A Deadly Brew (12 page)

‘He was due back yesterday for the installation, apparently,’ Michael replied, holding a lump of bread near his mouth in a vain attempt to fool Alcote into believing he was not talking. ‘Harling thinks he decided not to make the journey because of the bad weather.’

‘Then Harling might enjoy his power for a good while yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This rain shows no sign of relenting.’

‘You do Harling an injustice,’ remonstrated Michael. ‘Any other man who lost the post that should have been his would have been bitter. Harling accepted his defeat with a graciousness I find honourable, and he has continued to serve the University with the utmost integrity. Anyway, he clearly thinks highly of you, because he said your duties in treating the poor are more important than helping me solve the affair of the poisoned wine.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, startled into speaking loudly. Several heads turned towards him, and Michael pretended to be absorbed in eating his eggs.

Master Kenyngham looked at them with raised eyebrows. ‘Since you two clearly have something to discuss, perhaps I should allow conversation at meals today,’ he said wryly. ‘Then you will not set a poor example to the students.’

‘That would be a mistake, Master,’ said the dour Father William promptly. ‘It is only a small step from ill-discipline to heresy.’

‘I hardly think erudite disputation at breakfast will lead to heresy, William,’ said gentle Father Paul with a smile. ‘And the students are restless because the rain is keeping them in. I think the time has come to make concessions before we really do have a discipline problem.’

‘Nonsense!’ said William. ‘You are far too soft with them. If anything, they need a reduction of concessions, not an easier life. If I were appointed Junior Proctor, I would show the University how to keep order among the students.’

He shot Michael a baleful look that Michael pretended not to notice. Father William had put himself forward for the post of Junior Proctor when the previous incumbent had left to serve the King. Not surprisingly, given the Franciscan friar’s uncompromising and inflexible views of the world and everyone in it, his application had not been successful. Bartholomew did not know whether Michael had played a role in William’s rejection or whether the friar’s reputation had spoken for itself, but Michael was, nevertheless, invariably uncomfortable when the issue was raised.

‘Have some eggs,’ said Bartholomew, before William could begin a tirade on how he would personally reform the University by burning half its scholars in the Market Square for heresy.

‘Eggs!’ said William in disgust, gesturing at the bowl Bartholomew held out to him. ‘I was never so coddled when I was an undergraduate!’

‘But you have eaten them, nevertheless,’ Alcote observed, eyeing William’s empty trencher. ‘Anyway,’ he continued hastily when he saw William preparing himself for a row, ‘I see no harm in conversation, so long as it is kept to religious matters and is in Latin.’

While Father William shook his head in fervent disapproval, Kenyngham announced that conversation would be permitted during meals that day, provided the topic were theological and the language Latin. There was an immediate buzz of chatter from the students, although the little core of Franciscans followed William’s example and maintained their silence.

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Now we can discuss last night’s events before I meet Harling.’

‘Hardly a religious matter, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to his breakfast.

‘But we are speaking Latin,’ said Michael comfortably, ‘so we are half-way there.’

‘I do not want to become involved in this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sick of murder.’

‘So are we all, Matt,’ replied Michael. ‘I told Harling as much this morning, and that was when he said you need not assist me in this if you feel you do not want to, and that your work among the people with winter fever was more valuable to the University than assisting me.’

‘Harling said that?’

Michael nodded, genuinely puzzled. ‘I admit I was surprised. I thought he would have commandeered anyone’s assistance in order to solve this as quickly as possible. He said you should not be forced to do anything that would interfere with your other duties.’

Bartholomew’s opinion of Harling rose several degrees. It was certainly unexpected – the University’s officials seldom considered people’s preferences when their beloved institution was at risk – and Harling’s sympathetic response came as a pleasant change from orders and demands.

‘There is a curious thing about Tynkell’s election as Chancellor,’ mused Bartholomew, his mind wandering back to the ballot that Harling lost. ‘I have never met anyone who voted for him. Everyone I know says they voted for Harling, but Harling still did not win.’

