  Harling swallowed hard. ‘And this Rob Thorpe is just seventeen, you say? Yet he plotted all this murder and mayhem?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘With Grene’s help. But perhaps he is not wholly without hope. Edith Stanmore told us he has been having nightmares over the last month or so, and all that time he spent in St Botolph’s Church – such as when we thought he had fled to his accomplice – must count for something. He was clearly suffering from remorse.’

  ‘But not enough to prevent him from attempting to murder the Countess,’ remarked Bartholomew, recalling Thorpe’s gloating expression when Edith and Stanmore had prevented Bartholomew from hauling him off to the Proctors’ cells after he had gone to inspect Egil’s mutilated corpse.

  Harling was silent, shaking his head slowly and looking down at his ink-stained table. ‘What bitterness,’ he said at last. ‘I, too, lost an election, but it never occurred to me to poison myself so that Tynkell would be blamed for my murder.’

  ‘But you are not fatally ill,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  Harling began to speak again before Bartholomew could moderate his remark so it did not sound as if he believed Harling might well have conceived such a plan given the right conditions.

  ‘So circumstances were simply oppo
rtune,’ mused the Vice-Chancellor. ‘The poisoned wine coming into Thorpe’s possession merely provided Grene with an opportunity for revenge that he had been considering for some time.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Michael, standing and walking to the window. ‘And it might have worked, had Thorpe left the town quietly after the installation as he had promised Grene he would. But Bingham’s arrest was not enough for him. He decided to commit one last act of vengeance before leaving Cambridge to join his father in York.’

  ‘The Countess?’ asked Harling.

  Michael nodded. ‘But by this stage he had no more of Sacks’s wine left: one of his bottles had killed his cousin and then been stolen by Isaac; the other he had used to kill Grene.’ He gestured that Bartholomew should continue.

  ‘Father Philius’s medical notes showed that he had prescribed a powerful opiate for Grene to use should the pain of his illness become too great. Thorpe confessed to Michael that he took this from Grene’s room after the installation. He then mixed all of it with the wine he planned to serve the Countess when she visited Valence Marie.’

  ‘So this was premeditated,’ said Harling sadly. ‘Thorpe planned to murder the Countess as long ago as last Saturday.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I imagine he was encouraged by the ease with which he helped Grene to his death, and so decided to try it once again. And his reason, of course, was that by murdering Valence Marie’s benefactor, he would assure the College’s dissolution. His bag was already packed so that he could flee the moment he saw the Countess swallow the wine. He was appalled when Eligius drank it, and probably anticipated that he would keel over immediately.’

  ‘And he did not?’ asked Harling. ‘Not like Grene?’

  ‘No,’ answered Bartholomew. ‘This opiate is slower acting and less dramatic than the poison in the wine Sacks sold him. By the time we realised there was something wrong, it was too late to do anything to save Eligius. He had fallen into a deep sleep and could not be roused. His breathing grew shallower and slower until it stopped completely; he died about an hour ago.’

  ‘So Eligius’s faith in Grene’s claims and his belief in Bingham’s guilt, brought about his own death?’ asked Harling.

  ‘I suppose it might be viewed like that,’ said Michael. He sat back down on the wall bench so heavily that Bartholomew was forced to grab the table lest he be catapulted from the other end. ‘But let us not forget the role the relic played in all this.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The relic,’ said Harling heavily. ‘I wish to God that foul thing had never been found. It has been nothing but trouble ever since it emerged from the foul black mud of the King’s Ditch. If I were Chancellor, I would throw it back, where it can do no more harm.’

  ‘Eligius was convinced that the relic was genuine – as was Grene,’ said Michael. ‘Bingham, on the other hand, has the sense to see it for what it really is – a monstrous fraud foisted on the town by an evil man. Part of Eligius’s conviction that Bingham killed Grene stemmed from that, despite the fact that it was an illogical conclusion to draw.’

  ‘Even great minds like Eligius’s can be confounded when it comes to matters of faith,’ said Harling. ‘He told Chancellor Tynkell and me that he sensed an aura of holiness emanating from the relic, and that its purity and goodness touched his soul. It is difficult to argue with someone who has convictions like that.’

  Bartholomew recalled Eligius standing with him and Michael as they inspected Grene’s body, and the fleeting expression of remorse that had crossed his face. It was not simply faith in Grene’s claims nor belief in Bingham’s guilt, nor even his total conviction that the relic was holy, that had prompted him to drink the Countess’s wine: it was his own troubled conscience – that Grene had come to him with his fears and he had done nothing about them. Bartholomew was sure that Eligius held himself responsible for Grene’s death, which explained why he had initiated his own quest to have Bingham indicted of his murder. He had even gone to the Sheriff and made out a case for Bingham’s arrest, because he felt he could not wait for the Senior Proctor to return from dealing with the burglary at St Clement’s Hostel.

