A Deadly Brew mb-4

by Susanna GREGORY

  Like Alcote’s students, Michael’s Benedictines were obliged to manage without him — he was with Vice-Chancellor Harling at St Mary’s Church discussing the ambush and composing a message to inform the Bishop of what had happened — and they sat quietly in the middle of the room analysing one of St Augustine’s Sermons in low voices, although occasional laughter and a good deal of grinning made Bartholomew suspect their conversation had wandered somewhat from the original topic. Bartholomew’s own students sat in two lines on wall benches under the unglazed windows, shivering in the draught and wrapped in an odd assortment of cloaks and blankets.

  Michaelhouse Fellows had a choice as far as teaching in the hall was concerned: they could close the shutters and sit in the dark, or they could open the shutters and have daylight — along with the full force of the elements that blasted in through the glassless tracery. Since reading was difficult in the dark — and Michaelhouse finances did not stretch to providing candles during the night, let alone in the daylight hours — wintertime lectures were usually given to rows of pinched, frozen faces poking out from improbable collections of bed covers, extra clothes and even rugs.

  The disputations for students of medicine had been scheduled for the next afternoon and, feeling a huge sense of urgency that his class should succeed, given the chronic shortage of qualified physicians since the plague, Bartholomew grilled the would-be healers relentlessly, firing questions in rapid succession that had them reeling.

  When the bell rang to announce the end of the morning’s teaching, so that the hall could be cleared and made ready for the midday meal, the students heaved sighs of relief, and escaped from their demanding master as quickly as they could. Bartholomew, however, was worried. While not even in his wildest dreams did he imagine Deynman would be successful, he had expected Bulbeck, Gray and the others to do well, and was perturbed that their answers to his questions were hesitant and incomplete.

  While the Bible Scholar stumbled his way through some incomprehensible genealogy from the Old Testament as they ate, Bartholomew toyed listlessly with his boiled barley and soggy cabbage, his appetite waning further still when he discovered a well-cooked slug among the greens. The more he thought about it, the more he resented losing two valuable days to the ambush in the Fens when he should have been concentrating on his work.

  After Kenyngham had ended the meal by reading grace, Bartholomew rounded up his students, and marched them off to the conclave for some additional lessons, abandoning his own plans to work on his treatise on fevers that afternoon. He taught until the light faded and the young men were no more than dark shapes with voices that were hoarse with tiredness, and then he continued until he became aware that at least two of them were asleep, exhaustion and the dark taking their toll. Reluctantly, he released them and went to his room, feeling far more anxious about their impending examinations than they were. He sat at his table and lit a vile-smelling tallow candle, intending to write a paragraph or two about contagion before he retired to bed.

  He heard one of Michael’s room-mates snoring in the chamber above him, and the slap of sandals on the wooden floor as someone moved around. Agatha’s favourite cockerel crowed once in the darkness, and somewhere in the town a group of people was singing at the tops of their voices. Firelight flickered temptingly from the kitchen, and Agatha’s raucous laughter wafted across the yard as she sat chatting with the other servants. And then it was silent. He wrote three sentences and promptly dozed off, waking abruptly when he almost set his hair alight as his head nodded towards the candle. With a sigh, he doused the flame, and groped his way over to the bed, wrapping himself in his blanket and shivering until he fell asleep.

  He awoke the following morning feeling refreshed and far more hopeful about his students’ chances of passing their disputations than he had been the day before. He went with Father Paul to prepare the church for the morning service, ate a hearty breakfast of warmish oatmeal and grey, grainy bread, and set about his teaching with renewed enthusiasm. By the time the bell rang to announce the end of the day’s lessons, he was pleased with the progress his students had made, and felt that all but Deynman should do his hard work justice — Deynman’s was a case beyond all earthly help.

