A Deadly Brew (27 page)

‘Cynric told me about your experience with these outlaws,’ he said without preamble, waving them to seats on a bench that ran the length of two of the walls. ‘He was able to give me an excellent description of them, which will be useful, but I am concerned that they so shamelessly strutted into the town and had a drink at the Brazen George before leaving on their murderous mission.’

Bartholomew sat on the bench nearest the fire. Michael might be hot and sweaty from his exertions, but the physician was frozen to the bone. ‘They were confident,’ he agreed. ‘And well-organised.’

‘So Cynric said,’ said Tulyet, sitting at his desk and leaning back in the chair. ‘I have a strong suspicion that the outlaws I have been hunting this winter and the men who attacked you are one and the same. It is unlikely that there are two well-run criminal bands operating in the same area. At least, I hope not!’

‘Did you know about the smuggling that takes place in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And I know it has become far more prevalent this year because the mild winter has kept the waterways open.’

‘So, you think these smugglers are also responsible for the burglaries in the town and the robberies on the roads of which Sir Oswald Stanmore has been complaining?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet picked up a quill and began to chew the end. ‘I do. But speaking of Stanmore, what about the deaths of his men – Egil and Jurnet? Have you told him about that yet? It is not a task I envy you; Stanmore is protective over the people who work for him.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘We told him yesterday. Alan of Norwich killed Jurnet and Julianna did away with Egil.’

Tulyet looked up sharply and Michael gave a sigh. ‘Ignore him, Dick,’ said the monk in a voice that bespoke long suffering. ‘I saw the grip Egil had around Matt’s throat, and so did Cynric. I would have brained the man myself had he been within my reach. Julianna saved Matt’s life.’

‘Did you not recognise Egil as you fought?’ asked Tulyet of Bartholomew.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The moon was in and out, and it was difficult to see clearly. I imagine the poor man had been wandering in the Fens for the previous two days and, quite reasonably, assumed that anyone on the highway in the dead of night, walking as furtively as we were, was up to no good. He attacked without trying to discover who we were.’

‘I spoke with Egil when he first arrived in Cambridge,’ said Tulyet, frowning. ‘I interview any stranger who stays here longer than a week – we cannot be too careful with strangers these days – and he told me that he knew the Fens around Ely like the back of his hand.’

‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, uncertain of the point the Sheriff was trying to make.

‘So if he knew the Fens so well, he would not have wandered for two days before finding the road again,’ said Tulyet impatiently.

‘True,’ said Michael, thinking hard. ‘Oswald Stanmore said that Egil preferred the Fens to the town, and often went fishing there. And he certainly knew where the Ely causeway went when it disappeared underwater on our outward journey. No, Matt. Egil would not have been lost.’

‘Perhaps he was injured,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and left for dead by the smugglers.’

‘Possibly,’ said Tulyet. ‘But we will know that for certain when you examine the body properly. I take it Stanmore has gone to fetch it back?’

Bartholomew nodded, wondering whether it was worth protesting at Tulyet’s cavalier assumption that he would act as coroner for him.

‘I arrested Thomas Bingham – the University’s newest Master – for the murder of James Grene this morning,’ said Tulyet, almost casually. ‘We have him locked in a room upstairs.’

Michael leapt to his feet. ‘What? Bingham? On what evidence?’

‘On the evidence we all saw,’ said Tulyet. ‘Grene was poisoned at Bingham’s installation. Apparently, his Fellows began their own investigation when Vice-Chancellor Harling told them you had been called away, and Father Eligius came to me and made a case for his arrest earlier today. Essentially, he pointed out that someone killed Grene, and the only person to benefit from his death was Bingham. And perhaps even more damning was the fact Grene confided he was in fear of his life from Bingham shortly before his death to Eligius and to two other Valence Marie Fellows.’

‘Grene confided his fear to
three
Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘That is damning. But why did
you
arrest Bingham? This is a matter for the Proctors, not the Sheriff. It is a crime against the University, committed on University property.’

‘You were busy investigating the outlaws’ attack on St Clement’s Hostel, and could not be found. And Harling thought Bingham would be safer with me than in the Proctors’ gaol. Despite the fact that no one much cared for Grene while he was alive, sympathy for him dead has exceeded the bounds of all reason, because so many people witnessed his murder. Harling was afraid Grene’s supporters might march against the less-secure Proctors’ prison, and try to lynch Bingham.’

