A Deadly Brew mb-4

by Susanna GREGORY

  Her bright eyes and the air of suppressed anticipation about her suggested that she was anything but weary of the subterfuge she had uncovered. Matilde had been listening to the exchange with such interest that she had forgotten all about tying the old lady’s shoes. Impatiently, Dame Pelagia pulled her foot away from the young prostitute, and tied the lace herself with strong, steady fingers. She stood and grinned at Bartholomew, looking far better equipped to deal with whatever the night might throw at them than was the physician.

  ‘Matilde says we are to be the bait in a trap,’ she said in a cheerful voice. ‘I wondered whether you might resort to that. I wish Michael had passed word to me sooner, because then I would have arranged for Matilde to be away.’

  ‘I lead a dull life, Pelagia,’ protested Matilde, flashing the old lady a radiant smile. ‘This will add a little much-needed excitement.’

  Dame Pelagia laughed and patted Matilde’s hand. ‘Come then, my young friend. Let us look this wolf in the jaws together!’

  Together they went back down the stairs. Bartholomew looked around the neat room, wondering if he were the only person to be feeling trepidation over the events that were about to unfold. Michael was hiding any fears he might have under a veil of calm, while Dame Pelagia and Matilde seemed to be looking forward to the coming confrontation with confidence and excitement.

  He went to the window shutter and peered out. Shadows glided here and there, directed by a man in a long cloak: the outlaws springing their attack. It would not be long now, he thought. Before following Matilde and Dame Pelagia downstairs, he glanced around the neat bedchamber. He had never been in the room where he supposed Matilde entertained her customers, and was curious. There was a small bed in a corner with a straw mattress at its foot, both heavily laden with blankets of fine wool. A low table stood under one window, bearing a matching water-jug and bowl, and the stools to either side of it were handsomely carved. Matilde’s collection of expensive dresses hung in a line near the other window, so that the air could pass through them and keep them fresh.

  He heard a voice outside, and ran down the steps to where the others stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.

  ‘They are here,’ he whispered. He drew a surgical blade from his bag, pushed Matilde and Dame Pelagia behind him, and waited.

  The door was kicked open with such violence that one of the hinges was torn from the wood, and a blast of cold air gusted around the room. Then the powerful Michaelhouse philosopher, Ralph de Langelee, stood aside and gestured for Edward Mortimer to enter in front of him.

  ‘I knew he had to be involved!’ muttered Michael, eyeing Langelee with disdain as the philosopher followed Edward into Matilde’s house. ‘I have never liked him and his grasp of Plato is deplorable!’

  Behind Edward were one of Tulyet’s sergeants and the lay sister from Denny Abbey who had brought them their meals. Bartholomew realised that it must have been she who had been listening outside the attic door when Julianna had revealed her suspicions to Bartholomew and Dame Pelagia had pretended to sleep. She made a polite curtsey of greeting to the elderly nun, which was acknowledged, but not returned. Outside, others, whose faces Bartholomew could not see, milled around. The sergeant stepped inside and brandished his loaded crossbow, and then a fourth person stepped into the room. Harling regarded the scene with some amusement.

  ‘So,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘We meet again!’

  For a moment no one spoke. Ralph de Langelee regarded Bartholomew and Michael with a gloating smile, while Edward Mortimer was clearly uncomfortable with the situation and licked his lips anxiously. The sergeant was unreadable, and stood like a statue with his crossbow aimed at Michael’s chest and the lay sister at his side. But the only person Bartholomew was aware of was Vice-Chancellor Harling. He stood just inside the door, dressed in his scholar’s tabard of black, and his hair, as usual, plastered into place with liberal handfuls of animal grease. There was a faint bruise on his chin, but other than that he appeared to be in perfect health.

  ‘Do drop that ridiculous weapon,’ he said, as he saw Bartholomew’s surgical knife. ‘If you try to use it, my friend here will be obliged to shoot Brother Michael with his crossbow.’

  Bartholomew let the little blade clatter to the floor, where Langelee kicked it out of reach under a table.

  ‘I see you did not anticipate meeting me again,’ said Harling, smoothly gloating. ‘At least, not in this world.’

