A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘All I think at the moment is that we have insufficient evidence to say whether Bingham is guilty or not. To be honest, I would not imagine he would have the audacity to kill his rival in full view of most of the town, but desire for power leads men to desperate acts, as we both know from past experience.’

  ‘Eligius was right when he said the taint of murder will hang about Bingham regardless of whether he is guilty or innocent,’ mused Michael. ‘Even if he is acquitted, he will be hard pushed to rule Valence Marie as Master. Quite aside from the bitter division between supporters of Grene and supporters of Bingham, there is the fact that half the scholars are convinced that horrible hand Thorpe found last year is a sacred relic, while half have the sense to see that it is a fake.’

  ‘I thought any faith in the relic’s authenticity would have been destroyed when we proved that the man to whom the hand was said to belong was in possession of a full complement of limbs,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Eligius must be out of his mind to continue to think the thing is genuine!’

  Michael shrugged. ‘I agree. But you know how people are once they believe in something – all the evidence in the world will not shake their faith. You must have seen that gleam of fanaticism in Eligius’s eyes when he spoke about the bones.’

  ‘But if Bingham killed Grene because Grene believed in the authenticity of the relic, that would make Bingham a fanatic, too, and he is scarcely that. He is stuffy and pedantic, but not a zealot.’

  Michael was about to reply when the door opened and a chill blast of rain-laden wind gusted into the kitchen, making the fire glow and roar. Cynric, Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, entered with the nightporter behind him.

  ‘There you are, boy,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘Walter here has been looking for you.’

  The porter pushed Cynric out of the way and strode into the kitchen. Walter’s perpetual bad temper was legendary and, during the nine years Bartholomew had been a Fellow of Michaelhouse, he had never seen Walter smile except at someone else’s misfortune.

  ‘You are not supposed to be in here!’ accused Walter. ‘The Master said scholars are not allowed in the kitchens any more.’

  ‘When Walter saw you were not in your room, he came to wake me, thinking you had gone out again,’ explained Cynric. He looked sly. ‘Although how he thought you could have left the College without being seen, I cannot imagine.’ The porter glowered. Besides his reputation for surliness, Walter was also known for sleeping on duty, and most scholars knew that they could break the curfew and slip in and out of College at will when Walter was guarding the main gates.

  His morose gaze fastened on the cheerful fire. ‘Where did you get those logs?’ he demanded. He turned to Michael and pointed an accusatory finger. ‘You stole them! You stole them from Master Alcote’s personal supply in the stables!’

  ‘I am a man of the cloth,’ said Michael, rising to his feet in indignant outrage. ‘I do not steal!’

  ‘It was him, then!’ shouted Walter, spinning round to indicate Bartholomew. ‘He pinched poor Master Alcote’s logs – he is always complaining about how cold the College is, and so he decided to build himself a blaze in the middle of the night when there was no one else around to witness his crime. Master Alcote paid me a penny to protect those logs, and now he will want it back!’

  ‘Give it to him, then,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Matt told me you were nowhere to be seen when he borrowed the firewood from the stable. You do not deserve Alcote’s penny.’

  ‘What do you want, Walter?’ asked Bartholomew, standing and stretching his back. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired.’

  ‘You will not be enjoying your warm bed for a while yet,’ said Walter spitefully. ‘A messenger just came from Gonville Hall. Father Philius is sick and has sent for you.’ He gestured towards the door where the rain could be seen falling heavily. ‘You will get soaked,’ he added smugly.

  ‘Philius?’ said Bartholomew, startled. Father Philius was a physician who deplored the use of surgery and was one of Bartholomew’s most rabid critics over his unorthodox methods. The Franciscan must be ill indeed to resort to requesting Bartholomew’s help.

  ‘The messenger said you were to hurry,’ said Walter, putting his hand out of the door to test the strength of the rain with an expression as near to a smile as he ever came.

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Cynric, standing and reaching for the cloak that hung on a hook in the fireplace.