Michael shrugged. ‘That is because Tynkell is an unknown quantity. No one would be foolish enough to admit voting for him when he might prove … inappropriate.’

‘Not everyone I know is so dishonest,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I voted for Harling myself.’

‘So did I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Although you know that – you took my voting slip to St Mary’s Church because I was ill.’

‘You had indigestion because you ate three apple pies one after the other and shared them with no one,’ corrected Bartholomew.

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Indigestion is being ill. I was confined to my bed, was I not? Anyway, by eating those pies myself, I saved you from a similar fate.’

‘Most thoughtful of you, Brother.’

‘But let us go back to Harling. He has his faults, but better the Devil you know. He works well with the Proctors, has the respect of the beadles and is a cunning negotiator.’

‘I had never heard William Tynkell’s name before the election,’ reflected Bartholomew. ‘Yet everyone knew Harling, and he is not unpopular. I do not understand why so many masters voted for such a nonentity as Tynkell.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting the election was falsified?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I confess the notion has crossed my mind. Who counted the votes?’

Michael grabbed the egg bowl and began to dig out the bits left at the bottom with his knife. ‘Each master signs his own name and that of his favoured candidate on a slip of parchment, and hands it to the Senior Proctor. The Senior Proctor and the Vice-Chancellor then count the votes.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I know what is supposed to happen. But when Tynkell was elected that procedure was not followed: Harling, as Vice-Chancellor, could not count the votes of an election in which he was a candidate; and you did not count them, as Senior Proctor, because you were brought low by three apple pies.’

Michael crammed a loaded knife of egg scraps into his mouth. ‘In our absence, two men were selected whose integrity was beyond question.’ He ignored Bartholomew’s snort of derision and continued. ‘Namely Father Eligius from Valence Marie and our own Master Kenyngham.’

Bartholomew reconsidered. He did not know Eligius particularly well, but Kenyngham’s honesty was beyond question. He watched Michael’s face grow sweaty with the exertion of reclaiming the last of the egg from the bowl and tried to put the matter from his mind. Michael was doubtless right, and most scholars would be waiting to see what kind of chancellor Tynkell made before admitting that they had helped him into power.

‘We digress,’ said Michael, pushing the empty bowl away from him and leaning back in his seat. ‘I know you do not want to become involved – and that you have Harling’s sanction to let me struggle against evil killers alone – but you will not refuse me a discussion of the facts, will you?’

Bartholomew shook his head, although his instinct was to decline. Michael steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the table.

‘Then let us review the events leading to these deaths. Yesterday morning, a man in the Brazen George sells three bottles of poisoned wine to a group of students, one of whom later dies. At some point, a similar bottle of wine found its way to James Grene, who perished horribly, but highly conveniently, before a goodly part of the town. Valence Marie’s most eminent scholar, Father Eligius, believes Grene’s rival, the newly installed Master Bingham, murdered him.’

‘And Bingham’s motive is either that Grene was proving to be a bad loser, or Grene’s misguided, but fanatical, belief that a handful of boiled bones was a sacred relic was proving awkward,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Meanwhile,’ continued Michael, ‘we can surmise, from what Philius told us, that a fifth bottle came into the possession of your brother-in-law a month ago and killed one of his apprentices, after which it was appropriated by the light-fingered Isaac. Isaac eventually used the stolen wine to make Philius’s weekly purge – obviously not knowing it was poisoned – whereby he brought Philius to death’s door and burned his own hand in the process. Isaac was murdered as he went to fetch the bottle for you to inspect, probably by the three people who knocked me over in their haste to leave Gonville Hall. We have already established that they were unarmed – they hanged, not stabbed, Isaac and did no real harm to you or Philius – and I conclude that they came only to steal the bottle before we could inspect it properly.’

‘No, not steal,’ said Bartholomew, thinking. ‘Retrieve.’

Michael looked blankly at him and waited for an explanation.