  He visited three patients with a recurrence of the winter fever that he was certain was caused by drinking from the well in Water Lane. Because it was easier and quicker to use the Water Lane well than the one in the Market Square, people were still becoming ill and, short of sealing it up, Bartholomew did not know how to stop them: claiming that invisible substances were seeping into it from the river was not a sufficiently convincing reason to make them change the habits of a lifetime.

  When he had finished with the winter-fever patients, Bartholomew then went to St John’s Hospital to tend a man with a palsy. On the way back, he met Michael, who had been investigating a burglary in nearby St Clement’s Hostel — the outlaws had struck again.

  Since they were close, Bartholomew persuaded Michael to walk up Castle Hill to see Sheriff Tulyet and describe to him, first hand, their experiences with the outlaws on the Cambridge to Ely causeway. Michael regarded the hill with apprehensive eyes, but agreed that it would be courteous to visit the beleaguered Sheriff, to see if their personal account of the ambush in the Fens might help him to catch the men who were terrorising the public highways and attacking property in the town.

  They walked towards the Great Bridge, and paid the toll to be allowed to cross it. They trod carefully, wary of the rotten timbers that had crumbled away to reveal the swollen, stinking river below, and of the low sides, where the stone had been plundered to repair buildings in the town. Carts creaked across it, horses picking their way cautiously and stumbling as their hooves turned on the uneven surface. Their owners yelled, cajoled and urged, making almost as much noise as they did when they sold their wares at the market. Beyond the bridge, the road rose in a muddy trail to the churches of St Giles and St Peter, standing almost opposite each other, and then to the mighty castle beyond.

  Michael complained bitterly about the exercise, although the hill was neither steep nor tall, and by the time they reached the top, the fat monk’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat and his scanty supply of patience had evaporated. When a pardoner sidled up to them and invited them to look at his goods, Michael’s face assumed such an expression of anger that the man scuttled away as fast as his legs would carry him.

  ‘That was unnecessary, Brother,’ said Bartholomew reprovingly, watching the pardoner run. ‘He needs to make a living and life is not easy for itinerants in the winter.’

  ‘He should know monks do not buy pardons,’ retorted Michael, unrepentant. ‘And anyway, I have sworn a vow of poverty and have no money to spend on such foolishness.’

  ‘That is not what you told Walter,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘What of these silver candlesticks from the Holy Land and your illustrated manuscripts?’

  ‘I possess no such things!’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Really, Matt! Do you believe everything I say? What I do have, however, is important documents and writs. I cannot have that good-for-nothing porter not bothering to protect my room because he thinks I own nothing of value. Now he believes I own a veritable treasure trove, he will be more careful.’

  That was probably true, thought Bartholomew. Walter would not wish to risk being held responsible for the loss of Michael’s fictitious treasures — although he would care nothing for scrolls — and would doubtless make more of an effort to ensure the monk’s chamber was secure from now on.

  The castle, dominating the town from its hill, was a collection of squat, grey buildings surrounded by a sturdy curtain wall. The curtain enclosed a wide expanse of muddy ground that was nearly always active with some kind of military training, and was overlooked by the great round keep at the far end. Tulyet’s office was on the first floor of this austere Norman tower, the jagged crenellations of which pierced the white winter sky like blackened teeth.

  Unusually, the baile
y was almost deserted. There was a sergeant at the gate, and one or two archers lounged around the wall-walk, but the bulk of the garrison was out, attempting to hunt down the outlaws. It was an almost impossible task: the daylight hours were few, and the Fenlands to the north and the great forests to the south provided excellent cover for thieves and robbers. The sergeant, who had admitted Michael to the castle on many occasions, let them in and left them to find their own way to the Sheriff’s office. Hearing their voices as they climbed the newel stair, Richard Tulyet came to greet them.

  ‘Cynric told me about your experience with these outlaws,’ he said without preamble, waving them to seats on a bench that ran the length of two of the walls. ‘He was able to give me an excellent description of them, which will be useful, but I am concerned that they so shamelessly strutted into the town and had a drink at the Brazen George before leaving on their murderous mission.’