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, picking up his own cloak and hunting about for his new gloves. ‘There is no need for us both to get wet. Go back to bed.’

  Cynric swung the woollen garment round his shoulders. ‘The streets are far from safe for a single man. You will do better with me along.’

  There was no disputing that. Since the plague, the price of food had risen dramatically and was beyond the means of many people. Bands of men simply defied the law, realising they could fare better by theft and robbery than by honest labour. Added to these were veterans from King Edward’s temporarily suspended wars with France, heroes who expected more from their country than a return to virtual slavery in the fields. Travelling had always been dangerous, but since the onset of winter the outlaws had become bolder and had started to attack the town itself, darting in from the Fens to take what they wanted and disappearing again before the Sheriff’s men could catch them. Cynric spoke the truth when he said the streets were unsafe for a single man and, although he was too tactful to say so, especially one with Bartholomew’s inferior fighting skills.

  Bartholomew set off across the muddy yard with Cynric and Michael behind him. He made a brief detour to lock the four bottles of wine in the little storeroom where he kept his medicines, after which he secured the door carefully and tied the key onto his belt. As he left, he saw Michael give the door a surreptitious rattle to satisfy himself that it was firmly locked. They exchanged a glance: Michael was right to be cautious with the deadly brew and, once again, Bartholomew wondered who could have a reason to unleash such a hideous potion on the University’s scholars.

  Outside, the rain was falling in great sheets, and Walter grumbled and cursed as he hauled the bar from the wicket gate to let them out. Fortunately, Philius’s room at Gonville Hall was a mere stone’s throw from Michaelhouse, but even as they walked the short distance, Bartholomew thought he saw a shadow move in the bushes to the side of the road. He drew one of the surgical knives he carried in his medicine bag and saw that Cynric already held his dagger.

  ‘They thought better of it when they saw we were armed,’ said Cynric after a moment, glancing behind him.

  ‘They?’ queried Bartholomew. ‘I only saw one.’

  ‘There were three of them,’ said Cynric confidently. ‘They must be desperate because they will be lucky to catch anyone abroad on such a foul night, except the Sheriff’s men.’

  Cynric had been born and bred in the mountains of north Wales, and prided himself on his clandestine skills – especially prowling undetected in the dark. Indeed, he had saved Bartholomew’s life on more than one occasion, and the physician sensed Cynric was enjoying the nocturnal expedition, in spite of the rain.

  He hammered on the gates of Gonville, and was admitted almost immediately by a servant who was clearly expecting him. Bartholomew had visited Father Philius in his room on several occasions – physicians in Cambridge were not so abundant that they could afford to shun each other’s company completely, even when they were as diametrically opposed as were Bartholomew and Philius. He declined the porter’s offer to guide him, and made his own way to the chamber on the ground floor in which Philius lived.

  Unlike Bartholomew with his spartan room, Philius resided in considerable comfort. There was a fire crackling merrily in the hearth and the stone-flagged floor was littered with thick woollen rugs. The bed stood against the wall farthest from the window – well away from the night airs Philius considered so dangerous – while
another wall boasted a line of hooks on which hung the physician’s impressive array of robes and a selection of elegant crucifixes. A lamp had pride of place on the table in the middle of the room, a luxury virtually unknown at Michaelhouse, except in the sumptuous quarters occupied by Alcote.

  Bartholomew left Cynric to close the door while he went to Philius. The Franciscan was lying on his side, curled up like a child, while his own book-bearer, Isaac, fluttered about him helplessly. Philius’s breathing was not laboured, but it was strained, and sounded loud in the quiet room. Bartholomew led Isaac away from the bed.

  ‘How long has he been ill?’

  ‘All day,’ Isaac whispered back. ‘He is growing worse, and the purges he has prescribed for himself seem to be doing no good at all. He cannot even speak now.’

  ‘Has he eaten anything today?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Lemons, perhaps?’

  Isaac looked at him askance. ‘Not that I know of. He had a goblet of watered wine this morning before mass, as is his wont, but nothing since.’