  Harling sighed. ‘I am certain poor Master Thorpe knows nothing of his son’s plans for revenge,’ he said. ‘There is some talk that the King has regretted his hasty decision in removing Thorpe from the Mastership, and is considering reinstating him. He will be aghast when he hears what his son has done.’

  Bartholomew felt sick at the futility of it all. ‘Please do not tell Edith Master Thorpe might be reinstated. All this is hard enough for her to accept without the knowledge that Rob’s drive to avenge his father’s unjust treatment was all for nothing.’

  Harling and Michael were silent, so that Bartholomew wondered whether his request had already come too late. For all he knew, Master Thorpe was already riding south to reclaim his post as head of Valence Marie.

  Michael stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘So, Rob Thorpe is lodged in the Proctors’ gaol, the Countess is safe, and Bingham is freed from his cell in the castle. But we still do not know how Sacks came by this poisonous wine.’

  ‘We know it must be related to the smuggling in the Fens,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hopefully, we will find out who was responsible when Tulyet arrests the contrabanders.’

  ‘And then there is still the missing bottle,’ said Michael. ‘Sacks had six and we only know what happened to five of them.’

  ‘Perhaps Thorpe had three, not two,’ said Harling, patting his greased hair with both hands.

  ‘I do not believe so,’ said Michael. ‘Or I imagine he would have used the last one on the Countess, instead of resorting to the unknown qualities of Grene’s medicine. I think we have yet to discover the fate of the sixth bottle.’

  Chapter 10

  Bearing in mind Harling’s disapproval of his working relationship with the Sheriff, Michael informed the Vice-Chancellor that they were going to advise Stanmore of Thorpe’s arrest, rather than that he planned to visit the castle. Stanmore already knew about Thorpe: he had been waiting for them when they eventually emerged from Valence Marie and had gone to take the news to Edith. Some of the relief Bartholomew had felt, that Thorpe no longer represented a threat to his family, evaporated when he saw the slump in Stanmore’s shoulders and his grey face.

  Tulyet was sitting at a table in his room in the great keep, reading a sheaf of hastily scribbled notes. He stood as they were shown in, and offered them stools near the fire.

  ‘What a day!’ he exclaimed, sitting again with a sigh. ‘I have been questioning those I have arrested since dawn, and then there was that unpleasant affair of the body in the well.’

  ‘And?’ asked Michael, stretching his feet towards the blaze. ‘Are you too busy or too weary to waste time in idle conversation with scholars?’

  ‘And nothing,’ said Tulyet gloomily. ‘The smugglers in my prison have told me the identities of a few other Fenmen and the locations of one or two trading routes, but I am really no further forward than I was before.’

  Michael gazed at him in disbelief. ‘But that is not possible! My informant risked her life to provide you with those names I gave you. Let me question these smugglers – I will find out what you are lacking.’

  ‘You will not, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘And you will not because I honestly believe they have already told me all they know. The names you gave me are men at the lowest possible level, and a long way from the evil minds who are controlling all this.’

  ‘I have been thinking about this smuggling,’ said Bartholomew, staring at the flames flickering over the white-hot logs in the hearth. ‘There must be two independent operations.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Tulyet, regarding him intently. ‘Go on. We are listening.’

  ‘It is generally known around the town that smuggling has been taking place along the waterways for many years,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘It is a way of life for some Fenmen, and it provides a service to the town to which the authorities usually turn a blind eye. B
ut, of late, the goods have not been trickling in surreptitiously: they have been flooding in, and anyone can buy exotic goods on the black market. You have assumed that the smugglers have suddenly become greedy and incautious, but it is their livelihood and I think they are unlikely to risk it so openly.’

  ‘I came to the same conclusion myself,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘It is encouraging to hear that you have been thinking along the same lines. I believe the unseasonably warm weather and flooded channels have attracted others to try their hand. The men I have in my cells are of the old breed – those who pilot the odd shipment of cloth, grain or spices through the Fens. The men who are bringing in these lemons and figs are using the same routes, but are doing so on a much grander scale.’

  He paced back and forth in the small room, pulling at his beard.

  ‘I am certain the men I arrested confessed everything they knew, but they were unable to tell us anything about the attacks on the travellers on our roads – including the one on you – and very little about the sudden surfeit of goods on the black market. I decided to risk all and speak to the men who are benefiting from this additional trade: I managed to frighten old Master Cheney into telling me where his extra spices had come from.’

  ‘And they came via the Fens?’ asked Michael, twisting round to look at the Sheriff. When Tulyet nodded, Michael turned back to the fire again. ‘Deschalers virtually admitted as much to us when we took Julianna to him. He said he was unaware that smuggling was taking place around Denny – suggesting that he clearly knew smuggling was taking place elsewhere.’

  Tulyet said nothing and Bartholomew noticed the rings of tiredness under his eyes.

  ‘So what is wrong, Dick?’ he asked. ‘What is stopping you from simply arresting all these people – Cheney and Deschalers and anyone else who is profiting from this illegal trading?’