A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Hardly! It was driven into his heart. Call Lynton to confirm it, if you like. Or Robin of Grantchester. Both will tell you the same. The wound was a fatal one.’

  Just then, the student returned with the porter who had been on duty that day. Bartholomew took one look at his heavy eyes and rumpled clothes, and guessed exactly why he had not heard anything from Philius’s room.

  ‘Do you sleep all the time you are supposed to be guarding your College?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘No, not all the time,’ said the porter, and bit his lip when he realised what he had said.

  Colton gave him a withering look. ‘John!’ he said tiredly. ‘How could you? You know what happened here three days ago. I trusted you to be vigilant.’

  ‘I was vigilant!’ protested John. ‘But there was nothing going on, and the whole place was as still as the grave. All the students were studying with the masters in the hall, and the cooks were busy in the kitchen. The College was so quiet, it was almost like the middle of the night. So, I thought there would be no harm if I just closed my eyes for a moment.’

  ‘And you heard nothing?’ asked Colton, looking at the porter in weary resignation.

  ‘Nothing!’ said John. ‘Nothing at all. The first I knew of this …’ his eyes strayed to Philius’s body on the bed, ‘was when you raised the alarm. I swear, I heard nothing!’

  ‘And then, when you went to unlock the main gate to send for Matt and the Proctors you found it already open,’ said Tulyet, walking to the window and leaning his elbows on the sill.

  ‘Yes. No!’ John gaped at the Sheriff, aghast at having been so easily tricked.

  ‘And how much were you paid to leave the door unlocked, John?’ Tulyet continued softly.

  Colton stared at the Sheriff in mute horror. Disgusted by the porter’s treachery, Bartholomew turned his attention back to Philius, straightening the stiffening limbs, and smoothing down the rumpled gown. Philius was not a man whom Bartholomew had especially liked, but he was a colleague and he would miss him – even if only for the dubious pleasure of disagreeing with his theories.

  ‘I did not … they made me!’ John said in a wail. ‘They said they would kill me if I did not do what they said. I was to leave the door open and ask no questions. I decided it would be safer for me if I was asleep when it happened.’

  ‘Who, John?’ asked Tulyet calmly, still looking out of the window. ‘Who told you to do this?’

  ‘Them!’ insisted John. ‘The outlaws!’

  ‘And how do you know they were outlaws?’ asked Tulyet, his voice deceptively quiet. Bartholomew, who knew him well, was aware that his measured tones concealed a deep anger – partly at John’s selfishness, but mostly that the outlaws who were outwitting him at every turn had succeeded yet again.

  John clasped his hands together and gnawed at his knuckles. ‘I just know,’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘They were the outlaws who killed Isaac and are robbing houses and church in the town.’

  ‘But how do you know?’ persisted Tulyet.

  He spun round as John bolted from the room, slamming the door closed behind him. They heard a thump as the bench in the hallway – on which Philius’s patients sat while they waited to be seen – was jammed against the door to prevent their escape. By the time Tulyet had forced it away, John was out of the yard and through the front gate. Tulyet tore after him, Bartholomew and Colton at his heels.

  ‘Damn!’

  Tulyet kicked the gate in frustration and pressed his palms into the sides of his head as he walked in a tight circle, every movement betraying the fury and helplessness he felt.

  The lane was deserted: nothing moved and all was silent. In the middle of it lay John. The porter was slumped on his side, a crossbow quarrel embedded in his back and a thin trickle of blood oozing from his nose.

  As the sun disappeared from the sky, Michael eased himself into Agatha’s great chair by Michaelhouse’s kitchen fire, and allowed her to fuss over him. He accepted yet another oatcake smeared with honey, and washed it down with the cup of ale that she had placed at his elbow. Next to the cup was a small dish of roasted nuts and a wizened pomegranate.

  ‘Where did these come from?’ he asked, shovelling a handful of the nuts into his mouth.

