A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I suppose I will not be able to use that lovely salt now,’ he said shakily. ‘No one will buy it if they know where it has been.’

  ‘You should dispose of it quickly, then,’ said Bartholomew, aware that if the spice-merchant did not rid himself of the tainted salt while the vile memories were fresh in his mind, he might have second thoughts about throwing it away. Apart from one or two patches that were stained black, it certainly appeared to be clean enough, and could easily be stored until the time was right to sell it.

  ‘My sergeant will relieve you of it now,’ said Tulyet, apparently thinking along the same lines. ‘He will throw it in the King’s Ditch and have the barrel scoured out with boiling water for you.’

  ‘We were right about the poison and Egil – there are burn marks on his hands, just like the ones on Sacks’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And there are small blisters on Egil’s face, too, although they have nearly healed. We must have been blind not to notice them earlier. I imagine Egil spilled the wine when he transported the bottles across the Fens. His face was probably burned when he transferred the poison to it from his hands – while Sacks’s hands were burned when he touched the bottles he sold to the Bernard’s students and Thorpe.’

  Michael turned to Tulyet. ‘Do you need more from me or can I leave this matter with you? Matt may be happy to poke about with dismembered corpses, but I have had quite enough of all this!’

  Tulyet nodded assent. ‘I have only one question. Matt, how did you guess Sacks’s body and Egil’s missing parts were in Cheney’s salt? It was when you walked over to it that Katherine realised the game she was playing was over and drank the poisoned wine.’

  ‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I was going to ask Cheney if he had another of similar size that we might borrow as a water barrel for people to use while the well is drained.’

  The following afternoon, Bartholomew perched on the trunk of a fallen apple tree in the orchard behind Michaelhouse and watched Tulyet. The Sheriff leaned against the wall and kicked at a rotten apple left from the previous summer and somehow missed by worms and maggots. Next to Bartholomew, Michael sat devouring the last of a fruit pie he had stolen from the kitchens. There would be hell to pay when Agatha discovered it was missing.

  ‘I think you succeeded admirably,’ Michael said to the Sheriff, ducking out of the way as pieces of apple flew from under Tulyet’s boot. ‘You clearly could not arrest everyone involved in this business, or the town would have lost virtually its entire population. You gave sufficient warning so that most had the opportunity to dispose of their ill-gotten gains, but yet the offenders have had enough of a fright from their narrow escape that it will be a long time before they think of cheating the King out of his taxes again.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Tulyet moodily. ‘Although I will be saying masses for a short and very cold winter next year. All this happened because the waterways are so open.’

  ‘Why the gloom?’ asked Michael, finishing the pie and wiping his sticky fingers on his habit. ‘You have done just what the King would have wished. He will raise town taxes and the merchants will be too guilt-stricken to protest. Everyone will gain from your discreet handling of the affair.’

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘I have the Fenmen who smuggled the occasional barrel of brandy and I know exactly which merchants and scholars used the established routes to bring in smuggled goods since the beginning of winter. But neither of these groups is responsible for the outlaws I have been hunting. These are still at large.’

  Michael raised his hands in the air, exasperated by Tulyet’s continuing claims that the case was not yet fully solved. ‘But the outlaws must be Fenmen hired by the merchants to bring the goods along the waterways.’

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘Because the Fens are flooded, it is not difficult to travel across them by boat. Anyone can do it this year, and no special knowledge of Fenland geography is needed. No new men were hired – the merchants simply used their own people to bring the goods in. For example, I know that Stanmore’s steward, Hugh, was responsible for bringing cloth from the Wash to Cambridge and he has no experience of the Fens whatsoever.’

  ‘But if you know which of the merchants’ “own people” were used, arrest them,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘They will be your outlaws – hired louts like Stanmore’s Hugh who decided to take advantage of jaunts out of town to do a little business for themselves. I do not see your problem.’

  ‘The merchants’ people are men I know,’ said Tulyet. ‘I cannot see the likes of Hugh committing robberies and burglaries. I may have uncovered the Fenmen’s little business and unnerved the merchants and some scholars, but I still do not have the outlaws.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. ‘My informant was very clear about the names of the smugglers. If you are certain the merchants and their servants are not to blame, then the culprits must be among the Fenmen.’

