A Deadly Brew (33 page)

‘No, not that wound,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But there might have been others. Like blisters in his mouth and burns on his hands.’

Michael stared at him. ‘What are you saying? That Egil was poisoned?’

Bartholomew stood and began to pace again. ‘No. He could not have been – he was certainly not lacking in strength when he fought me. Forget what I said. It was foolish and implausible, even for this unsavoury affair.’

‘But removing a head from a corpse is an implausible action,’ said Michael, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. ‘Let us think through this notion of yours, before dismissing it out of hand. Tulyet and Stanmore said that Egil was a Fenman – and we know smuggling has been a source of income for Fenland families for generations. It is entirely possible that Egil was involved in smuggling. You saw his body, and you said there were no injuries – other than the fact that he was missing his head and hands – so it seems he was not harmed as Alan and his men attacked us. In which case, we can assume that he was known to them. It is even possible he was sent to hunt us down after we escaped the fire at Denny.’

‘And so his head and hands were taken because his associates were afraid that they might reveal something to us,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They did not take his clothes, so it was clearly not his identity that they were trying to hide. I keep coming back to the poisoned wine and tell-tale burns. It is the only reason I can think of for which these people might go to such extremes.’

The door opened silently and Cynric stepped lightly into the room. Abandoning the remains of his repast, Michael stood to greet him, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

‘I was afraid I would lose Rob Thorpe if I stopped to fetch you first,’ said Cynric without preamble, ‘so I followed him to see where he went.’

‘And where did he go?’ asked Michael, folding his arms, and throwing a superior glance at Bartholomew. ‘Now we will see, my friend. I wager you anything you like that Rob Thorpe will have fled straight to his accomplice to discuss how best to deal with the unwanted attentions of the Senior Proctor and his colleagues.’

‘No, he did not,’ said Cynric. ‘He went to St Botolph’s Church. He knelt at the altar for a while – alone – and then he went back to Master Stanmore’s house without having spoken to anyone.’

‘Nothing!’ spat Michael in disgust at breakfast the following day, ignoring the admonishing looks of Alcote and Father William for speaking. ‘Cynric watched Oswald Stanmore’s premises all night and Rob Thorpe did not so much as put a foot outside. Are you certain there is no other way out?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The only door is at the front. Perhaps we are wrong and Thorpe has no ally at Valence Marie after all. Perhaps Edith and Oswald are right and we are mistaken.’

‘We are not mistaken!’ snapped Michael in frustration, drawing further disapproving glares from his colleagues and the interested attentions of the students at the next table. He grabbed a lump of bread made from grey, grainy flour and gnawed at it so that crumbs snowed down the front of his habit. ‘Gray and the others saw Thorpe buying the poisoned wine from Sacks; Father Philius attended a dead apprentice at Stanmore’s business premises; you and I know it was Thorpe who helped us carry Grene’s body from Valence Marie’s hall. Even if we have misinterpreted some of the facts, the evidence that remains is overwhelming: Thorpe is involved in Grene’s death without question. And he could not have gained access to Valence Marie without help.’

‘I wonder why he went to St Botolph’s,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately not looking at Alcote, who was trying to catch his eye to warn him against talking without breaking silence himself. Had he not been discussing something as sombre as murder, Bartholomew would have found his antics amusing. On Alcote’s other side, the surly Langelee sipped his watered ale carefully, his red-rimmed eyes and unsteady hands suggesting he was not in much of a condition to care whether his colleagues talked during the meal or not, as long as they kept their voices low.

Next to Kenyngham, whose anger of the previous day had faded so that he was back to his usual absent-minded geniality, Runham regarded the restless students with his heavily lidded eyes. Gray stared back, although even his insolence and confidence was no match for Runham, and he was the first to look away. Runham shifted his gaze to Deynman who, knowing he was in disgrace for failing his disputation, at least had the grace to turn red and shuffle his feet uncomfortably on the floor.

‘Oh, why Thorpe went to church is no mystery,’ replied Michael with a flap of a flabby hand. ‘I spoke to the priests there last night – just as your brother-in-law advised us to do. Thorpe earns extra pennies by sweeping their church, and apparently, over the last few weeks, has taken to haunting the place even when there is no sweeping to be done. He told the priests that he likes to be there to escape from the childish behaviour of Stanmore’s younger apprentices.’

