A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  Tulyet closed his eyes and pulled at his beard again. ‘While the King can be expected to overlook a little illicit trade – the odd casket of claret or consignment of wool – he cannot be expected to ignore smuggling when it has become so flagrant, and when it involves robbery and violence.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘Arrest the lot of them – anyone who is involved at any level. Do you know who they all are?’

  Tulyet scrubbed at his face. ‘I am fairly certain the men in my cells gave me the names of most of the Fenmen, and once Master Cheney had started to bare his soul, it was almost impossible to stop him telling me who was flooding the black market with smuggled fruit and other goods. Then Constantine Mortimer, rather rashly, came to see why the Sheriff was taking such a long time at his neighbour’s house, and I terrified him into telling me all he knew, too. Between them they named most of the people in the town who are involved in the smuggling.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, then? Why all the gloom? You said you had learned nothing from my informant’s disclosures. But it seems to me you have learned a great deal.’

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘Your informant’s disclosures allowed me to arrest the Fenmen – the old breed of smuggler. It was the Masters Cheney and Mortimer who provided me with the names of all the people involved in the opportunistic trading that has taken place this winter.’

  ‘But that means you have the identities of everyone involved,’ persisted Michael. ‘The Fenmen and the opportunists. It hardly matters whether the information came from Dame Pelagia or your dishonest merchants. I do not see why you are not broaching a bottle of fine wine to celebrate your victory.’

  His none-too-subtle hint fell on deaf ears, and Tulyet sighed, too engrossed in his worries to think about pandering to Michael’s greed. ‘Although I have the Fenmen in my cells and I can arrest the opportunists at my leisure, I still do not know which of them is responsible for the burglaries in the town and the ambushing of travellers on the roads – including who organised the attack on you.’

  Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘But if you know who is profiting from the smuggling, arrest them all. One – or perhaps more – of them will be responsible for the burglaries and attacks. I do not see your problem, Dick. Who are these people, anyway – other than Mortimer and Cheney?’

  Tulyet sat in his chair and leaned back to look up at the cracked plaster on the ceiling. ‘Where shall I begin? How about with Father Paul from Michaelhouse?’

  Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘But that is not possible!’ he exclaimed. ‘Paul is blind!’

  ‘So?’ said Tulyet wearily. ‘One does not need to be able to see to order illegally imported goods and sell them at a profit.’

  He looked pointedly at Bartholomew’s grey cloak. Bartholomew’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Michael laughed nervously and Tulyet continued.

  ‘Doctor Lynton from Peterhouse; James Grene – before he died; Robin of Grantchester; John Colton of Gonville.’ He looked at Bartholomew. ‘Oswald Stanmore.’

  Bartholomew groaned and sank back down on the stool. Poor Stanmore! First his apprentice arrested for attempting to murder the Countess of Pembroke, and now he himself was to be charged with smuggling.

  Tulyet continued remorselessly. ‘Michaelhouse is particularly guilty: Roger Alcote has amassed a fortune by selling silver buckles; John Runham has been importing gold leaf with which to decorate his cousin’s tomb–’

  Michael grimaced. ‘Damn! I thought I had foiled his plans to impose that monstrosity on us by bribing the goldsmiths not to sell him any.’

  Tulyet tilted his chair backwards and put his feet on the table. ‘I have not finished. Father William has arranged to be sent hair shirts as a surprise gift for his students at Easter; Samuel Gray – your student, I believe, Matt – has a thriving business selling anything he can lay his hands on.’

  Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. No wonder Gray had failed his disputation if he was spending most of his time running a lucrative import business!

  ‘What about Ralph de Langelee?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘He always has money to spend on drink. He must be involved.’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Tulyet. ‘As far as I can tell, he and Master Kenyngham are about the only two Fellows in your College who are innocent in all this.’

  ‘I am innocent!’ protested Michael.

  Tulyet eyed the heavy gold cross Michael had worn since the installation. ‘Are you, Brother? Then where did that handsome bauble come from? It is not the work of any local smith.’