‘This is a strange poison – I have never seen anything quite like it before. Isaac’s killers seem to be going to some lengths to find the bottles, which suggests to me that they know exactly what is in them, and that, in turn, means that they must have had them in their possession at some point – so they came to retrieve, not steal them.

‘I see,’ said Michael, nodding.

Bartholomew continued. ‘At some point between the time Isaac used the wine to make Philius’s purge and Isaac’s death, the bottle rolled under the bench and was smashed: Isaac’s killer could not find it. When Cynric called me to look at Isaac’s body, the killers then slipped across the yard into Philius’s room to look for the bottle there. I came back sooner than they anticipated and we struggled in the dark. They threw the lamp against the wall to start a fire to distract me long enough to allow them to return to the storeroom for a second search.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Too risky. I agree that they started the fire to distract you, but it was to prevent you from chasing them not to give them time to search again.’ He pulled at the straggling whiskers on his chin. ‘You said you saw two people running away from Philius’s room, whereas Cynric and I encountered three. I suspect one person was left in the storeroom to continue the search there, while the other two went to Philius’s room. There were enough sacks and barrels in the room to make hiding easy.’

‘You mean one of the people who killed Isaac watched me while I examined his body?’ said Bartholomew in horror.

Michael nodded. ‘There is no other rational explanation. You said you saw the bottle under the bench – thus revealing its whereabouts to the watching person who later removed all traces of it. But I think you were in no danger.’

‘Isaac was!’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced.

‘I have no explanation for Isaac’s demise,’ said Michael pompously, ‘but that third person could have killed you in the storeroom when you found the bottle: he did not. The other two might have killed you when you struggled with them in Philius’s room: again, they did not. And they could have killed Walter when they came to “retrieve” the bottles from your room: but they did not. I think your theory is correct, and that the sole intention of these people was to regain possession of the bottles. We had five of them – three from Bernard’s, one from Valence Marie and the smashed one from Gonville – and now we have none. In the bottles, and thus in the nature of this strange poison, lies the answer to this mystery.’

‘So, have you abandoned the notion that this is a dire plot by the town to kill scholars?’ asked Bartholomew, putting a wizened apple into Paul’s hand before passing the bowl to Michael, who took three.

‘Not at all,’ said Michael, his mouth full. ‘Such a plot is still the most plausible explanation for all this.’

‘I suppose you think these bottles have been retrieved so that they can be used again?’ asked Bartholomew flippantly. ‘So all we need to do next time is to lay a trap for whoever comes to get them back.’

Michael gave him a withering glance. ‘At least I have a theory,’ he said irritably. ‘You have nothing more than a collection of conflicting ideas – you think Grene’s death is too convenient to be coincidence and suspect Bingham in playing a role, yet at the same time, you do not believe Bingham is competent to carry out such an attack. You say the wine in the bottle at Gonville brought Philius to the brink of death, burned Isaac’s hand and killed a rat, yet you say you saw that sot of a cat drink its fill with no ill effects at all.’

‘The cat!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s peevishness. ‘Colton said it prowls the College looking for wine and ale and smashes things. The cat must have smashed the bottle! It can scarcely uncork them for itself, and has probably learned that the best way into a bottle is to break it.’

‘That would explain why the killers could not find it,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘It lay smashed under the bench. Perhaps they asked Isaac for it, and killed him when he could not tell them. Since in talking to them they had revealed their identities, Isaac was murdered to ensure he could not tell us who was so interested in obtaining poisoned wine.’

It was possible, Bartholomew supposed. They had certainly threatened Walter with death if he tried to escape from his bonds before dawn, even if they had not harmed Bartholomew when the opportunity presented itself.

The discussion was cut short when Ralph de Langelee slammed his goblet down on the table in a sudden display of temper. Bartholomew almost jumped out of his skin, and the babble of conversation in the hall died away abruptly.

‘That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!’ Langelee exclaimed furiously. ‘Of course the Earth is not irregularly shaped: it is a perfect sphere!’

‘It is not!’ shouted Alcote, equally angry. ‘So there!’ he added, as if that clinched the debate.