  ‘Then you are wrong,’ said Bartholomew coldly, hating the man for his smug arrogance. ‘I knew you had escaped when the beadles did not find you drowned. How did you do it?’

  Harling shrugged. ‘Besides my skill with knives, growing up in the Fens equipped me with skills in the water. I am an excellent swimmer, and it was an easy matter to allow myself to be swept out of sight and then strike out for the nearest river bank.’

  He lost interest in Bartholomew, and his glittering black eyes took in the room’s handsome furnishings, the defiant Dame Pelagia, the stunned Michael and, finally, Matilde.

  ‘Your prostitute!’ he said to Bartholomew, smiling in understanding. ‘Of course! Where better to hide an elderly nun? I should have guessed.’

  He nodded to Langelee, who stepped forward to grab Pelagia. Bartholomew blocked his way. Langelee made a gesture of impatience and swung at Bartholomew with one of his huge fists. Bartholomew ducked and the punch passed harmlessly over his head, but Langelee followed it immediately with another with his opposite hand that landed squarely on Bartholomew’s jaw. Lights danced in front of the physician’s eyes, and he fell backwards in an undignified tangle of arms and legs.

  Matilde screamed and darted to his side, swearing at Langelee with words that suggested her origins might not be as gentle as her appellation of ‘Lady Matilde’ implied. Bartholomew rubbed his chin and tried to stand, but Langelee planted a hefty foot on his chest and pinned him to the floor, grinning when Matilde battered his thick leg with her small fists.

  ‘Stay where you are, Bartholomew,’ said Harling sharply. He nodded to Edward, who took Pelagia’s arm. Michael started forward, but stopped when the sergeant cocked his crossbow. With a sudden shock that made his stomach churn Bartholomew recognised the sergeant as one of those who had been with Tulyet in his office when they discussed the plan to lay a trap for the outlaws. It became immediately clear to him that it had all gone wrong. Tulyet would not be coming to rescue them because he had been betrayed by one of his own men.

  And that was it, Bartholomew thought numbly. Harling had outwitted them as easily as that. The sergeant had told him everything Tulyet had planned, and all Harling had to do was kill four people who stood in his way — the four who knew the identity of the outlaw leader and exactly what he had done. Dame Pelagia would be questioned to ensure she had shared her knowledge with no one else, while Michael, Matilde and Bartholomew would be executed where they stood. And Deynman? If he was not dead already, he would not have long to live either. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair.

  ‘Give yourself up, Harling,’ said Michael with a boldness Bartholomew was sure he could not feel. ‘You cannot escape. Tulyet knows your part in this affair.’

  ‘Tulyet knows nothing!’ said Harling in disgust. ‘He did not even know that some of his trusted sergeants have been persuaded to join us in our business. I thought it would not be long before he became suspicious of his lack of success in hunting us down, and started to look towards his own soldiers when his attempts to catch us were repeatedly foiled. But he did not. He continued to chase around in the Fens, not realising that each time he missed catching my men at their camps, it was because they had been forewarned. The Sheriff is a fool. Do not look to him for deliverance.’

  ‘He is waiting nearby with an armed detachment,’ said Michael, with admirable cool.

  ‘Of course he is,’ sneered Harling. He gestured to the sergeant. ‘And this is one of them. Far from ambushing me, Tulyet has been drawn away to where he will fall into a trap himself.�
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  Edward Mortimer shifted nervously, casting a quick glance towards the street. ‘He speaks the truth. The Sheriff has been enticed to the river, where our men in his ranks will turn on him.’ He looked at Harling. ‘But nevertheless we should not stay here longer than necessary. Kill them now and let us be away.’

  ‘You are monsters!’ whispered Matilde, gazing from Edward to Harling. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘The usual reason, madam,’ said Harling. ‘I am weary of giving. It is time to take.’

  ‘You will not get far,’ said Michael. ‘Cheating the King of his taxes will be regarded as treason. You will never be safe from him.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Harling. ‘I have purchased a pleasant manor in the north country — under a different name of course — and will spend the rest of my days enjoying the proceeds of this most lucrative winter. I had hoped that Katherine Mortimer might be able to enjoy it with me, but, unfortunately, circumstances dictated otherwise.’

