A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  Cursing, Harling inadvertently glanced down at the ground as his leg sank into mud to the calf, and Bartholomew seized the opportunity to attempt to break away. He hurled himself to one side and tried to scramble out of Harling’s reach. But the ground was slippery with rain, and Harling’s reactions were much faster than he had anticipated. Harling had pounced on him and had the knife at his throat before he could take more than two or three steps away.

  ‘I may as well tell you now, to avoid any further efforts to escape, that I have your student Sam Gray hidden away in a safe place. If you do not want him found face-down in the King’s Ditch, you will do what I say. Do you understand?’

  Bartholomew gazed at him in horror, and forced himself to nod. The Vice-Chancellor moved away from him, although the knife remained in his hand. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew clambered to his feet.

  ‘You see, I was anticipating meeting you here,’ Harling continued, glancing downstream to where the waterwheel pounded the flooded river into a brown froth. ‘I thought I might have to resort to trickery to entice you out of Michaelhouse in all this rain, but I underestimated your devotion to your patients – poor Mistress Pike. I could not have chosen a better place to ambush you than that jungle Peterhouse calls its churchyard.’

  Bartholomew glanced down at the knife in Harling’s hand, and wondered whether the Vice-Chancellor would harm him with it. Harling followed his gaze and gave a nasty smile.

  ‘Do not fool yourself into believing that I will not use this,’ he said, brandishing it. ‘I fought for the King in France before I became a scholar, and killed more men than I care to remember. Run if you will, but I will get you.’

  He sprang forwards suddenly and made a deft flick with his wrist. Bartholomew looked down, and saw that Harling had neatly severed the leather straps of the medical bag he always wore looped around his shoulder. As it fell to the ground, Bartholomew was left convinced that Harling’s prowess with the knife was no idle boast.

  ‘Father Philius had a more practical demonstration of my skills with sharp objects – he put up a fight when he realised my visit to his chamber was not to enquire after his health, but he died instantly once I decided he should. I was told it took you quite some time to discover what had happened to him.’

  He smiled and Bartholomew felt sick. ‘You murdered Philius? That poor old friar only just out of his sickbed?’

  ‘He was asking too many questions,’ said Harling dismissively.

  ‘About the poisoned wine?’ asked Bartholomew, his bewildered mind trying to make sense of Harling’s revelations. ‘It was yours? But then why did Katherine Mortimer kill herself? I do not understand.’

  ‘That strong acidic poison was created in a small town in France where wolves are a particular problem. Its success has made it fairly well known to people interested in such things – I am sure one of Philius’s colleagues will have heard of it. That town in France happens to be where I spent quite some time in the service of the King – as many of my colleagues will know – and I did not want that particular association to be made. Now, do you believe I am as talented with blades as I say, or would you like yet another illustration?’

  ‘Where is Gray?’ asked Bartholomew numbly, his thoughts reeling. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Gray is in a safe place,’ said Harling. ‘And you will not find him, so do not bother to look. And in return for his life, I require something from you.’

  ‘What?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, when Harling paused.

  ‘You and Brother Michael mentioned you had occasion to spirit a nun away from Denny Abbey. This nun had been asking questions of some of my colleagues in the Fens and they, foolishly, gave her some answers, thinking her to be some dim-witted ancient. I suspect she is anything but. I want to know where you have secreted her.’

  ‘Why?’

  Harling made a grimace of impatience. ‘Do not act the fool with me, Bartholomew. Why do you think? I want her before she can pass this information to the Sheriff.’

  ‘But the Sheriff already knows what she has to say,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Brother Michael has passed him the information already.’

  ‘Liar!’ spat Harling. ‘All Michael did, after you and he went to whine to your friend the Sheriff about how you had been so viciously ambushed in the Fens, was go into All Saints’ Hostel for a drink. He needed to recover from the attempt on his life that another of my employees had so badly botched. And the nun certainly is not hidden in All Saints’. I checked.’

  ‘Michael suspected someone might be watching him, and so he left through the rear door,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He returned the same way, so that anyone watching would think he had been in All Saints’ the whole time. So, you see, the nun will be useless to you now. Where is Gray?’