Michael puffed out his cheeks. ‘Harling is probably right. And it is all down to this damned relic of Valence Marie’s!’

‘The relic found last year?’ asked Tulyet, startled. ‘What is that to do with Grene’s murder?’

‘Because since we returned from Denny, I have lost track of the times that I have been asked when the Chancellor plans to reinstate that wretched hand to Valence Marie. People believe Grene died for the thing – and that Bingham is leading a sinister plot to discredit it.’

‘How can people be so gullible?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I thought we had exposed that horrible thing as a fake – and, perhaps even more importantly, proved that the saint it was said to have come from was no more a martyr than I am.’

‘There speaks a man of science,’ said Tulyet, grimly amused. ‘People do not need facts to whip them up into a fanatical frenzy about something, Matt. If you made a convincing case that cows could fly, you would find people willing to believe it – and even to die for it – despite what their experience and common sense dictates to them.’

‘I am concerned that Grene expressed fears for his safety to
three
Valence Marie Fellows,’ said Michael, gnawing on his lower lip. ‘This is beginning to look very bad for Bingham.’

‘Can we be sure all three are telling the truth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What if they are the same three who voted for Grene in the election, and this is no more than College politics running wild?’

‘Are you suggesting that Father Eligius is lying?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘He is one of the University’s foremost scholars.’

‘No one saw Bingham give Grene the poisoned wine,’ said Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace. ‘And murdering him would be a foolish thing to do in front of half the town. I cannot believe Bingham did it.’

‘Then who did?’ asked Tulyet, watching him move back and forth across the small room. ‘Who else might gain?’

‘Father Eligius himself,’ suggested Michael quietly.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration. ‘He was offered the Mastership and he did not want it. He has no motive for wanting Grene dead.’

‘He has no motive that we know about,’ corrected Michael. ‘But there is always the relic that he feels so strongly about. Perhaps Grene’s death is somehow connected to that.’

‘I suppose he was very quick to accuse Bingham of Grene’s murder,’ admitted Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘That might be significant.’

‘But so were you,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If you recall.’

‘Only to you,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘But what of these other two Fellows who say Grene professed he was in fear of his life? Why did they wait for Eligius to instigate an investigation before telling their stories? It all strikes me as very odd.’

‘Do you think Bingham is guilty?’ Michael asked Tulyet.

Tulyet shrugged. ‘As you say, the installation was a foolish place to dispatch a rival. But people are often foolish and live to regret their actions. I see plenty of evidence to suggest his guilt, and none to support his innocence. He claims he is blameless, of course. Do you want to speak to him?’

Michael nodded, and Tulyet led them up to the second floor, where a sleepy guard unlocked the door of a small chamber set in the thickness of the wall. The room was gloomy – only a narrow slit allowed the daylight to filter in – but was reasonably comfortable. The remains of a sizeable meal lay on the table, and Bingham had been provided with better, warmer blankets than the ones Bartholomew had at Michaelhouse.

Bingham recognised Michael and came towards him, his face haggard. ‘I did not kill Grene,’ he began immediately, his voice a throaty whisper. ‘I did not like the man, but I did not kill him.’

‘Then how did the poison find its way into his cup?’ asked Michael harshly. ‘It is strange that only he was stricken at the installation, would you not say?’

‘I do not know!’ said Bingham, in the weary tones of a man who had said as much many times before. ‘I was as shocked by his death as was everyone else. I did not kill Grene and I have no idea how poison came to be in his wine. When he died, I assumed it had been simple gluttony that had brought about a seizure. The serving lad behind him had been filling his cup all night.’

Bartholomew had never been good at ascertaining whether people were telling the truth, but Bingham was convincing. It would have been difficult for him to pass a poisoned bottle to Grene without having it intercepted or seen by another person – unless he had an accomplice, of course. But then, surely the accomplice would be working to quell the allegations that Bingham was the murderer – for his own sake as much as Bingham’s – and yet no one was speaking in Bingham’s defence. The tall, willowy figure of Eligius sprung into Bartholomew’s mind again. But what was his motive? Eligius did not want to be Master, so why should he want Bingham convicted of Grene’s murder? Was it to promote the relic in some bizarre way – slaying one of its proponents to make people believe it was worth dying for?