  ‘I bought them from the market,’ replied Agatha evasively. She picked up the pomegranate and studied it curiously. ‘Just look at this peculiar thing! Have you ever seen its like?’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Michael, taking it from her and inspecting its rough pinkish-yellow skin with deep suspicion. ‘You do not expect me to eat it do you?’

  ‘It is a pomegranate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have never seen one in England before.’

  ‘What do you propose we do with it?’ asked Michael, tossing it to him and taking another handful of nuts.

  ‘You can eat the fruit, or make it into a drink. The seeds can be used as a preservative,’ Bartholomew answered. He threw it back to Michael. ‘But we have more important things to be discussing than pomegranates. Like what happened to you.’

  ‘That was outrageous!’ muttered Agatha indignantly. ‘What is the town coming to?’

  Bartholomew sat on a stool near the fire and began to poke at the flames with a stick. ‘Tell me again,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  Michael gave a great sigh. ‘Not again, Matt! I am too tired.’

  ‘He has told you once already,’ said Agatha, prodding Bartholomew in the back with a spoon handle. ‘The poor lad needs to rest.’

  ‘We will never get to the bottom of this if we rest!’ shouted Bartholomew, standing so abruptly that the stool went skittering across the kitchen floor.

  Michael and Agatha gazed at him, startled. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, retrieved the stool and sat again.

  ‘Sorry, Agatha,’ he mumbled. ‘But we must reason this out before anyone else comes to harm.’

  Agatha continued to stare. She had known the mild-mannered physician since he had come to take up his post as Master of Medicine at Michaelhouse nine years before and, during all that time, he had never once raised his voice to her. She had heard him shouting at his students from time to time, but he did so far less than the other Fellows, and it was usually frustration with their speed of learning rather than genuine anger. But it had been anger that had prompted him to yell at her now.

  He twisted round when she did not reply, and saw the hurt expression on her rounded features. He was surprised. Agatha won, and maintained, her position of power over the other College servants on her claim that she was more of a man than any of them or any of the scholars. It was an assertion none was brave enough to dispute, and she ruled the domestic side of the College with a ruthless efficiency no one dared question. Even the forceful fanatic Father William had never won an argument with Agatha, yet Bartholomew had silenced her with a few words.

  He rubbed at his hair again and stood with a sigh. ‘Sorry, Agatha,’ he said again. ‘I should not have shouted at you.’ He took her arm and brought her over to the fire. While she descended ponderously onto the stool, he sat on the edge of the hearth, oblivious to the occasional sparks that spat from the damp wood and burned small holes in his tabard.

  ‘You are worried about Matilde!’ said Agatha with sudden insight.

  ‘No!’ he protested, embarrassed that she had so adeptly read his thoughts. ‘It is this entire business. Philius brutally murdered, and now this attack on Michael …’

  Michael leaned forward and tapped Bartholomew gently on the head with a fat, white forefinger. ‘But it failed,’ he said soothingly. ‘And I am fine.’

  ‘He needs another oatcake,’ said Agatha, struggling up from the stool to fetch him one.

  ‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, looking at Michael’s ample girth and hauling her back down. ‘He needs to lose some weight. If you feed him much more, one day you will find him unable to get out of that chair of yours.’

  Agatha screeched with laughter,
a familiar sound that echoed around Michaelhouse’s yard several times each day. Michael smiled, too, and settled himself back comfortably.

  ‘Once again, then,’ he said, folding his hands across his stomach. ‘I was approaching All Saints’ Church on my way to see Matilde, when an ill-dressed villain came racing towards me from the direction of the Great Bridge. I took no notice, thinking it to be some apprentice late for his chores, but, as he drew nearer, I saw his eyes were fixed on me with more than a passing interest. He had a knife in his hand, and as he collided with me, he attempted to stab me with it. As you know, I am not a small man, and not easily tumbled to the ground. And more drunken students have taken swings at me with weapons than I care to remember. This little chap did not stand a chance. I wrested the knife from him, but then he was away, and was too quick for me to follow.’