  ‘There is no back door at All Saints’,’ sneered Harling. ‘If Brother Michael told you that, he is not telling you the truth.’

  ‘Michael has no cause to lie to me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘The Sheriff knows all the nun has to tell.’

  ‘Then why does he sit uselessly in his castle, scratching his head like some stupid schoolboy?’ asked Harling. ‘Why is he not out with his men looking for me and my companions?’

  ‘He has been,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was out all of yesterday and the day before.’

  His breath suddenly caught in his throat. Tulyet had said that he was still concerned that he did not have the outlaws who had been terrorising the roads around Cambridge. Was one of the outlaws Harling? Bartholomew was so confused he did not know what to think.

  ‘Then why am I still at large?’ asked Harling, smiling coldly as he read the physician’s thoughts. ‘And all the others who have been helping me? Why have we not been arrested? I tell you again, Bartholomew, if Brother Michael informed you that he passed Dame Pelagia’s list of names to Tulyet, then he is lying.’

  ‘Michael told Tulyet all she had to tell,’ insisted Bartholomew. He watched beads of rain slide off Harling’s greased hair, and the first seeds of doubt began to grow in his mind. If Dame Pelagia knew Harling to be a smuggler, then Michael most certainly had not told Tulyet: Harling was one of the few people in the town whose name was not on the list. Was Michael deliberately shielding the Vice-Chancellor in order to save the University from the embarrassment of having a criminal at its helm?

  Harling raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘You are loyal to your friends, which is more than can be said for Brother Michael. He has lied to you, Bartholomew – he has told the Sheriff nothing. Now, where is Dame Pelagia?’

  ‘I do not know,’ stammered Bartholomew.

  ‘You are not good at deceit,’ said Harling, unimpressed by Bartholomew’s feeble attempt to lie. ‘In fact, you are almost as dreadful as Michael is accomplished. I see you still do not believe me. Michael is clever and ambitious: do you think he will allow your friendship to stand between him and his goals of power and wealth? Of course he will not! And a man who passes up the offer of the Mastership of Valence Marie to wait for something better is ambitious indeed! Michael is fully aware that the smuggling ring he uncovered involves high-ranking members of the hostels and the Colleges, and that to expose it would have been an embarrassment to the University.’

  ‘But he did expose it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet knows several heads of houses and eminent scholars who were involved.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Harling with heavy sarcasm. ‘Then why do you think he suggested his clever solution – warning people to give them more time to hide the fruits of their crimes – to Tulyet? Do you think it was to save the merchants? Of course it was not! It was for the benefit of silly scholars, like the greedy opportunists from Michaelhouse – Alcote, Paul, William and Runham – not to mention Colton from Gonville and Lynton from Peterhouse.’

  ‘But the scholars were not treated differently from the merchants,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘That is patently untrue!’ snapped Harling. ‘It is the merchants who will pay the heavy taxes the
King will impose when he learns of this, not the University. And while the merchants’ actions will be bandied about for all to hear, the scholars’ role will be downplayed. As I said, Michael will not want the University embarrassed by this affair, because what embarrasses the University will embarrass its patron, the King. Do you think Michael will risk the wrath of the King when his greedy sights are set so high? Be honest with yourself, Bartholomew! Will he?’

  Bartholomew swallowed. He was uncertain. Michael was ambitious, and he would certainly think twice about exposing some devilish plot if he thought the King might not like it. Father Paul’s warning suddenly came unbidden into his mind: Paul had told Bartholomew that Michael’s ambition might bring him to harm. Would it? Bartholomew wanted to believe not, but at the back of his mind there was a nagging doubt. But why would Michael lie to Tulyet about what Dame Pelagia knew?

  ‘Michael told Tulyet he could provide him with the names of these smugglers,’ he said, thinking quickly. ‘Tulyet sent him to do it immediately. Do you think the Sheriff would have let the matter drop if Michael had failed to come up with the information he wanted?’