  ‘That is none of your affair,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But since you ask, I acquired it perfectly legally from Haralda the Dane, who occasionally works with gold.’

  Tulyet smiled and Bartholomew saw he did not believe a word Michael had said. ‘To continue: Jonas the Apothecary has ordered a feather bed for his wife’s bad back; Constantine Mortimer has been selling fine leather gloves from France to boost the profits he makes by selling bread.’ He gave Bartholomew’s hands a hard look. ‘But you already know that.’

  ‘These?’ asked Bartholomew, looking down at his gloves, aghast. ‘Mortimer gave me smuggled goods?’

  Tulyet nodded. ‘Do not feign shock with me, Matt. Mortimer is a baker. How do you imagine he came by gloves to sell?’

  ‘But I did not know,’ objected Bartholomew. He sounded feeble, even to his own ears, and had clearly not convinced Tulyet. Michael simply regarded him with sceptically raised eyebrows. ‘I did not buy them. Mortimer gave them to me.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Tulyet flatly. Michael still said nothing and the Sheriff continued. ‘Do you want to hear more? There is not a merchant, and scarcely a scholar, in the town who has not taken advantage of what the mild weather has to offer – except, it would seem, Thomas Deschalers.’

  ‘Deschalers?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘He must be involved – there are lemons wherever you look in the town.’

  The Sheriff gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Deschalers really has discovered that keeping fruit in his cellars increases its lifespan. He stockpiled lemons in the summer, and is able to sell them at a profit now. Because he is doing so well at his legal trade, he has had no need to engage in illegal activities. I checked everything in his cellars and he has the proper licences for the lot.’

  ‘Deschalers was the one who set us thinking about smuggling in the first place,’ said Michael, shaking his head slowly. ‘How ironic!’

  ‘Father Yvo of Bernard’s Hostel has been making money to repair a leaking roof by hawking fine quality parchment, would you believe!’ Tulyet leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘He thinks the constant damp is the cause of melancholia in one of his students, and he wanted to mend it to make the young man feel better.’

  ‘Paul gave me half the money he made from his contraband cloaks for the victims stricken with winter fever,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the gold the friar had given him, ‘and he sent the rest to the Leper Hospital.’

  Tulyet groaned. ‘It is one thing arresting half of Cambridge for committing crimes for their own gain; it is entirely another when they do it to help the sick and the poor. What in heaven’s name am I going to do? Seal off the town and present the entire population to the King? What a mess!’

  ‘Your position is not so impossible,’ said Michael thoughtfully. Tulyet looked at him hopefully. ‘The King will not want his prisons full of the town’s leading citizens – or scholars. Go to arrest your miscreants, but do not be discreet about it. You cannot arrest anyone unless you find smuggled goods in their possession, yes?’ Tulyet nodded and sat up straight. ‘Inform all your sergeants what you plan to do, and make sure everyone hears what you say. Then have a leisurely meal and go about your business. Anyone who does not have the sense to take the necessary precautions within the next hour or so deserves to be arrested anyway.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘The King will impose n
ew taxes on the merchants when he hears of this, and they will be too grateful that they have escaped imprisonment – or worse – to complain. It is a perfect compromise!’

  Michael sat back, his arms folded and a self-satisfied smile on his face. Bartholomew looked out of the window, wondering whether the town possessed a single honest citizen other than Kenyngham, Langelee and Deschalers – who was not involved only because he was doing rather better than usual legally.

  ‘Right,’ said Tulyet, rubbing his hands together. ‘After I have been home for something to eat and played a while with my young son, I will visit Constantine Mortimer. I have never liked him – he is hard on his wife Katherine and she is a kindly soul. Then I will see Oswald Stanmore and then Father Paul. Hopefully, by then the word will have spread.’

  He gave the scholars an absent grin and went to make his announcement to the soldiers in the bailey. Bartholomew and Michael left him to make a conspicuous show of organising his surprise raids and began to walk back towards Michaelhouse. On the way they met Cynric and dispatched him to tell Father Paul to dispose of his smuggled cloaks, while Bartholomew went with Michael to warn Stanmore.