  Agatha pursed her lips and she shook her head disapprovingly. ‘That was why the Death came!’

  Bartholomew stared at her, somewhat taken aback. ‘Because Michael is too fat to chase the man who tried to kill him?’

  Agatha shot him a long-suffering look. ‘Of course not! Because of sinful acts – murders and ambushes and people riding horses too fast along the High Street. That was why the pestilence came in the first place, and that is why it is only a matter of time before it returns. You mark my words! Those of you who are not God’s chosen should beware.’

  ‘And why do you think you are God’s chosen and not us?’ asked Bartholomew warily. He had heard a good many explanations for why the plague had swept across the country, but reckless riding had not usually been among them.

  Agatha drew herself up to her full height. ‘Because I walked daily among the victims of the pestilence and I was not struck down,’ she said grandly. ‘I did not die!’

  ‘But we did not die either,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And neither did the maniac who tried to stab me.’

  There was silence as Agatha digested this, and Michael took the opportunity to continue with his tale.

  ‘I went to All Saints’ Hostel to recover with a drop of mulled wine, while Cynric tried to pursue this lout. But Cynric had been too far behind to start with – he had met that woman of his from Stanmore’s house, and had dallied talking with her – and he lost my would-be killer in the Market Square. We slipped out of the back door of All Saints’ to continue to Matilde’s house. Cynric is certain we were not followed and so am I. When we left Matilde’s, we went back through All Saints’ Hostel and emerged through the front door, so that anyone watching will have assumed we were there the entire time.’

  ‘These smugglers are clever and resourceful,’ said Bartholomew, biting his lower lip. ‘It was a stupid idea to leave Dame Pelagia with Matilde. Now neither of them is safe.’

  ‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘They will be perfectly all right. Now Tulyet has the list of names from Dame Pelagia, we will not need to visit them again until this is over.’

  ‘That is what he is cross about!’ said Agatha with another ear-shattering howl of laughter. ‘Where will he spend his nights now that Matilde’s house is out of bounds?’

  ‘Agatha!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘All these night visits to people with winter fever,’ leered Agatha. ‘Likely story!’

  ‘But it is true!’ protested Bartholomew, horrified to feel himself blushing. ‘Matilde and I have never …’

  He faltered and Agatha guffawed again. Michael came to his rescue.

  ‘Now, what about Philius? Agatha, more oatcakes, please. And do you have a little bacon fat to spread on them?’

  While Agatha went to fetch the bacon fat from the pantry, Bartholomew told Michael about his findings regarding Philius’s death, and how John the porter had been killed.

  ‘We are left with a good many unanswered questions regarding Philius,’ he concluded. ‘We still cannot be sure where the wine that killed him came from – Oswald vehemently denies one of his apprentices is missing, and now both Philius and Isaac are dead there is no one we can ask to verify who is telling the truth.’

  ‘This crossbow business bothers me,’ said Michael. ‘It seems very convenient that an archer just happened to be in place at the precise moment when John ran from the College.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

  Michael rubbed at the whiskers on his chin. ‘I think this archer was waiting for you, not John. He was going to kill you, just as the knifeman attempted to dispatch me. When John came racing out, obviously in some distress – and it would not take a genius to guess why, with the Sheriff in the College and Philius’s body just found – this archer decided to prevent John from telling any more than he might have revealed already. It takes a while to rewind a crossbow, and no murderer wants to tarry too long at the scene of his crime. Rather than take the risk of waiting for you after he had slain John, he decided to slip away while he could.’

  Bartholomew had a sudden unpleasant thought. ‘If you are correct, could he have been forewarned that we might be visiting Gonville Hall? By someone who had called us and knew that we would not refuse to attend? Someone such as Colton? He was unduly nervous about the whole thing. And he had cooked up some ungodly lies – supposedly with Philius’s blesssing, he was claiming that Philius had never been poisoned, but was suffering from an excess of evil humours.’