A commotion in the bailey drew Tulyet over to the narrow window. He threw open the shutter and leaned out.

‘Let him in,’ he yelled to the sergeant on the gates. Moments later, feet pounded on the newel stair, and Cynric burst breathlessly into the room.

‘Thought I would find you here,’ he gasped, ignoring the Sheriff and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Master Colton of Gonville asks that you come immediately. Father Philius is dead!’

Chapter 8

Although the death of a scholar was not the concern of the Sheriff, Tulyet went with Bartholomew and Michael as they hurried down Castle Hill towards Gonville Hall.

‘You seem to have most of your soldiers out in the Fens, Dick,’ said Michael. ‘Given that the outlaws have started to attack places in the town itself – the Round Church and poor little St Clement’s Hostel to name but two – perhaps you would be better advised to keep a few back to patrol the streets.’

‘Damn these villains!’ spat Tulyet in sudden anger. ‘What am I supposed to do? It is like looking for a needle in a haystack! Do I concentrate my searches on the Fens, or do I withdraw men, as you suggest, and look for them here? Your descriptions will help, but names would have been better.’

‘I think we can provide you with some of those,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I have an informant who knows the identities of several of these smugglers. The attack I was investigating on St Clement’s Hostel distracted me – I should have told you before now.’

Tulyet stopped walking abruptly, and seized the fat monk’s sleeve. ‘How have you come by such information?’ He shook his head quickly. ‘Never mind. Just give me the names.’

‘A nun has all the information you need,’ said Michael. ‘We brought her with us from Denny.’

‘Well, where is she? Can I speak with her now?’

‘I thought she would have passed this information to you on the way back from Denny,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant for a well-known public figure like the Sheriff to visit Matilde’s house and alert the outlaws to Dame Pelagia’s whereabouts. ‘She had plenty of time.’

‘Of course she did not,’ said Michael, treating Bartholomew to the kind of look that he normally reserved for students who made exceptionally stupid observations. ‘First, it would not have been wise to discuss such matters on an open trackway – who knows who might have been listening from among the bushes at the roadside? Second, the fewer the people privy to this kind of information, the better – what one does not know, one cannot be forced to tell – and, anyway, Julianna was with us a good deal of the way, and I did not want her knowing more than she already does. And, third, Dame Pelagia is an old lady and needed all her energy for walking. She did not have excess breath to be chattering with me.’

Bartholomew’s recollections of their journey suggested that it was probably Michael who had needed all his breath for walking, while Dame Pelagia had remained very sprightly, even at the end of the walk.

Tulyet made an impatient sound at their digression. ‘Never mind all that. I want to speak with her immediately!’

Michael shook his head. ‘I do not want anyone to know her whereabouts because I believe her to be in grave danger from these outlaws. I will ask her for the information and pass it to you as soon as we have finished with Father Philius.’

‘No,’ said Tulyet, hauling on Michael’s sleeve as he made to walk on. He gestured up at the sky. ‘If you tell me now, I can set about hunting these rogues immediately, while there is enough daylight. If you tell me later, I will have to wait until tomorrow, and by then who knows what might have happened? Go now. I will accompany Matt to see about Father Philius.’

Michael made as if to demur, but Tulyet stood firm. The Sheriff was right: the sooner the outlaws were rounded up, the sooner he, Bartholomew and Dame Pelagia would be safe. Michael nodded acquiescence, and headed off towards The Jewry. After a moment of hesitation, Cynric slipped away after him, and Bartholomew was reminded, yet again, what a dangerous position they were in.

A student was waiting outside Gonville Hall to conduct them to Father Philius’s room. In it, Master Colton paced back and forth, pulling at his beard in agitation, while Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Philius’s room looked as though a fierce wind had blown through it. Parchments were scattered everywhere, and the table and several stools had been overturned. The collection of fine crucifixes had gone, too – the hooks where they had hung were empty. As Bartholomew recovered himself, and walked towards the body that lay on the bed, glass and pottery crunched under his feet from the bottles and cups that had been shattered.

He knelt on the floor, and eased the dead scholar over onto his back. Philius’s eyes were wide open, there were traces of blood around his white lips, and his face revealed an expression of profound shock. Tulyet leaned over Bartholomew’s shoulder to look, and crossed himself hurriedly.