  It was nearing dusk, and the apprentices were busy taking bales of cloth into the storerooms and tidying their tools away. Bartholomew sensed a light-heartedness that had been lacking before: Stanmore and Edith might grieve for Thorpe, but their apprentices certainly did not. Francis darted up to Michael and flashed him a grateful grin full of missing teeth, before racing off to help another boy close the storehouse doors. Stanmore emerged from his house, straining to read some jottings on a scrap of parchment. He stopped when he saw Bartholomew and Michael.

  ‘What has he done now?’ he asked with a weary sigh. ‘Has he accused me of ordering him to kill the Countess? Or Edith?’

  ‘We have not come about Rob Thorpe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet is arresting people who are thought to be involved in smuggling.’

  Stanmore met his eyes levelly. ‘So I have heard. Are you implying I might be a smuggler?’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘I am implying nothing, Oswald. I am merely passing you information. Tulyet says he can arrest offenders only if he finds evidence of smuggled goods in their possession.’

  Stanmore stroked his beard and watched the high-spirited apprentices jostling and pushing at each other as they finished their chores. ‘I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I assure you it is unnecessary.’

  Bartholomew nodded. He had delivered his message, and if Stanmore chose to ignore it then that was his business.

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ said Stanmore, reading Bartholomew’s thoughts with the ghost of a smile. ‘I am not trying to tell you I am not guilty: I would have been foolish to pass up a business opportunity such as has been presented this winter – there is barely a merchant in the town who has declined the trade that has come our way, and honesty would have forced a man out of business – but I am not so unwise as to leave evidence of it lying around in my own storerooms.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I can provide legal documentation for every fibre of cloth here and at my premises at Ely. And as for elsewhere, who knows where to look?’

  Bartholomew was astounded. He had never entertained any doubts about his brother-in-law’s ruthless efficiency in business, but he had not realised his talents extended to calm and skilful evasion of the King’s taxes. Stanmore made the other merchants, whose apprentices scurried here and there carrying hastily wrapped bundles, look like amateurs.

  Edith emerged from the kitchens, wiping her floury hands on her apron. Her eyes were red and Bartholomew knew she had been crying.

  ‘Matt has been telling me that Sheriff Tulyet is rounding up all those merchants who have been acquiring illicit goods through smuggling this winter,’ said Stanmore.

  Edith shook her head. ‘Silly men! If they are so greedy, they deserve to be arrested!’

  Behind her back, Stanmore winked at Bartholomew. Edith invited them for some cakes and mulled wine and, anxious to begin to heal the rift that still yawned between them, Bartholomew accepted. They sat for some time in Stanmore’s solar discussing the mild weather, the problems Michael faced in finding appropriate music for his choir, and the poor quality of the wool shipment Stanmore had recently received from Flanders – anything, in fact, except smuggling and the nasty affair of the murderous Rob Thorpe.

  ‘We should go,’ said Michael, taking the last cake and cramming it in his mouth. ‘It is almost supper time.’

  They made their farewells, Bartholomew relieved to escape the somewhat strained conversation. He sensed Edith was ambiguous in her feelings about his role in exposing Thorpe, but supposed she would come to accept it, given time. At least, he hoped so.

  In Milne Street the scene was chaotic, with people running here and there in uncontrolled mayhem. Dogs barked, men swore and panted under heavy burdens, and furious arguments took place as merchants squabbled over buying space on the barges moored at the wharves, to secrete their ill-gotten gains away before the Sheriff found them.

  The cause of all the panic was at the house of Constantine Mortimer. Indignant gibbering pursued Tulyet as he emerged from Mortimer’s house carrying a box. The baker scuttled after him, his red, bellicose face outraged, while his son Edward and wife Katherine were at his heels. Mortimer saw Bartholomew, and stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ he hissed, looking around him furtively. ‘Take off those damned gloves or you will have us both in the Sheriff’s prisons!’

  ‘I am sure Matt will furnish me with a receipt for those – should I feel the need to ask him for one,’ said Tulyet, making Mortimer jump by speaking in his ear. ‘Quite unlike this wine, I imagine.’

