And then Bartholomew’s glove began to slip loose. He saw Harling’s look of horror, as first one finger, and then another, came free. Then the rest flew off with a rush, and Bartholomew caught a fleeting glimpse of Harling’s disbelieving face before the Vice-Chancellor was swept away by the current. Bartholomew fell backwards onto the bank, trying to shut out the sound of the thumping waterwheel, and hoping he imagined the slight change in its tempo and pitch at about the time Harling would have reached it.
Shaking almost uncontrollably, he sat up and scanned the river for Harling, but the Vice-Chancellor was nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew did not feel able to look for the body he knew he would find squashed and battered further downstream: it would not be the first time he had seen a corpse crushed by the waterwheel, and he knew it would not be a pleasant sight. In sudden disgust, he tore off his other glove, and threw that in the river, too.
Thinking of nothing but of finding Gray, he snatched up his damaged bag, and began to run along the river path towards Michaelhouse. Dusk was falling when he reached the College, and he made straight for the student’s room. He flung open the door and sagged against the wall in relief when the astonished faces of Gray and Bulbeck looked up at him. Gray leapt to his feet when he saw the dishevelled, muddy state of his teacher.
‘What happened to you?’ he exclaimed, drawing Bartholomew inside and closing the door. ‘You look as though you have been rolling around in the mud near the river!’
Bartholomew glanced at him sharply, but Gray was already tipping some dirty clothes from a stool so that Bartholomew could sit down, and he supposed Gray’s remark was a chance one. He sank down on the stool, while Bulbeck regarded him dubiously from his bed. Gray handed the physician a cup of warm milk, and Bartholomew had drunk most of it before he realised it was probably something Agatha had sent to aid Bulbeck’s recovery.
‘You are unharmed, Sam?’ he asked Gray anxiously. ‘Nothing has happened to you?’
‘I am fine,’ said Gray, but then exchanged an unreadable glance with Bulbeck.
‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, a cold, uneasy feeling fluttering in the pit of his stomach.
‘I went out to buy a candle,’ began Gray. ‘Deynman stayed here to take care of Tom.’ He exchanged another uncertain look with Bulbeck.
‘Where is Deynman now?’ said Bartholomew, sitting bolt upright and looking around the room as though he imagined Deynman might appear from under the bed or out of the chest.
‘A message came for me to attend one of the people with winter fever,’ said Gray, ‘but since I was out, Deynman wanted to go in my place.’
‘I tried to stop him,’ said Bulbeck. ‘But he insisted, even though you have instructed that he is not to attend patients without you.’
Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘Where is he? Did he not come back?’
The two students shook their heads. ‘He has been gone for ages,’ said Gray. ‘The curfew bell will ring soon and we are worried about him.’
‘Oh no!’ groaned Bartholomew. He closed his eyes in despair. Gray was safe, but Harling had Deynman instead, and Harling’s companions would surely kill him in retaliation for Bartholomew’s refusal to reveal the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia. But, then, perhaps they would not even know where Harling had secreted him, and with Harling dead, Deynman might never be found – just as Harling had claimed. He fought to bring his appalled imaginings under control.
‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Whatever happens, do not leave Michaelhouse. If anyone asks you to run an errand, say Tom is too ill to be left. Do you promise?’
The two students nodded. ‘But where is Rob?’ asked Gray. ‘What has happened to him?’
‘I will try to find out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Will you give me your word that you will stay here?’
Gray nodded impatiently. ‘We have already said we will. Do not worry about us, just find Rob. He owes me three silver pennies.’
Bartholomew’s only thought was to search Harling’s room at Physwick Hostel first and then his office at St Mary’s Church. He set off across the yard at a run, and almost collided with Michael and two beadles, returning from Valence Marie. Michael caught him by the arm as he made to rush past.
‘Matt!’ he exclaimed. He looked his friend up and down in horror. ‘What has happened to you? We were only gone a short while. How have you managed to end up in such a mess?’