‘So, what shall we do next?’ asked Bartholomew, sipping Michaelhouse’s cloudy breakfast ale with a grimace. ‘Cynric needs to rest, and I am not going to watch Oswald’s house all day. Supposing Edith spotted me?’

Michael leaned plump elbows on the table and sighed. ‘Perhaps Tulyet’s excursions of the past two days will yield some results. At least we no longer need to worry about the smugglers – that is in his hands now.’

‘We certainly do need to worry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘They tried to kill us, and I will continue to worry until I am certain they are all secured in Tulyet’s prison cells.’

They stood for grace, and then trailed across the muddy yard towards their rooms. It was almost six o’clock and time for teaching to begin, but Bartholomew felt strangely apathetic towards it. Bulbeck’s failure – whatever the excuse – had been an unpleasant shock, and he wondered whether Langelee was right, and that he should concentrate more on teaching traditional medicine than on telling his students his own theories – regardless of his personal beliefs.

Just as this thought crossed Bartholomew’s mind, Langelee swaggered towards them, and intercepted their perilous journey across the morass that claimed to be Michaelhouse’s courtyard. He went through an elaborate pantomime of showing Bartholomew his hands, to prove that he was unarmed and that the physician had no need to draw his own weapon. Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenwards, and tried to walk past him without speaking. Langelee grabbed his shoulder, and Bartholomew flinched backwards at the strong smell of wine that wafted into his face. No wonder he had been fragile at breakfast – he was still drunk from the night before.

‘I wondered if I might borrow the copy of Aristotle’s
De Caelo
that you have been hogging all term,’ he said, with an unpleasant smile. ‘I am to be the presiding master at a public debate, the title of which is “Let us enquire whether the world is created or eternal”, and I need to refresh my memory about what Aristotle says on the matter.’

‘It is my own copy, not Michaelhouse’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you may borrow it if you like. I find it a difficult text, and would like to come to listen to your debate.’

Michael seized the physician’s sleeve and tried to pull him away, guessing that Bartholomew’s motive for attending Langelee’s debate would not be to learn.
De Caelo
was one of Bartholomew’s favourite books, and the fact that it was one of only two texts he owned meant that he knew it inside out. Michael knew Bartholomew and Langelee well enough to predict which one would emerge victorious from a battle of intellects and which one would be left looking foolish.

He saw Kenyngham watching them from the window of his chamber, and sensed, once again, that Bartholomew should steer clear of encounters with Langelee if he wanted to continue to teach at Michaelhouse. He tightened his grip on Bartholomew’s sleeve.

Langelee looked surprised – both at Bartholomew’s request and Michael’s reaction. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You should come to hear me,’ he said. ‘You might learn something, although it is a difficult question and you probably will not understand all the arguments I make.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew guilelessly. ‘And which of the two positions do you believe is the more viable: that the world was created or that it is eternal?’

‘That it is infinite,’ said Langelee without hesitation. ‘Any fool can see that. Otherwise everything in nature would have a much newer feel to it – like rivers and rocks and the oceans.’

‘But that would mean that the world had no beginning,’ said Bartholomew, trying to disengage his arm from Michael’s insistent tug. ‘And, the logical conclusion to be drawn from that is that an infinite number of celestial revolutions must have occurred to bring us to the present. But, because an infinite number of revolutions can never be completed, it stands that the revolution we are in now cannot have been reached. And that, of course, is absurd.’

‘Eh?’ said Langelee, blinking.

‘And further,’ said Bartholomew, prising Michael’s fingers from his sleeve, ‘as St Bonaventure argues, if an infinite number of revolutions have occurred until the present, the ones that will occur tomorrow will have to be added to that infinite number, which, I think you will agree, is impossible.’

‘I … well,’ said Langelee uncertainly.

‘That is enough, Matt,’ said Michael sharply, glancing up to where Kenyngham watched them from the window of his room. ‘Master Langelee is perfectly capable of refuting St Bonaventure’s arguments should he so desire. We all know that neither the creation of the world nor its eternity are scientifically demonstrable – as indeed Thomas Aquinas points out – and that, as such, they are equally probable.’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s tabard again.