  ‘How can you have accrued such wealth in so short a time?’ said Michael in disbelief. ‘A few figs and the odd pomegranate cannot make a man’s fortune.’

  ‘Foolish monk!’ said Harling, his eyes glinting silvery black in the candlelight. ‘Do you think I would waste my time with fruit? That is for the poor devils who lurk about in the marshes with their pathetic little punts and their sacks of ancient oranges. And, anyway, I have been engaged in this business since last September — the day after half-wits like you voted for Tynkell instead of me.’

  ‘What about poisoned wine?’ asked Michael. ‘There is probably a lucrative market for that.’

  ‘I daresay there is,’ said Harling. ‘But I do not peddle poisoned wine. I merely had a dozen bottles — specially prepared with a strong French poison — delivered to present to a few of my acquaintances before I left. Among others, I planned to give one to Chancellor Tynkell; one to you, Brother, for leaching away my power as Vice-Chancellor; one to Master Bingham of Valence Marie who spoke out against me so unfairly when I stood for election — although Rob Thorpe almost saved me the trouble by having him indicted of Grene’s murder. Unfortunately, neither Physwick Hostel nor St Mary’s Church are places I could hide such gifts, and so I was forced to store them with the Mortimers. Half were promptly stolen, and I had to go to extraordinary lengths to get them back, so they would not be traced to me before I was ready to leave. You must admit I was thorough.’

  ‘Oh, very,’ said Michael heavily. ‘You arranged for Armel to be buried early to prevent too close an examination of his body; you, Katherine and Edward stole the four bottles from Matt’s room at Michaelhouse, then you went to Gonville, where you retrieved the fifth one and killed Isaac; you killed Philius when he began asking questions about poisons at his Friary; and you killed Sacks.’

  ‘I most certainly did not kill Isaac,’ said Harling indignantly. ‘That was Katherine and Edward. As Bartholomew observed earlier today, I have some skill with knives, and I would not have resorted to hitting the man on the head. While they were doing that, I was innocently searching the kitchens for the wine, unaware that murder had been done.’

  ‘But you helped us hang him once I had knocked him senseless,’ said Edward wearily. ‘You were not as entirely innocent of the affair as you would have them believe.’

  ‘And it was you who attacked Matt in Philius’s room,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you not stab him then — and Philius, for that matter — to save yourself the trouble later?’

  ‘Would that I had,’ said Harling, not without bitterness. ‘But I was interested only in retrieving the wine at that point, and thought I was being merciful in sparing your lives. I knew if I started a fire in Philius’s room, Bartholomew would feel obliged to stay to ensure his patient was not burned to a cinder, thus allowing me the opportunity to escape.’

  ‘Sacks stole six bottles from you, but we found only five,’ said Bartholomew. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure of Langelee’s weight from his chest, but the sergeant swung his crossbow in his direction, and Langelee’s foot pushed down harder still. ‘Where is the last one?’

  ‘It was with Sacks when I killed him,’ said Harling dismissively. ‘Unfortunately, it was smashed in the fight we had, before he expressed a curious desire to see the inside of Master Cheney’s salt barrel. I had planned to dump that barrel in the marshes, but that is no longer necessary now you have discovered its secrets.’ He brushed imaginary specks of dust from his gown.

  ‘Did you desecrate Egil’s body to hide the fact that it was he who brought you the wine?’ asked Michael. ‘Because his hands and face were blistered from touching it?’

  ‘At last!’ said Harling. ‘You have been uncommonly slow in dealing with the few facts that have trickled your way. Perhaps the rain has rotted your minds. When Cynric so kindly informed me where you had left Egil’s corpse, I went to claim it, knowing that you would notice the blisters on his hands and face in the cold light of day. Unfortunately, he was very heavy. I hauled him as far as I could, and then settled for the easier option of removing the incriminating parts — the burns from where he had touched the bottles as he brought them across the Fens from France. You were supposed to think he was savaged by a wild animal.’