‘It seems to me that the evil humours, for which you treated Philius recently, must have burst from him,’ said Colton from the doorway as he watched. He gestured around the room. ‘He must have done all this in his death throes. We decided we should leave everything as we found it, so that you could be certain it was these evil humours that killed him. I cannot have lies circulating that Philius died in suspicious circumstances, not so soon after the rumours that he was poisoned by his own book-bearer. What will people think of us?’

Bartholomew stood up, and turned to face Colton.

‘But I think Father Philius has been murdered,’ he said quietly. He looked around the room. ‘And it seems he put up quite a fight.’

‘Murdered?’ echoed Colton nervously. ‘But that cannot be so! The porter heard and saw nothing, and these days – with the outlaws at large – we keep our gates locked during the day as well as the night.’

‘But he must have heard something,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Surely the sound of that table falling would have been audible from the porter’s lodge?’

‘Send for him,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘We shall see.’

With a long-suffering sigh, Colton hailed a passing student, and instructed him to fetch the porter.

‘We might know what happened for certain once I have looked more closely at Philius’s body,’ said Bartholomew. He crouched next to the dead Franciscan, and inspected his face. Colton reached past him and hauled the bed-cover up, so that it covered the body. Bartholomew twisted round to gaze at the Master of Gonville Hall in astonishment.

Colton shook his head firmly. ‘I am sorry, Bartholomew, but I cannot permit this. I will not have it put about that a murder has taken place in my College in the wake of this nasty affair of the poisoned wine. If I had thought you would try to prove Philius had been murdered, I would never have allowed you to come here. I expected you simply to confirm that Philius died as a result of his earlier affliction.’

‘Did you ask me to come because you want to know what really happened, or because you want me to say what you hope to be true?’ asked Bartholomew quietly. ‘Because I will not lie for you.’

Colton looked angry. ‘Philius could not have been murdered! I ate breakfast with him this morning! He had been very careful about his personal safety after Isaac’s death: he locked his room at all times, even when he was in it. You are mistaken if you suspect foul play. I tell you, poor Philius had an attack of the same evil humours that struck him before.’

Bartholomew disagreed. ‘He seemed to have recovered from that.’

‘Seemed, yes,’ insisted Colton. ‘But you know diseases appear to be healed and then return with greater vigour. You must have seen how that happened with the Death?’

That was true. Bartholomew had seen many plague victims who seemed to be mending, but promptly died just as their family and friends were giving thanks for their deliverance. But he was certain that was not what had happened to Philius. He looked reappraisingly at Gonville Hall’s Master. Did he have something more to hide than a desire to suppress rumours that might damage his College’s reputation? Colton had been present in his College when Isaac was murdered and now, it seemed, he had seen Philius at breakfast – a matter of hours before the man had been dispatched. And Colton had been at the feast where Grene had died.

‘If the humours had burst forth from his body as you suggest,’ said Bartholomew, ‘then we would see signs of it. He would have vomited, or had some other kind of flux, and there would be a recurrence of the small blisters I saw earlier.’

‘What are you saying, Matt? That someone forced his way in and killed him?’ asked Tulyet.

Bartholomew nodded slowly.

‘That is ridiculous!’ snapped Colton dismissively. ‘I have told you already that Philius has been careful since Isaac’s death. He kept his door locked at all times, and allowed few people in. And you are asking me to believe that someone entered the College, and killed him in broad daylight? As I told you, I saw him fit and well at breakfast when I joined him here, in this very room, this morning.’

‘If he had been fit and well at breakfast, why should he suddenly die a couple of hours later?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If his humours were unbalanced, he would have complained about it then.’

‘Perhaps it came upon him all of a sudden,’ said Colton, exasperated. ‘And how could a murderer gain access to his room? The door was locked.’

‘Was it locked when you found his body?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘With him dead inside?’

Colton considered. ‘Well, no. It was unlocked when I found him like this, but he might have opened it as these evil humours burst forth in an attempt to call for help.’

‘Then why did he not die outside in the yard?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Unless you moved the body?’

‘I have touched nothing!’ said Colton angrily, enunciating each word. ‘And the reason I have touched nothing is so that we might quell any vicious rumours that Philius’s death was anything but natural. I did not want you claiming that I have tampered with evidence. And, anyway, see reason, man! You are reading far too much into all this. Philius died, purely and simply, of a surplus of the evil humours that sickened him a few days ago.’