  ‘I think Michael fed Tulyet false information,’ said Harling with a shrug. ‘I believe he sat in All Saints’ Hostel, guzzling their wine, and made up a list of names that would send Tulyet on a wild-goose chase.’

  ‘That was no wild-goose chase,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A good many Fenland smugglers were caught. If Michael’s intelligence was false, how did Tulyet know to arrest them?’

  ‘But Michael’s so-called intelligence was all but worthless to Tulyet,’ said Harling in exasperation. ‘Tulyet is still seeking those he considers more dangerous than peddlers of figs, and shabby little Fenmen.’

  ‘And you consider yourself something better, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, wearied by Harling’s accusations, and with a sick feeling gnawing at the back of his mind that somewhere in the Vice-Chancellor’s story there might be a grain of truth.

  ‘Of course I am something more!’ snapped Harling. ‘My interests extend further than cheap gloves from France. Unlike you, it seems.’ He gave Bartholomew’s hands a disparaging glance.

  ‘But why are you doing this?’ cried Bartholomew suddenly, looking at the University’s second-in-command as his mind failed to make any sense of what the man was telling him. ‘You are the Vice-Chancellor!’

  ‘Precisely,’ spat Harling. ‘Vice-Chancellor! I have worked hard for this University, and I am Vice-Chancellor! The masters voted for that nonentity Tynkell over me. And Tynkell finally dragged himself from the pleasures of the Bishop’s palace at Ely today, so there is no real need for me at all. Brother Michael has leached away any powers the Vice-Chancellor might have had, and it is not me Tynkell calls upon when there are important matters to discuss – it is that fat monk. So, when the opportunity came to indulge in something a little different, I decided to take advantage of it, and it has made me a wealthy man. As soon as I have Dame Pelagia, I am leaving Cambridge. And there will be an end to it. Now, where have you hidden her?’

  Bartholomew gazed desperately at the swirling brown water. He guessed that as soon as Harling had what he wanted, he would show Bartholomew precisely how skilled he was with his weapon – as he had done with poor Philius. He wondered if he should jump in the river to avoid answering Harling and betraying the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia. But then what would happen to Gray? He rubbed a hand through his hair and met Harling’s glittering black eyes.

  ‘I cannot tell you,’ he said unsteadily. ‘She is an old lady.’ And Matilde was with her, he thought. Matilde should not be exposed to any more danger just because she had been kind enough to hide Dame Pelagia at his request.

  ‘Then Gray will die,’ said Harling with a shrug. ‘And I will find Dame Pelagia in the end – Brother Michael is sure to visit her at some point. Your telling me will just save us some time. Hurry up, Bartholomew. Or do you want Gray’s death to be on your head – for nothing?’

  ‘How do I know you will not kill him anyway?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How can I trust you to let him go?’

  ‘You cannot,’ said Harling. ‘But you are not in a position to negotiate.’

  ‘How do I know you even have him at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You might be bluffing.’

  ‘I might be,’ said Harling, ‘but are you prepared to take that risk?’

  Bartholomew thought of Matilde and her long silky hair. She was an innocent in all this, just like Gray. The only reason they were involved was because they were unfortunate enough to be acquainted with Bartholomew. He should never have suggested to Michael that they use Matilde’s house to hide Dame Pelagia, and he had no doubt that once he had told Harling where to look, Matilde would be sacrificed to ensure her silence, just as would Dame Pelagia. And Gray? Harling could well be making the whole thing up: Gray would not be an easy person to take hostage because he was quick-witted, resourceful and ruthless.

  ‘I am sorry for Gray,’ said Bartholomew, coming to a decision and meeting Harling’s eyes. ‘But I will not tell you what you want to know.’

  For a moment, Harling and Bartholomew regarded each other without moving. And then both moved suddenly. As Harling lunged at Bartholomew with the knife, Bartholomew dived under its blade, grabbed Harling around the knees and twisted to one side. The two men tumbled to the ground, spray flying high as they hit the sodden grass. Harling’s dagger glinted once in the dull light of the late afternoon and then plunged downwards.