  ‘Where is this wine?’

  Isaac gave him another curious look, but fetched the bottle obligingly. It was of dark green glass and was virtually empty, suggesting that, unless Philius’s goblet was astonishingly large, most of the wine had been consumed earlier with no ill-effects. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. Two cases of poisoning had led him to be overly suspicious.

  He knelt next to the bed and gently eased Philius onto his back so that he could examine him properly. Philius’s eyes flickered open as he was moved, but he said nothing as Bartholomew’s hands moved across his stomach. As he worked, Bartholomew glanced at Philius’s face, and saw a thin tendril of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. Isaac hastened to wipe it away, but Bartholomew stopped him and motioned for Cynric to bring the lamp closer.

  Philius winced as the light came nearer and closed his eyes. On his lips were small white blisters – not as many as Bartholomew had observed on Armel and Grene, but similar in appearance. Bartholomew told Philius to open his mouth and looked inside. It was bleeding and more of the blisters were on his tongue and gums – again, not to the same extent as those he had seen in Armel and Grene, but enough to tell Bartholomew the cause of Philius’s discomfort.

  By now, Philius was alert and watching him intently, fear and pain written clearly on his face.

  ‘What else has he swallowed today?’ Bartholomew asked of Isaac.

  ‘Nothing else. Just the wine.’

  ‘But you said he had taken purges,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Nothing other than the medicines,’ said Isaac with exaggerated tolerance. ‘Look, can you tell what is wrong with him or not? If you cannot, I think he might be better left to rest.’

  ‘What purges has he taken?’ snapped Bartholomew, irritated by the man’s presumption. If Bartholomew’s diagnosis was correct, leaving Philius as he was might mean leaving him to die. ‘Do you have them here?’

  ‘Obviously not, since he has swallowed them,’ said Isaac insolently. ‘It is not the purges that are making him ill–’

  ‘When did he take these purges exactly?’

  Isaac sighed heavily. ‘He takes a purge every Saturday to cleanse his body from impurities. He drank the potion after he returned from mass – around dawn.’

  ‘And he became ill after he took it?’

  Isaac thought. ‘Well, I suppose he did. He woke hale and hearty enough. He took the purge and complained that it tasted strong. He became ill shortly afterwards and has been growing steadily worse all day.’

  ‘Who made these purges? Jonas the Apothecary?’

  ‘I made them,’ said Isaac. ‘I make all of Father Philius’s medicines when I can. It is cheaper.’

  ‘But you are not qualified,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘You are not an apothecary!’

  ‘I do not need to be an apothecary,’ said Isaac, growing angry. ‘I only need to follow Father Philius’s instructions about quantities and–’

  ‘I suppose one of these purges contained wine,’ interrupted Bartholomew sharply, not wishing to embark on a discussion of the ethics of Isaac’s actions while there was a chance of saving Philius if he acted quickly.

  ‘Well, yes. The wine helps to take away the unpleasant taste of the herbs.’

  ‘And did you use this wine to make the purges that Philius drank?’ asked Bartholomew, holding up the green bottle.

  ‘Of course not! I do not put best Italian wine in medicines. It would be wasteful. I used some cheap stuff.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Bartholomew, his patience beginning to fray. He glanced at Philius, who was listening intently to the exchange, his face white with fright.

  ‘In the medicine room. I–’

  ‘Fetch it, please. But use a cloth to pick it up. Do not touch it with your hands.’

  Isaac made as if to demur, but Bartholomew turned his attention back to Philius again, and the book-bearer left reluctantly.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ Bartholomew asked gently, kneeling next to the Franciscan.

  Philius nodded that he could.

  ‘Today, a student drank from a bottle of wine that contained poison. He died almost immediately. Then, at Bingham’s installation feast, James Grene died from swallowing a similar poison. I have not seen anything quite like it before. It seems to work by burning – I think it causes the throat to blister and swell and so kill the victim by asphyxiation. I think you might have swallowed some of this poison, although a very mild dose or you would not still be alive. Have you heard of any other such cases before?’