  Tulyet sighed, and scratched his head. ‘Perhaps you are right. I suppose I will have to question them all over again.’

  ‘I offered you my services for that,’ said Michael.

  Tulyet nodded absently. ‘Perhaps I will have to accept. But I was convinced they were being honest with me.’

  ‘It seems honesty is not a virtue widely practised around here,’ said Michael, gazing meaningfully at Bartholomew’s cloak and gloves. ‘I am shocked that so many people I considered principled, law-abiding citizens have gaily travelled along the paths of iniquity and turpitude.’

  ‘Do not be so pompous, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, tugging off his gloves and shoving them in his bag. He stood up and prepared to take his leave. ‘I must go. I am due to lecture on Theophilus’s De Urinis at King’s Hall tomorrow, and I should prepare something if I do not want to appear totally incompetent.’

  ‘A lecture on urine sounds almost as inviting as hearing Langelee pontificating on the creation of the world,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Personally, I would rather talk to Dick’s vile little smugglers in his dank and rat-infested prison.’

  Tulyet smiled suddenly. ‘Remember I told you that I searched Thomas Deschalers’s house? His stored lemons were wholly legal as it transpired – the pomegranates, figs and nuts were imported by Cheney – but there was a woman staying with Deschalers who almost had him arrested regardless of his innocence. As I was talking to him, a lemon dropped from her sleeve, and her bedchamber was filled to the gills with them, where she had made an attempt to hide them away. She had the brazen effrontery to offer one to me as a gift!’ He drew it out of his pocket and showed it to Bartholomew.

  ‘Julianna,’ said Bartholomew, in sudden understanding. ‘Yes, she would.’

  ‘She was quite a challenge,’ said Tulyet, his eyes glittering with amusement as he recalled the scene. ‘When I asked to inspect Deschalers’s cellars, he immediately gave me permission. But this woman – Julianna – refused point blank. She overrode Deschalers as if he were her servant. Who is she? His harlot?’

  Michael gave an unpleasant leer. ‘His niece.’

  Tulyet blew out his cheeks. ‘What a harpy! She hurled herself at my sergeant like a wild animal, and screamed that if he wanted to inspect the cellars, it would be over her dead body. He offered to arrange it and she backed off. Then, when Deschalers provided us with all the legal documentation for his stored fruit, she turned to him with such an expression of shock that I could not help but laugh. I have never seen such a performance that bespoke of her belief in his guilt in my life!’

  Michael smiled. ‘She was betrothed to Edward Mortimer. Perhaps he has had a lucky escape.’

  Bartholomew was certain he had.

  Tulyet sighed and stretched. ‘I should be at home with my family – it is Sunday, after all.’ He tossed the lemon in the air and caught it. ‘What shall I do with this?’

  ‘Well, do not eat it raw,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And do not give it to your infant son.’

  Tulyet grinned. ‘I heard about Mortimer’s illness. Kather
ine probably fed him the raw lemons to see if she might kill him. You have this. I do not want to be walking around the town with bribes in my pocket!’

  He threw the hard fruit to Bartholomew and departed, leaving the two scholars alone. Bartholomew put the lemon in the pocket in his shirt and shivered, reaching down for his bag.

  ‘It is too cold to be out here,’ he said. ‘And there is a fire in the conclave today.’

  ‘You would never get near it,’ said Michael, leaning back comfortably. ‘All the Fellows and commoners are there, and Langelee is entertaining them with some story about a journey he took to Bristol last year.’

  ‘That does not sound appealing in the slightest,’ admitted Bartholomew, sitting down again. ‘I do not like that man. I was hoping he would be implicated in all this smuggling so we might be rid of him.’

  ‘I told you that I would have a few words here and there,’ said Michael, making it sound most sinister. ‘I will put it about that he drinks, and that I am afraid he will spark off some incident that might cause a riot. Kenyngham will not wish to risk that, no matter who is pressuring him to employ Langelee.’