  Chapter 11

  Bartholomew saw Harling’s knife flash above his head, and twisted sideways so that it plunged harmlessly into the mud. He grabbed Harling’s wrist as the Vice-Chancellor raised his arm to try again, flinching away when he saw the knife begin to descend a second time, inching inexorably towards him as Harling leaned all of his weight behind it. Bartholomew suddenly pulled downwards and to one side, so that Harling was thrown off balance and the weapon went cartwheeling away to land somewhere out of sight.

  Immediately, Harling leapt at him again, hands clawing at his clothes as he tried to haul the physician towards the churning river. Startled by the ferocity of the attack, Bartholomew could do little more than fend off the blows, trying to prevent the enraged Vice-Chancellor from gaining a good hand-hold. His feet skidded in the thick, cloying mud near the water’s edge as he felt himself being dragged towards it. Not far away, the great mill wheel pounded and thumped through the racing river, the hiss of the fast-flowing current almost drowned out by the creak and groan of the protesting wood. And then Bartholomew realised exactly what Harling intended to do with him.

  He knew the miller would not run the wheel while the river was flooded, and could think only that Harling had managed to start it before he had captured his prey in the churchyard outside Peterhouse: even if Bartholomew were stabbed, the wheel would destroy any evidence that his death was anything other than an appalling accident.

  They were at the water’s edge, so close that Bartholomew could feel the breeze of it passing almost underneath his head. Another few inches and he would be under, helpless while Harling held him below the surface until he drowned. With a strength made great by fear, he struggled with all his might, succeeding in partly dislodging Harling’s grip on his cloak so that he was able to rise to his feet. Harling reacted quickly, hooking a foot behind Bartholomew’s legs, so that the physician fell flat on his back. Before he could move, Harling had pounced, and sat astride him, seizing two handfuls of his hair to force his head down towards the water.

  Bartholomew felt icy fingers of river touch the back of his scalp and struggled for all he was worth. But Harling was strong, and Bartholomew felt himself beginning to weaken. Above him, he could see the grin of tense concentration on Harling’s face as he leaned forward, intending to use the weight of his body to press Bartholomew under the water. With all his remaining strength, the physician brought both knees up as hard as he could, at the same time grabbing Harling’s tabard and pulling on it. With a yelp of surprise,
Harling, his balance already precarious, sailed clean over Bartholomew’s head and landed with a splash in the river.

  For a moment, Bartholomew could do nothing but stare up at the dirty grey clouds that gathered overhead, but then he forced himself to sit up. At first, he thought the Vice-Chancellor must have already been swept away to be crushed under the great wheel, but then he glimpsed something white, and he saw Harling gripping the long grass at the side of the river, looking up at Bartholomew in a mute appeal for help. Revolted, Bartholomew gazed back at the man who had admitted to killing poor, helpless Philius, and who had unleashed the vile substance on the town that had provoked such bitter accusations and treachery.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Harling cried piteously, his teeth chattering with cold and fear. ‘Help me!’

  ‘Where is Gray?’ asked Bartholomew, edging nearer, aware that their struggles had weakened the bank, and that it might collapse at any moment and send them both away down the river towards the waterwheel and certain death.

  ‘Help me and I will tell you,’ pleaded Harling. ‘Please hurry!’ Terrified, he stretched one hand towards Bartholomew, clinging to the grass with the other.

  Bartholomew stared at it. ‘Where is Gray?’ he demanded again, aware that Harling’s left hand was sliding slowly, but inexorably, down the stems as the river tugged at him.

  ‘I will tell you when I am out,’ Harling shouted desperately. ‘If you do not help me, you will never find him, and he will die. Hurry, for God’s sake!’

  Moving closer to the edge, Bartholomew crouched down and reached out until Harling could grip his outstretched hand. And then the Vice-Chancellor pulled as hard as he could. Tumbling forwards, Bartholomew snatched at the weeds on the bank, trying to tear his arm from Harling’s murderous hold. He grabbed a fistful of stalks, but heard them tearing from the ground as Harling braced both feet against the bank and yanked as hard as he could on Bartholomew’s hand.