‘Why do you keep saying Philius’s last illness was caused by evil humours?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘We both know very well that he was poisoned with the same substance that killed Grene and Armel.’

‘
I
know nothing of the sort!’ retorted Colton. ‘I suggested to Philius, only this morning, that his ailment a few nights ago was a case of an overly acidic purge. He was
not
poisoned.’

Bartholomew stared at Colton in disbelief. ‘Really? And I suppose this new diagnosis has nothing to do with the fact that you do not want your College associated with the murder of University scholars? Did you and Philius sit down together and discuss how you might best protect Gonville Hall from unseemly rumours?’

Or, he thought, perhaps it was more sinister than that, and Colton had ensured Philius would not live to spread tales of tainted purges and slain book-bearers.

Colton flushed furiously. ‘I resent that implication, Bartholomew. You are accusing me, and one of your own medical colleagues, of plotting to tell the most atrocious lies!’

Bartholomew sighed, weary of argument. ‘But even you must see there are problems with your conviction that Philius’s illness and subsequent death were natural, Master Colton – such as why did Philius display the same symptoms of poisoning as did Armel and Grene, if his ailment was caused by an excess of bad humours? And why was Philius so careful to lock his door, if he had nothing to fear?’

Colton said nothing, but glowered at Bartholomew, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘You said Philius secured his door,’ Bartholomew continued relentlessly, ‘but why was his room unlocked when you discovered his body? The answer to that is because his killer did not latch it when he left.’

‘That is dangerous, unfounded speculation!’ hissed Colton. ‘How can all this be true? Philius would hardly unlock the door and allow a killer in his room!’

‘He probably did not know this person was a killer when he admitted him,’ said Bartholomew, with more patience than he felt Colton deserved, ‘but it is clear from the state of the room that they struggled.’

Colton shook his head angrily, and gestured at Philius. ‘There is no blood to suggest a wound, and his head is not caved in. There are no marks on his corpse at all. You should have evidence before you make such horrible assertions.’

‘Give me a few moments to inspect the body, and I might be able to provide you with some,’ said Bartholomew, fighting not to lose his temper. He felt vulnerable in the room where Philius had probably been murdered, even with Tulyet standing behind him, and Colton’s unsettling attitude was not making him feel any better. He considered giving in to Colton’s demands, just to ensure measures were not taken to ensure
his
silence over Gonville’s precious reputation. He had not wanted to become involved in the investigation of the suspicious deaths in the first place, and bitterly resented the fact that it seemed to have placed him in such a dangerous position.

Colton scowled at him, but then, to Bartholomew’s surprise, he yielded. ‘Very well, then. I suppose that unless you satisfy yourself that poor Philius died of a flux of bad humours, rumours will follow that Gonville is seeking to hide the truth. But, be assured, Bartholomew, I will ask Doctor Lynton from Peterhouse to verify anything you find. I will not have my College dragged through the mire because you are unwilling to admit that you misdiagnosed Philius’s illness the first time.’

He walked to the other end of the room so he would not have to watch, and began to pare his nails with a small knife in the light from the window.

Bartholomew bit back several scathing remarks that flooded into his mind, and bent to inspect Philius once again. It appeared that the Franciscan had prepared himself for bed when he was struck down – wary of over-exerting himself following his close brush with death a few days before – because he wore a long brown nightgown with a silk robe over the top. His feet were bare, so perhaps he had already been asleep. Bartholomew felt carefully around the friar’s head, but Colton was right in saying there was no wound. Then he looked at the dead man’s neck, but there was no bruising and no marks to suggest throttling. Finally, he drew the gown up, and looked for puncture wounds. With Tulyet’s help, he turned the body over, but there was nothing to be seen.

Perhaps he had been wrong after all, he mused, and the internal damage sustained from the poison Philius had swallowed earlier
had
killed him. Bartholomew had worried about the long-term effects of the poison when he first attended the friar. But the expression on Philius’s face did not seem right somehow. Bartholomew knew this was insufficient evidence on its own, but it set bells of warning jangling in his mind. He turned the corpse onto its back, and stared down at it, perplexed. And then a tiny glitter caught his eye.