  ‘I had no idea that was there,’ Mortimer insisted angrily. ‘I never use that cellar. It is damp.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘Someone must have slipped into your cellars and hidden it carefully behind that pile of old crates for safekeeping. It is odd how so many people seem to have found themselves in the same position today.’

  ‘You are quite mistaken, father,’ said Edward nervously. ‘You bought that wine last summer. You have been keeping it to allow it to mature.’

  ‘The King allows his wines to mature before drinking them,’ put in Katherine.

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Mortimer impatiently. ‘I remember purchasing no wine.’

  ‘Of course you do, dear,’ said Katherine, favouring him with an indulgent smile. ‘You said we might drink it to celebrate Edward’s coming of age.’

  Mortimer looked taken aback, and his certainty began to waver. ‘Did I?’ he said, frowning.

  Bartholomew went to the box Tulyet was placing on the back of a cart and looked inside. There were six bottles made of smoked glass, the wine dark red inside them. He started back. The last time he had seen such a bottle it had been smashed on the floor under Isaac’s work-bench. He exchanged a glance with Michael.

  ‘When did you purchase this wine?’ asked Michael. ‘And where?’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Edward, uncharacteristically aggressive. ‘Father’s wines are no concern of the University.’

  ‘Really?’ said Michael, fixing him with a hard stare.

  ‘It is just good French wine,’ said Katherine, smiling lightly. ‘No more, no less.’

  Mortimer looked from one to the other belligerently. ‘All this fuss over half a crate of wine!’ he snapped. ‘If Katherine says I bought it, I did. I will have a receipt somewhere for it. I will hunt it out tomorrow.’

  ‘You will not find it,’ said Michael. ‘Because you never bought it.’ He turned to Edward and Katherine. ‘Despite the fact that your family is trying to suggest you did.’

  ‘He did buy it,’ insisted Edward. ‘Just because he does not remember, it does not mean to say it did not happen.’

  ‘You cheeky whelp!’ said Mortimer, taking a step towards his son threateningly. ‘Do you imply I am losing my wits? The business is not yours yet, Edward; you must
wait until I die.’

  Edward said nothing, although his expression indicated that Mortimer’s words generated ambiguous emotions within him: while he might long to be rid of his dominating, bellicose father, he certainly did not relish the prospect of inheriting a business in which he had no interest.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to try some,’ said Katherine, leaning into the box to take a bottle and offer it to Michael. ‘We have already sampled the other six bottles and found it most delicious.’

  ‘But James Grene did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And neither did Brother Armel.’

  Mortimer stared at him and then began to laugh. ‘The University’s poisoned wine! You think this is it! How ridiculous! Give it to me. I will prove how wrong you are.’

  He snatched the wine from Katherine and raised it to his mouth to draw out the cork with his teeth. Bartholomew slapped his hand down.

  ‘No,’ he said. He took the bottle carefully from the indignant Mortimer and held it out to Edward. ‘You drink it.’

  Edward regarded the bottle in horror and put his hands behind his back.

  ‘Edward does not drink wine,’ said Katherine quickly. ‘It makes him sick.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Mortimer. ‘He had some last night with no ill effects. Drink the wine, Edward. Prove to these insolent scholars how they slander the name of Mortimer.’

  Edward reached out a hand and slowly took the bottle from Bartholomew. Hesitantly, he began to raise it to his lips.

  ‘No!’ Katherine dashed the bottle from Edward’s hand and it smashed on the ground. Everyone leapt backwards and, for a moment, all eyes were on the dark liquid that pooled in the mud of the street. Then Edward tore towards Tulyet, knocked him off his feet, and had darted up Milne Street before anyone could stop him. Tulyet’s men gaped at him stupidly before the Sheriff’s angry cry set them racing after him.

  Mortimer looked about him in confusion. ‘What is going on?’ he demanded of Katherine. ‘What is he doing? Stupid boy! How does he imagine he will become a Master Baker when he is given to this kind of behaviour?’