‘Harling has Deynman,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, trying to tear himself free of Michael. ‘I must find him.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Michael. ‘Harling?’
‘Harling has been smuggling,’ said Bartholomew impatiently, desperate to begin his search for Deynman. ‘He kidnapped Rob, and said he would kill him if I did not reveal the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia.’
Michael’s eyes went round with shock. ‘Matt! You did not tell him?’
‘Of course I did not!’ snapped Bartholomew.
‘Are you sure Deynman has gone with Harling, and is not just off in a tavern somewhere?’ asked Cynric, emerging from some shadows where he had apparently been listening. ‘It would not be the first time.’
‘No, I am not sure. But he is not in his room, and Gray and Bulbeck are worried about him, so I can only assume Harling captured him.’
‘Harling!’ said Michael, with a glint of amusement in his green eyes. ‘No wonder he discouraged me from having dealings with the Sheriff, and gave you his permission not to help me with my inquiries. Crafty old devil!’
‘This is not a game!’ yelled Bartholomew in frustration. ‘Deynman might be in danger. He might even be dead. And meanwhile, Harling’s companions are out searching for Dame Pelagia, so do not look so complacent.’
Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘I apologise, Matt. Now, you cannot go out looking like that. I assume you mean to search Harling’s room at Physwick Hostel or his office at the church? Well you will not get past the porters dressed like a beggar. Put on a clean tabard and wipe the filth from your face. And while you do so, you can tell me what happened.’
Bartholomew shot a despairing look at the gate, but Cynric blocked his path. ‘Brother Michael is right, boy,’ he said gently. ‘No porter would open the gates for you while you are so covered in filth.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew went to his room and stripped off his dirty tabard and cloak. While he scrubbed the thick, peaty mud from his face and hair, and Cynric sat cross-legged on the floor and mended his bag, Bartholomew told them what had happened. Michael immediately summoned his two beadles, drinking ale in the kitchen with Agatha, and ordered them to make a search of the river near the King’s Mill for Harling’s body.
‘Harling could never have survived going down the mill race,’ said Cynric. ‘He is dead. And if he is dead, he cannot harm Deynman.’
‘But he is not so foolish as to keep a student locked in his hostel or his office,’ mused Michael. ‘He could not possibly keep such a thing secret. We will have to look elsewhere for Deynman.’
‘Such as where?’ asked Bartholomew helplessly, not having the faintest idea where to begin.
‘Such as one of the smugglers’ haunts,’ said Michael. ‘But to find out where those are, we will need to question the smugglers.’
‘Harling claimed you had not given Tulyet the names of the smugglers Dame Pelagia knew,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at Michael as he scrubbed at his wet hair with a piece of linen.
Michael shrugged and stared out of the window. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched.
‘I assured him you went with Cynric out of the back door of All Saints’ Hostel, so that no one would know where you were going,’ he said, staring hard at Michael. ‘And that you learned the names of the smugglers from Dame Pelagia, and passed them to Tulyet.’
Cynric looked uncomfortable. ‘All Saints’ does not have a back door, boy,’ he said. ‘When was this supposed to have happened?’
Bartholomew gazed at Michael accusingly. ‘You said you had been to get the sm
ugglers’ names from your grandmother!’ he said in a low voice.
Michael gnawed at his lower lip nervously. ‘I can explain that. It is not how it appears.’
‘You lied to me,’ whispered Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Just like Harling said you did.’
‘I was afraid for her!’ shouted Michael angrily, as he leapt to his feet in Bartholomew’s room, driven to rage by the physician’s accusations of dishonesty. ‘And for Matilde, too, if you want the truth. I knew we were being followed and so did Cynric, and I was not sure we would be able to throw them off. The last thing I wanted to do was to lead these men straight to my grandmother and your woman!’