  Bartholomew sat on the bench nearest the fire. Michael might be hot and sweaty from his exertions, but the physician was frozen to the bone. ‘They were confident,’ he agreed. ‘And well-organised.’

  ‘So Cynric said,’ said Tulyet, sitting at his desk and leaning back in the chair. ‘I have a strong suspicion that the outlaws I have been hunting this winter and the men who attacked you are one and the same. It is unlikely that there are two well-run criminal bands operating in the same area. At least, I hope not!’

  ‘Did you know about the smuggling that takes place in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And I know it has become far more prevalent this year because the mild winter has kept the waterways open.’

  ‘So, you think these smugglers are also responsible for the burglaries in the town and the robberies on the roads of which Sir Oswald Stanmore has been complaining?’ asked Michael.

  Tulyet picked up a quill and began to chew the end. ‘I do. But speaking of Stanmore, what about the deaths of his men — Egil and Jurnet? Have you told him about that yet? It is not a task I envy you; Stanmore is protective over the people who work for him.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘We told him yesterday. Alan of Norwich killed Jurnet and Julianna did away with Egil.’

  Tulyet looked up sharply and Michael gave a sigh. ‘Ignore him, Dick,’ said the monk in a voice that bespoke long suffering. ‘I saw the grip Egil had around Matt’s throat, and so did Cynric. I would have brained the man myself had he been within my reach. Julianna saved Matt’s life.’

  ‘Did you not recognise Egil as you fought?’ asked Tulyet of Bartholomew.

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The moon was in and out, and it was difficult to see clearly. I imagine the poor man had been wandering in the Fens for the previous two days and, quite reasonably, assumed that anyone on the highway in the dead of night, walking as furtively as we were, was up to no good. He attacked without trying to discover who we were.’

  ‘I spoke with Egil when he first arrived in Cambridge,’ said Tulyet, frowning. ‘I interview any stranger who stays here longer than a week — we cannot be too careful with strangers these days — and he told me that he knew the Fens around Ely like the back of his hand.’

  ‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, uncertain of the point the Sheriff was trying to make.

  ‘So if he knew the Fens so well, he would not have wandered for two days before finding the road again,’ said Tulyet impatiently.

  ‘True,’ said Michael, thinking hard. ‘Oswald Stanmore said that Egil preferred the Fens to the town, and often went fishing there. And he certainly knew where the Ely causeway went when it disappeared underwater on our outward journey. No, Matt. Egil would not have been lost.’

  ‘Perhaps he was injured,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and left for dead by the smugglers.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Tulyet. ‘But we will know that for certain when you examine the body properly. I take it Stanmore has gone to fetch it back?’

  Bartholomew nodded, wondering whether it was worth protesting at Tulyet’s cavalier assumption that he would act as coroner for him.

  ‘I arrested Thomas Bingham — the University’s newest Master — for the murder of James Grene this morning,’ said Tulyet, almost casually. ‘We have him locked in a room upstairs.’

  Michael leapt to his feet. ‘What? Bingham? On what evidence?’

  ‘On the evidence we all saw,’ said Tulyet. ‘Grene was poisoned at Bingham’s installation. Apparently, his Fellows began their own investigation when Vice-Chancellor Harling told them you had been called away, and Father Eligius came to me and made a case for his arrest earlier today. Essentially, he pointed out that someone killed Grene, and the only person to benefit from his death was Bingham. And perhaps even more damning was the fact Grene confided he was in fear of his life from Bingham shortly before his death to Eligius and to two other Valence Marie Fellows.’

  ‘Grene confided his fear to three Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘That is damning. But why did you arrest Bingham? This is a matter for the Proctors, not the Sheriff. It is a crime against the University, committed on University property.’