  Michael scratched his head. ‘Colton cannot be ruled out as a suspect. I have known him for years, and he is clever and ambitious. But so are most Masters. I would not have marked Colton down as the kind of man who would be an accessory to murder, but who knows?’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘What is happening? Why are these men so intent on killing us? What have we done to incur such a reaction?’

  ‘It must be this poisoned wine,’ said Michael, picking at a food stain on his habit. ‘It is the only common factor.’

  ‘Or perhaps we have yet to learn what this common factor is,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes tiredly. ‘Perhaps we are overlooking something.’ He paused. ‘And I do not know what to believe about Grene. It seems something of a coincidence that he should be murdered the day after confessing to Eligius that he was in fear of his life from Bingham. Yet I am not completely convinced of Bingham’s guilt.’

  ‘But it does not look good for Bingham. Eligius is a highly respected scholar and I know of no reason why he and his two colleagues should lie.’

  ‘I just cannot see how Bingham could have passed this wine to Grene at the feast,’ said Bartholomew, frowning. ‘They did not sit next to each other. How could Bingham be certain that the bottle would reach its intended victim? You said yourself that everyone was watching to see how Grene was taking his defeat – it would have been impossible. And if Grene really did believe himself to be in danger, why should he drink from a bottle given to him by the man he feared?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Had I been in that position, I would have eaten nothing at the feast, yet Grene positively gorged himself. Perhaps Eligius and the other two are lying after all. Grene’s death has provided them with a splendid opportunity to rid themselves of Bingham – the Master for whom they did not vote.’

  ‘I am so tired I can barely think,’ said Bartholomew, his mind whirling as he tried to sort the facts into some semblance of order. ‘Everything seems connected, yet is jumbled – the attack on us in the Fens; the poisoned wine; Bingham, Grene, Eligius and that stupid relic; Philius and Colton and their concoction of lies about Philius’s illness; the smugglers and Julianna …’

  ‘It has been a long day and we should both rest,’ said Michael. He stood up, and glanced out of the window. ‘There are your students back from their disputations. You cannot expect Deynman to have passed, but the others should have good news for you.’

  He grinned at Agatha as she returned with a huge plate of oatcakes heavily smeared with the salty white fat that Michael loved. Bartholomew felt sick just looking at them, but Agatha presented him with a piece of seed
cake instead. He leaned over and, before she could guess what he was going to do, kissed her cheek and fled the kitchen. Michael roared with laughter as Agatha’s astonishment changed to delight. She beckoned Michael back to the fireplace, and the two of them proceeded to devour the entire greasy repast.

  Wiping cake crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, Bartholomew tapped at the door of the room Gray shared with Bulbeck, and entered. He sensed in an instant all was not well. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and sat on the window sill, silhouetted against the remaining light of the darkening evening.

  ‘They asked me about trepanation.’ said Gray in an accusatory tone. ‘You never taught us about that! How am I supposed to know things you have never told us?’

  ‘We discussed trepanation last summer, Sam,’ said Bartholomew wearily, ‘when Brother Boniface was with us. I take it you did not pass?’

  ‘It was not fair!’ shouted Gray petulantly, kicking off his boots so that they fell with a crash against the wall. ‘Then they asked me to debate the question: Did God create the world out of nothing or out of the primordial darkness?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And how should I know?’ snapped Gray. ‘I was not there!’ His two friends looked aghast at his blasphemy, and he relented. ‘I did my best, but the examiners did not like my answers.’

  ‘I hope you were not flippant with them,’ said Bartholomew, concerned. His own reputation for unorthodoxy was as much as he could handle, and he did not want to be blamed for teaching Gray bad habits, too.

  ‘He was not flippant,’ said Bulbeck, from where he lay on the bed with his arm across his eyes. ‘He was just unfortunate in the questions they asked. If he had got Rob’s questions, he would have been fine.’

  ‘I did not pass,’ said Deynman gloomily. ‘I cannot think why – I answered all they asked me.’