‘I am not questioning that!’ Bartholomew yelled back. ‘I am questioning why you lied to me. I would have understood perfectly if you had explained why you did not go to Matilde’s house. Why did you feel the need to lie?’
‘Because I already knew the names of some of these smugglers, and I did not want to tell you how I came by them,’ said Michael, more quietly.
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew coldly, pulling on the tabard Cynric handed him. ‘So I am good enough company when it comes to examining bodies for you and being attacked in the Fens, but I am not to be trusted with anything more sensitive!’
‘That is not true, Matt,’ said Michael wearily. ‘I would trust you with my life and well you know it. The reason I did not tell you the truth was that …’ His voice petered off into silence.
‘Well?’ demanded Bartholomew, hunting around in the semi-darkness for his boots. Cynric had fetched a candle from Michael’s room and so there was a little light. ‘What is this great reason?’
‘That the information came from Edith,’ said Michael softly.
Bartholomew’s boot fell from his hands and he swung round to face Michael in amazement. ‘Now I have heard everything! What would Edith know about smuggling? If you must prevaricate, Michael, at least think of something convincing to say.’
‘Why do you think I have kept it from you?’ snapped Michael. ‘I knew your reaction would be just what it is – furious disbelief. And it was safer for Edith that only I knew. Even Oswald is ignorant of the matter. And you are right – if I were going to deceive you, I would come up with a better story than this. However, it happens to be the truth.’
Bartholomew sat on the bed and watched Michael warily. ‘Tell me, then,’ he said. ‘How did you persuade Edith to act as your spy?’
‘I did not persuade her,’ said Michael huffily. ‘Her involvement was her own choice, not mine.’ He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. ‘As we have said, ad nauseam, since all this started, smuggling has always been rife in these parts. Therefore it was no great surprise when the Fenmen grew increasingly bold and began selling their goods more openly in the town this year because the waterways have remained ice-free. At first, neither University nor town saw harm in it. Why should people not have small luxuries from time to time?’
‘Most laudable, Brother,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘It is always wise to tempt people to buy foods they have no idea how to prepare – like Constantine Mortimer and his lemons. We are lucky no one has become seriously ill. But what of Edith? And hurry up. I have to go out.’
Michael shot him an unpleasant look. ‘This year, the Fen smugglers have been especially successful. Because they have become wealthy, some of them have become brazen. A few have been exceptionally indiscreet and have been bragging about their escapades, and that is where Edith comes in.’
‘Go on,’ said Bartholomew, emptying the rank river water from his boots out of the window.
‘From time to time, as Senior Proctor, I have to deal with students who have become lonely, homesick or love-lorn, and some of them try to take their own lives. I am no maidenly aunt as you know and I have had occasion to call upon a woman’s gentle touch with some of the more difficult cases. Edith has helped me several times, the most recent example of which was Brother Xavier.’
‘Xavier?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up from tugging on his boots. ‘Xavier from St Bernard’s Hostel, who came to fetch us when Armel was poisoned?’
Michael nodded. ‘I am under seal of confession, you understand, but suffice to say Xavier is a troubled soul who needed a motherly shoulder. Edith was kind and helped him immeasurably. Now, Bernard’s is next to the Brazen George, and the dormitory overlooks one of its gardens. Through his window, Xavier heard some of the smugglers boasting about the profits made this year to a few of their companions and told Edith about it. Edith, acting as a good citizen, told me.’
‘Why you?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Why not Oswald? Or Tulyet?’
‘Partly because I was available, partly because she trusted me because I am your friend, and partly because she was afraid Oswald would prevent her from helping Xavier if he knew what the lad was telling her. You know he is overly protective.’
‘And?’ asked Bartholomew, unimpressed. ‘This is still a long way from why you lied to me about seeing Dame Pelagia.’