  ‘So, Colton, Julianna and Eligius, whom I was certain were as guilty as sin, are now wholly vindicated,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still running over the events of the past few days.

  ‘Do not speak too soon,’ said Michael. ‘You heard Tulyet say there are still outlaws at large.’

  ‘Colton and Julianna are hardly likely to be outlaws,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Eligius is dead.’

  Michael sat up straight and stretched his burly arms so hard they cracked. ‘I said I would return to Valence Marie today and tell them more about what Thorpe confessed to doing in their hallowed halls.’

  ‘And what was that exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, pulling his borrowed cloak closer around him, reluctant to return to his room to start work on his lecture. ‘The last I heard, he was professing his innocence and big bad Grene was entirely to blame.’

  ‘He has stuck to his story,’ said Michael. ‘But we were essentially right. He turned to Grene when Will Harper died from drinking Sacks’s wine, and Grene told him how and where to dispose of the body so that he would not be dismissed from Stanmore’s service. He confided to Grene how he yearned to strike a blow at the College that allowed his father to be disgraced, and Grene worked out a plan that would allow him to do just that.’

  ‘And Grene really did drink the poison knowingly?’

  Michael nodded. ‘I think Rob Thorpe is telling the truth – although my ability to distinguish between liars and honest men is sorely stretched these days. I am inclined to believe Grene felt sufficiently bitter to use his public suicide to destroy his hated rival, Bingham. We know from Philius that he was dying anyway, and we know from Eligius that he took some care to ensure three Fellows knew he considered himself in danger from Bingham. Even if Bingham had not been convicted of his murder, the suspicion would have hung over him like the Sword of Damocles.’

  ‘And the Countess?’

  Michael gave a nasty smile. ‘That was all Thorpe’s own idea, although he did try to convince me that Grene’s tormented spirit appeared to him in a dream and ordered him to do it.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘I imagine he will be expelled from the country,’ said Michael without much interest. ‘He will be stripped of his possessions and put on a ship for France – best place for him, if you ask me. The Countess wants him hanged, though. She is afraid he will try to kill her again.’

  ‘He might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor Eligius!’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘It just goes to show that you should never think good of people. If Eligius had been suspicious and cynical like the rest of us, he would never have drunk that wine. But you live and learn. Well, he did not, I suppose. Will you come with me to Valence Marie?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘Every time I visit that College, either someone dies or someone tries to kill me. And anyway, I need to think about this lecture.’

  ‘Walk with me to the Trumpington Gate, then,’ said Michael, standing and adjusting the cowl on his cloak. ‘Edith told me at church this morning that Mistress Pike is unlikely to last the day. She lives near Valence Marie, so you can keep me company and see her at the same time. You have given lectures on Theophilus a hundred times, and have no need for preparations.’

  ‘I have seen her twice today already,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing more I can do.’

  But he followed Michael through the orchard towards the back gate. Because it was Sunday, there were no trader’s carts rattling up and down the lane, and the town was unusually peaceful. Agatha’s cockerel crowed somewhere in the distance, and a blackbird sang sweetly from one of the trees in the orchard. They walked in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Bartholomew’s mind jumped between considering whether it was safe to visit Matilde and relieve her of Dame Pelagia, and Edith’s continuing distress over Thorpe. Michael pondered how he might inveigle an invitation to dine at Valence Marie and still manage to have supper at Michaelhouse.

  Above, the sky grew blacker as heavy rain clouds gathered, so that it seemed as though dusk was already approaching even though it was only mid-afternoon. A golden shaft of sunrays broke through unexpectedly, and illuminated the soft creamy stone of St Mary’s Church, making it dazzle like gold in the sullen light of the clouds. As they passed, Bartholomew squinted as it reflected off the shiny ground, and stumbled from not being able to see where he was treading. But the sunlight was short-lived, and by the time they reached the Trumpington Gate, the clouds had filled in the gaps, and the first, great drops of rain began to fall, splattering into the mud.

  ‘If this foul weather continues, we will be forced to build an ark,’ grumbled Michael, glancing upwards. ‘I had no idea the heavens could hold so much water!’