  ‘You were busy investigating the outlaws’ attack on St Clement’s Hostel, and could not be found. And Harling thought Bingham would be safer with me than in the Proctors’ gaol. Despite the fact that no one much cared for Grene while he was alive, sympathy for him dead has exceeded the bounds of all reason, because so many people witnessed his murder. Harling was afraid Grene’s supporters might march against the less-secure Proctors’ prison, and try to lynch Bingham.’

  Michael puffed out his cheeks. ‘Harling is probably right. And it is all down to this damned relic of Valence Marie’s!’

  ‘The relic found last year?’ asked Tulyet, startled. ‘What is that to do with Grene’s murder?’

  ‘Because since we returned from Denny, I have lost track of the times that I have been asked when the Chancellor plans to reinstate that wretched hand to Valence Marie. People believe Grene died for the thing — and that Bingham is leading a sinister plot to discredit it.’

  ‘How can people be so gullible?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I thought we had exposed that horrible thing as a fake — and, perhaps even more importantly, proved that the saint it was said to have come from was no more a martyr than I am.’

  ‘There speaks a man of science,’ said Tulyet, grimly amused. ‘People do not need facts to whip them up into a fanatical frenzy about something, Matt. If you made a convincing case that cows could fly, you would find people willing to believe it — and even to die for it — despite what their experience and common sense dictates to them.’

  ‘I am concerned that Grene expressed fears for his safety to three Valence Marie Fellows,’ said Michael, gnawing on his lower lip. ‘This is beginning to look very bad for Bingham.’

  ‘Can we be sure all three are telling the truth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What if they are the same three who voted for Grene in the election, and this is no more than College politics running wild?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Father Eligius is lying?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘He is one of the University’s foremost scholars.’

  ‘No one saw Bingham give Grene the poisoned wine,’ said Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace. ‘And murdering him would be a foolish thing to do in front of half the town. I cannot believe Bingham did it.’

  ‘Then who did?’ asked Tulyet, watching him move back and forth across the small room. ‘Who else might gain?’

  ‘Father Eligius himself,’ suggested Michael quietly.

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration. ‘He was offered the Mastership and he did not want it. He has no motive for wanting Grene dead.’

  ‘He has no motive that we know about,’ corrected Michael. ‘But there is always the relic that he feels so strongly about. Perhaps Grene’s death is somehow connected to that.’

  ‘I suppose he was very quick to accuse Bingham of Grene’s murder,’ admitted Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘That might be significant.’
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br />   ‘But so were you,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If you recall.’

  ‘Only to you,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘But what of these other two Fellows who say Grene professed he was in fear of his life? Why did they wait for Eligius to instigate an investigation before telling their stories? It all strikes me as very odd.’

  ‘Do you think Bingham is guilty?’ Michael asked Tulyet.

  Tulyet shrugged. ‘As you say, the installation was a foolish place to dispatch a rival. But people are often foolish and live to regret their actions. I see plenty of evidence to suggest his guilt, and none to support his innocence. He claims he is blameless, of course. Do you want to speak to him?’

  Michael nodded, and Tulyet led them up to the second floor, where a sleepy guard unlocked the door of a small chamber set in the thickness of the wall. The room was gloomy — only a narrow slit allowed the daylight to filter in — but was reasonably comfortable. The remains of a sizeable meal lay on the table, and Bingham had been provided with better, warmer blankets than the ones Bartholomew had at Michaelhouse.

  Bingham recognised Michael and came towards him, his face haggard. ‘I did not kill Grene,’ he began immediately, his voice a throaty whisper. ‘I did not like the man, but I did not kill him.’

  ‘Then how did the poison find its way into his cup?’ asked Michael harshly. ‘It is strange that only he was stricken at the installation, would you not say?’

  ‘I do not know!’ said Bingham, in the weary tones of a man who had said as much many times before. ‘I was as shocked by his death as was everyone else. I did not kill Grene and I have no idea how poison came to be in his wine. When he died, I assumed it had been simple gluttony that had brought about a seizure. The serving lad behind him had been filling his cup all night.’