  ‘Very selective wild animal,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Taking only hands and head.’

  Michael moved restlessly, and the candlelight glittered on the ornate crucifix he had worn since the installation. Bartholomew saw it had caught Harling’s eye, too, and suddenly the Vice-Chancellor’s business in the Fens became crystal clear. He had said, quite clearly, that he was not interested in clothes and fruit, and that he considered himself in a league far beyond all the other casual opportunists. And, when Bartholomew saw him looking at Michael’s cross, Bartholomew knew exactly what the Vice-Chancellor’s trade had been.

  ‘Treasure,’ he exclaimed. ‘You are smuggling treasure!’

  ‘Good again,’ said Harling appraisingly. ‘Gold and silver is indeed what my companions and I have been smuggling. It was astonishingly easy: boats were available; pilots were ready to be hired to take the cargo through the Fens; and officials had been bribed so many times before that they had not the slightest qualm about being bought into silence again.’

  ‘But where does it come from?’ asked Bartholomew. He tried to rise, but Langelee’s foot was immovable.

  ‘It comes from Brittany,’ said Michael in sudden understanding. ‘Oswald Stanmore and I were telling you only the other day how hostilities between England and France might have died down, but that the war is still very much in progress in Brittany: there have been many reports of bands of the King’s men roaming the country to attack villages and religious houses.’

  ‘And you are buying the treasures from these sacked religious houses and smuggling them into England?’ asked Bartholomew of Harling. He answered his own question. ‘Items like Philius’s collection of crucifixes, the handsome chalices at Valence Marie and the gold plate at Denny are all objects monasteries and convents would own — and that would be easy for looters to carry away.’

  ‘I had surmised as much,’ said Dame Pelagia casually. ‘When I saw that gold plate on which the Abbess served us cakes, I knew it was nothing the Countess had donated. It was Italian and the Countess is not an admirer of Italian craftsmanship.’

  ‘It is really very simple,’ said Harling. ‘There is no market for plundered church plate in Brittany, and so, unless the soldiers doing the ransacking do not mind donating their treasure to the King’s bottomless coffers, the only way they can profit from their hard work is by selling it to me — cheaply, of course. I then bring it to England where I can sell it at a suitably inflated price. You bought something of mine, I see, Brother.’

  Harling eyed Michael’s gold cross again. Michael looked shifty, but did not offer to return it. Harling went on.

  ‘Philius bought some, too, which I later reclaimed. But I know when to stop, and I have more than enough wealth to keep me and my
companions comfortable for the rest of our lives. Of late, I have been unable to control the soldiers I hired to bring the treasure through the Fens. They began to attack travellers on the roads and then even places in the town — like the Round Church and St Clement’s Hostel. It would have been unfortunate to have them recognised as the perpetrators of these crimes while they were visiting me on business.’

  ‘So it was you who sent them to kill us in the Fens?’ asked Michael.

  ‘You are tenacious when it comes to mysteries,’ said Harling smoothly. ‘I knew it would be only a matter of time before your investigation of the poisoned wine led you to me — or to one of my companions who would not have had the nerve to brazen it out. When you did not accept that Bingham had murdered Grene — as Eligius very conveniently believed — I decided to take action before you had time to begin an inquiry. I sent my best man, Alan of Norwich, to deal with you, but he failed miserably. On my orders, Egil returned to look for you, but he met with his unfortunate accident.’ He turned to Edward. ‘You are lucky to escape that marriage, my friend!’

  Bartholomew saw Langelee tense and shoot Edward a nasty glance.

  ‘And was it you Julianna heard talking at the abbey, and who later set fire to the guesthall?’ asked Michael, oblivious to the exchange between Julianna’s suitors.

  Harling sighed. ‘Of course not. Had that been me, we would not be having this conversation now — you would have died in the fire. Those were a couple of clerks who work at St Mary’s Church, and who have let me down badly with their bungled attempt on your lives.’

  ‘And another attempt was made when that puny little fellow tried to knife me,’ said Michael. ‘And, simultaneously, someone else was waiting to shoot Matt with a crossbow outside Gonville Hall.’