  Still muttering complaints, he stamped inside Valence Marie, while Bartholomew continued on to the house of the ailing Mistress Pike. His journey was wasted, however, because he was told she had died a few moments earlier. Since she was well over eighty years old, Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised, but the death of a patient always unsettled him. Her family politely insisted that he should stay until the storm passed over, but Bartholomew did not feel comfortable waiting in a house filled with grieving relatives and left as soon as he could.

  The rain was coming down hard, and the cloak Paul had lent him had no hood. For an instant, he regretted his decision not to tarry at Mistress Pike’s house, but then realised he would be able to take shelter in the little church of St Peter-without-Trumpington Gate. Breaking into a run as the drops fell more heavily, he dashed through the grassy graveyard and took the great brass handle in both hands to open the door. It was locked. Bartholomew swore under his breath, flinching as large, cold drips splattered on his bare head. But it made sense to keep the building secured: it was vulnerable, standing as it did outside the city gates with the outlaws’ attacks drawing ever nearer to the town.

  He stood under a tree in the churchyard, trying to keep out of the wet. He glanced up the High Street. The guards on the gate had abandoned their posts, and the few people who were braving the downpour passed through it unquestioned. Bartholomew did not relish the notion of walking back to Michaelhouse in weather so foul that he could barely see, and decided it might be an opportune time to visit his medical colleague Master Lynton at nearby Peterhouse. Now that Philius was dead, he and Bartholomew were the only physicians in Cambridge, and were likely to be thrown more and more into each other’s company. And they could start, Bartholomew decided, by debating some of the issues in Theophilus’s De Urinis that he was to lecture on at King’s Hall the following day.

  Pulling his cloak closer around him, grateful for Mortimer’s smuggled gloves to protect his hands against the icy chill of the rain, he was about to leave the partial shelter of the tree and run the short distance to Peterhouse, when a sudden prod in his back mad
e him stop. He started to turn, but was arrested by a voice hissing in his ear.

  ‘Do not move! I have a sharp knife, Bartholomew. You do what I say, or I will kill you.’ The knife jabbed again. ‘Do you understand?’

  Bartholomew nodded, his heart pounding. Was this one of the men who had tried to kill him and Michael in the Fens, back for a second attempt? He started to turn again, but the knife pricked at his spine, harder this time.

  ‘Be still!’

  The voice was no longer a hiss, and Bartholomew was able to recognise it.

  ‘Harling!’

  ‘Harling!’ the voice behind him mimicked. ‘Harling, indeed! Now, we are going to walk together through the churchyard and away from the road. If you shout out, or try to alert anyone, I will strike you dead. The guards are unlikely to venture from their lodge in this weather, but it pays to be cautious.’

  The Vice-Chancellor took a firm hold on Bartholomew’s right arm with his left hand, while his right hand pushed the knife into Bartholomew’s side, just under the ribs. The physician inched away, repelled by the sickly odour of perfumed grease from Harling’s slicked hair, but Harling held him tightly, and forced him back into the tangle of bushes and trees that surrounded the church.

  At first, the foliage became denser, and Bartholomew wondered whether Harling meant to murder him there, where his body might not be found for days. But then the tangle thinned and he found they were at the edge of Coe Fen, an area of common land between the King’s Mill and Peterhouse. The extended rains had flooded it, so it was no longer viable for grazing, and the meadows were deserted. Bartholomew moved his feet, hearing the squelch of sodden grass, and knew the chances of someone passing that way to help him were remote. Further downstream, the great King’s Mill wheel pounded the water of the mill race. With a distant part of his mind, Bartholomew wondered why the miller would risk using it when the Cam was in full spate – especially considering it was a Sunday, when work was forbidden.

  Harling pushed him forwards until they stood near the edge of the swollen river, close to where it swirled past in a muddy brown torrent of eddies and waves. It had ripped small trees and branches from its banks further upstream, and these bobbed and dipped in its unsteady currents. Bartholomew was suddenly reminded of his near drowning in the Fens, and hoped that was not what Harling had in mind for him.