Michael sighed. ‘Edith, through listening to Xavier, sent me the names of several Fenmen involved in smuggling. It was interesting to know the identities of these men, but not particularly important. Until, that is, the smugglers became more confident and brash, and we reasoned that they might be the same outlaws that Tulyet had been chasing – and even, perhaps, the same ones who hired the mercenaries to attack us near Denny. Then Edith’s information became very important. I told Tulyet I could get the names he needed from my grandmother so he would not guess I had them already.’
‘So you lied to protect Edith,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing him with open scepticism.
‘Yes,’ said Michael, ignoring his friend’s doubtful expression. ‘As I said, when we thought we were just dealing with the Fenmen who have been running their smuggling trade for years, her information was nothing. But when smuggling developed into outlawry, and there were burglaries and attacks on travellers, her information became potentially dangerous – especially to her. And can you imagine what Oswald would say if he learns what she has been involved in? She also made me promise I would not tell you.’
‘And so, when you told Tulyet you were going to see Dame Pelagia, you had no intention of visiting her,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘It was an excellent opportunity to pass along Edith’s information and it did not put her, Dame Pelagia or Matilde at risk.’
‘And of course Tulyet is still ignorant of who these outlaws are,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘Michael! How could you have been so foolish! You have assumed that the information Edith had from Xavier’s eavesdropping at the Brazen George is the same that Dame Pelagia would have heard from her questions in the kitchens at Denny.’
‘So?’ asked Michael defensively. ‘Of course it will be the same.’
‘It will not!’ yelled Bartholomew in frustration. ‘Deschalers was surprised when you told him the smugglers were active around Denny Abbey – not that there were smugglers, but that there were smugglers in that particular area. Tulyet knows he does not have the men who are responsible for the attacks on the roads and the burglaries in the town. Those are the names Dame Pelagia has, not those of the Fenmen who have been committing petty crimes with smuggled figs, nor those of the merchants and scholars who have been taking advantage of the opportunity to make a profit from the warm weather!’
‘But my grandmother told Deschalers that the men in Denny’s kitchens were just the kinsmen of the lay sisters,’ shouted Michael. ‘You heard her!’
Bartholomew slammed his hand on the windowsill, furious with him. ‘She is not stupid, Michael – unlike you it seems! What was sitting on Deschalers’s table as we waited for him to come to take Julianna off our hands? Sugared almonds! An expensive commodity to leave around for casual visitors to devour, you will agree. Dame Pelagia probably suspected Deschalers was involved and did not want him to guess she knew more than she was telling.’
‘
But he was not involved!’ Michael insisted. ‘His lemons were legal.’
‘But Dame Pelagia did not know that, did she!’
‘Oh, Lord!’ said Michael in a quieter tone, blood draining from his face. ‘You are right!’
‘Of course I am right!’ snapped Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair again and beginning to pace up and down in the small room. ‘And we told Harling all about it! He came to see us here and asked what we had discovered. He even offered Dame Pelagia a safe house. Safe indeed! We should have guessed all this days ago!’
‘But we had no evidence,’ said Michael in a low voice. Bartholomew saw the fat monk’s hands were trembling and that he was as white as snow. He swallowed his anger with difficulty, and went to the shelf near the window to pour him some wine. Michael took it gratefully and took an uncharacteristically small sip. Bartholomew imagined he must be shaken indeed.
‘Well, what do we do now?’ he asked, suddenly very tired, but far too agitated to sit. ‘By his own admission, Harling was guilty of kidnapping, smuggling and the murder of Philius. He was also the man responsible for bringing the poisoned wine to Cambridge.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Michael unsteadily. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because he told me he had killed Philius for asking too many questions about the nature of the poison in the wine. Which means he was probably also the third person who killed Isaac with Katherine and Edward. That whole business was well organised and no clues were left behind. It is exactly the kind of ruthless efficiency I would expect from a man like Harling.’
‘But why all this death and destruction?’ asked Michael, rubbing his face hard with his hands. ‘None of the other smugglers has gone to such lengths to hide his crimes.’
A Deadly Brew Page 37