  Philius’s eyes widened in horror and he nodded vehemently. Bartholomew strained to hear what he was trying to say, but speech was impossible for Philius and his breathing became ragged. Bartholomew poured some of the wine from the green bottle into a cup and helped him drink it. Eventually, the friar grew calmer, but his eyes pleaded with Bartholomew that he wanted to speak.

  ‘If I ask you questions, can you nod or shake your head?’

  Philius nodded quickly.

  ‘You have seen a case like the ones I described?’

  A nod.

  ‘Yesterday?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘A week ago?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘A month ago?’

  A vigorous nod.

  ‘How many cases have you seen? One?’

  A nod.

  ‘More than one?’

  Philius shook his head.

  ‘Do you know what poison caused this?’

  A shake of the head. Philius was beginning to tire.

  ‘Were you able to treat it? Did you save the patient?’

  Philius shook his head again and closed his eyes tightly. Bartholomew patted his shoulder.

  ‘Believe me, Philius, I saw Grene stricken and he died almost instantly. You must have taken a very small dose of this poison since you are alive several hours after swallowing it, and there is every chance you will recover.’ Bartholomew looked away as he spoke. Lying to his patients was not something he did well but he did not want to frighten Philius into losing hope.

  He wondered what the best way to proceed would be. He considered administering an emetic to force Philius to vomit the poison out of his system, but Philius had swallowed the poison hours ago and Bartholomew was sure it was too far into his innards to be brought out. He rummaged around in his bag.

  ‘Since this poison seems to burn, I think the best way to balance its effects is by absorbing the acid. I prescribed something for Master Mortimer much the same. He had been eating raw lemons.’

  Bartholomew talked to reassure and saw the ghost of a smile play over Philius’s blistered lips as he listened to the story about Mortimer’s lemons. Bartholomew dispatched Cynric for milk, mixed as much of the fine, white chalk powder with it as he dared, and added a small amount of laudanum and some charcoal dust. Supporting Philius in the crook of his arm, he helped him swallow the potion sip by sip, a process which took so long that by
the time it was finished Bartholomew’s arms ached. Philius lay back exhausted and Bartholomew watched him anxiously. He was far from certain whether his cure would work. And even if Philius did not die soon, Bartholomew wondered whether his innards would be able to heal themselves of the poison’s lesions.

  Eventually, Philius slept and Bartholomew went to sit near the fire to wait with Cynric. Neither spoke, but sat in companionable silence, staring into the flames.

  ‘Isaac is taking a long time,’ said Cynric eventually, in a whisper so as not to waken the sleeping Franciscan. ‘I will slip out and have a look for him.’

  Bartholomew left the fire and went to check on Philius. It might have been his imagination, but he thought the Franciscan’s breathing seemed easier. Round his lips, the blisters seemed less raw where the chalky-grey milk had stained them, and Bartholomew felt his hopes rising.

  Within moments, Cynric was back, his expression anxious. ‘You had better come and see this for yourself,’ he said unsteadily.

  Mystified, Bartholomew followed Cynric across the yard to the cellar-like room where Philius kept his medicines. Judging from the bundles of herbs that hung from the roof and the neatly stacked sacks of flour at the far end, it seemed Philius shared his medicine room with the cook. At first, Bartholomew could not see why Cynric had dragged him away from the warm fire. And then he became aware of a regular creaking sound. Bartholomew looked upwards to the rafters where the bunches of herbs were hanging – along with the lifeless body of Isaac.

  Chapter 3

  Even as they cut the body down, Bartholomew could see that help had come too late for Isaac. His hands had been tied behind his back and a gag fastened around his mouth to stop him from crying out. Bartholomew was curious as to why the room did not show signs of a struggle, but an examination of Isaac’s body revealed that he had been dealt a vicious blow to the head. In fact, the blow had been so hard that Bartholomew wondered if that, and not the strangulation, had been what had killed him. His murderer, evidently, was taking no chances.