‘Hmm,’ said Langelee non-committally.

‘If we cannot discuss philosophy, then perhaps we can talk about common acquaintances,’ said Bartholomew pleasantly, still attempting to extricate himself from Michael’s grip. ‘I hear you are acquainted with Julianna, the Abbess of Denny’s niece.’

Langelee’s eyes narrowed again. ‘So? At least she is not a harlot like your Matilde. She is also the niece of Thomas Deschalers the merchant, and so is very well connected.’

‘She is betrothed to Edward Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you know that?’

The suspicion vanished from Langelee’s face to be replaced by patent disbelief. ‘What? Julianna is not betrothed to anyone!’

‘You are right. She is not,’ said Michael, hauling on Bartholomew’s gown so hard that there was a sharp snap of ripped stitches. ‘Matt has been listening to too much town gossip.’

Langelee moved like lightning to prevent the monk from pulling Bartholomew away from him, and Bartholomew, standing awkwardly because of the way Michael was tugging on his tabard, tripped over the philosopher’s foot. He skidded in the mud, and only saved himself from a tumble by snatching at Michael’s habit. Langelee raised his eyebrows as the physician struggled to regain his footing.

‘You should go more easily on the ale, Bartholomew,’ he said. ‘Drinking in the mornings, I am sure, is bad for the balance of the humours.’

‘You should know,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Langelee’s heavy eyebrows drew together, and he opened his mouth to reply. Michael intervened hastily, realising that an argument would ensue between his friend and the aggressive philosopher unless he prevented it – and Kenyngham was still at his window. He decided the best way to silence Langelee was to go on the offensive himself.

‘You seem to be a little unsteady yourself, Master Langelee,’ he said. ‘As Senior Proctor, I must warn you that such behaviour is insupportable. My advice to you is that you remain in your chamber until you are certain you are no longer under the influence of last night’s wine.’

Before Langelee could reply, Michael had gained a powerful hold on Bartholomew’s arm, and was away with him across the courtyard, leaving the philosopher spluttering with impotent rage.

‘The more I speak with that fellow, the less I like him,’ said the obese monk pompously. ‘I do not know why he insists on holding conversations when his sole intention is to needle people. Borrow Aristotle indeed! He would not know one end of
De Caelo
from the other!’

‘He also does not know of Julianna’s betrothal,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. He rubbed his arm where Michael’s fingers had pinched. ‘He seemed quite disappointed to learn she was unavailable. Maybe I should let him know he has had a lucky escape. Or is the luck Julianna’s?’

‘You will do no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘That man clearly has some kind of grudge against you, and you would be well advised to stay clear of him until I can have quiet words in high places and see about getting him transferred to another College – Valence Marie, perhaps, or King’s Hall.’ He glanced up at Kenyngham, still watching from his window. ‘Assuming, of course, that words in high places were not had to bring him here in the first place.’

Bartholomew was spared from answering by someone shouting for Michael. They turned and saw Vice-Chancellor Harling picking his way cautiously across the yard.

‘Can you do nothing about this foul mire?’ he grumbled, looking at his splattered boots in dismay. ‘Physwick Hostel does not boast such a mud bath.’

‘Physwick Hostel does not have a yard,’ retorted Michael. He smiled before Harling could take offence. ‘I was about to come to see you.’

‘Well, then, I have saved you the trouble,’ said Harling. ‘At the expense of my boots! But I wanted to tell you personally, Matthew, how appalled I was when Brother Michael told me about the attack on you when you went to see to the Bishop. I wish I had tried harder to dissuade you from going. I shall say a mass today to give thanks for your deliverance.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Thank you. If we had listened to your misgivings about the journey none of it would have happened.’

‘True,’ said Harling. ‘Although I did not come here to gloat. I came to ask whether you had discovered anything new.’ The Vice-Chancellor shook his head as Deynman, hurrying to attend one of Alcote’s basic grammar lectures in the hall, fell flat on his back in the mud and slid some distance before coming to a halt.

‘Not really,’ said Michael. ‘Today I plan to visit St Bernard’s Hostel to see if I can learn anything further about Armel’s death, and then I will go to the castle to see how Tulyet has fared.’