A Deadly Brew (36 page)

Michael nodded. ‘I am sure. I believe poor Master Thorpe will be appalled when he learns about the havoc his son has wreaked on his behalf. But enough of this wretched little ingrate. Go home, Edith. I think your other boys might need you now. They will be frightened and will need reassuring.’

Edith gave a wan smile. ‘Thank you, Michael. You have been kind.’ She prised the sobbing Francis from Michael and turned away to take him home. ‘I still hope you are wrong,’ she said in a small voice, not looking back at them.

‘So do I,’ said Stanmore, watching her go. ‘This will break her heart, Matt. Rob was a favourite of hers. I think he reminds her of you when you were that age.’

Bartholomew, recalling Thorpe’s gloating smiles of triumph and murderous inclinations, sincerely hoped he was mistaken. ‘I suppose we had better see if he has fled to Valence Marie,’ he said, anxious to be away from Stanmore and his distress, since he felt as though he were at least partly responsible for it.

Stanmore gave a huge sigh. ‘I suppose I should come with you to help you find Rob,’ he said, ‘but I have no stomach for this sort of confrontation. The University is no place for honest traders.’

They left him sitting disconsolately on the low wall surrounding St Mary’s churchyard.

‘What do you plan to do?’ Bartholomew asked of Michael as they walked along the High Street. ‘Will you use Thorpe to flush out his accomplice?’

Michael stared at him and pursed his lips. ‘Eligius? I think he is far too clever to be startled into a confession by us confronting Thorpe.’

‘Thorpe strikes me as the sort of person who will try to blame someone else if he sees the net closing in on him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure he will betray Eligius in an instant if he thinks it will work to his advantage.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘It is worth a try, I suppose.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘This is a vile business. It has led us to consider how we will bring pressure to bear on someone who is little more than a child to force him to betray his accomplices’ identities.’

‘He is seventeen years old, Matt. He is a man, and he is certainly old enough to commit murder,’ Michael pointed out. He studied Bartholomew’s face, and saw the conflicting emotions there. ‘Edith cannot hold you responsible for Thorpe’s crimes. Grene was foully murdered, and it does not take a genius to predict that dropping a corpse down a well might poison the water. Yet Harper’s body was disposed of with a total disregard for the health of the people who live nearby.’

‘Do you think he was so calculating?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It strikes me that Thorpe is more careless than malicious – he saw the well as a convenient dump and used it without considering the consequences.’

‘Ask the poor people who have been drinking that tainted water whether they give a damn what Thorpe’s intentions were,’ snapped Michael. ‘And you, of all people, should not be excusing his actions, since you have been so desperately trying to physic those who have been ill. Thorpe might be little more than a child, Matt, but he must be apprehended before he does anyone else harm. And you had better hope you are successful because, now Edith and Oswald are no longer protecting him, Thorpe might well turn on them.’

Bartholomew did not reply, but followed Michael through the Trumpington Gate. He was left behind when he recognised one of the guards as a fever victim, and stopped to enquire after his health. By the time he caught up again, Michael was engaged in a fierce altercation with the porter in the porch of the Hall of Valence Marie.

‘You cannot come in. There is a formal dinner in progress.’

‘I have not come to dine,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I have come to look for a young man who may have committed murder, and may be planning to do so again.’

‘But the Countess is here,’ objected the porter. ‘The Countess of Pembroke, our benefactor. She and the Fellows are having a private meal. I cannot let them be disturbed. I would lose my job.’

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘The Countess! Thorpe is in there with the Countess, and there is still a bottle of poisoned wine unaccounted for!’

Michael stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘So? He can hardly do her harm at the dinner table.’

‘Why not? He managed with Grene,’ said Bartholomew, and, ignoring the protests of the porter, he forced his way through the door, across the cobbled yard and threw open the heavy wooden door to Valence Marie’s spacious hall.

Acting-Master Eligius and his colleagues were just taking their places at the high table on the dais when Bartholomew charged in, Michael at his heels. Valence Marie’s servants had gone to some trouble to make the Countess’s visit a memorable one: the table was covered by an embroidered cloth, and all the College silver was out, polished until it shone. Delicious smells came from behind the painted screen opposite the hearth, where serving-boys waited to bring out the platters of meat that had been prepared in the kitchens. It would be cold, but very little cooked food was served hot in Cambridge Colleges, given that the kitchens were usually some distance from the refectories. Michaelhouse occasionally managed warm oatmeal, but that was about all.

At the seat of honour, in the centre of the table, the Countess was reaching for the goblet of wine set for her.

‘No!’ yelled Bartholomew, freezing the movements of all and sundry. ‘The wine, madam! Do not touch the wine!’

There was an appalled silence, until the Countess recovered from her surprise. Bartholomew had not taken much notice of her during the installation, and noted now that she was older than he had initially thought. Money for cosmetics and fine clothes made her appear younger than her years, especially from a distance, although tell-tale wrinkles around her throat and a worldly look in her eyes betrayed her. She wore a robe of rich blue with flowing sleeves that brushed the ground. Her fingers were laden with so many rings that Bartholomew was surprised she could still use her hands, and a ruby pendant around her neck glistened like a clot of blood.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded imperiously, her hand arrested in the very act of lifting the goblet to her lips. ‘Who are you to burst in unannounced and issue orders?’

Bartholomew walked towards her. ‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he said, ‘but I have reason to believe that the wine you have been served might be tainted with a poison.’ He pointed at Thorpe, clad in his light blue tunic and with his hair hastily darkened with soot, standing just behind her. ‘He has already killed Master Grene.’

The Countess looked at her cup suspiciously, and twisted round in her chair to look at Thorpe.

‘I know this man!’ exclaimed Thorpe suddenly, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘He is a lunatic from the hospital run by the Austin Canons. You should have him removed – he might be dangerous.’

‘The boy lies,’ said Michael, striding forward. ‘My colleague’s name is Doctor Bartholomew, and he is a Fellow of Michaelhouse. I am Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor. I beg you, madam, do not touch the wine.’

The Countess looked at Valence Marie’s Fellows impatiently, waiting for them to explain what was happening. ‘What is going on, Father Eligius? Is this man Brother Michael as he claims?’

Eligius rose, his Dominican habit hanging in untidy folds from his narrow shoulders, and opened his mouth to speak.

‘He is not!’ cried Thorpe desperately, before the logician could respond. ‘The good Canons at the hospital must be in their cups today to let
two
madmen escape!’

‘Test it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Give the wine to an animal. Better still, let Thorpe try it for you. If there is nothing wrong with it, he will not mind obliging.’

‘Thorpe?’ asked the Countess, turning her head again to stare at the apprentice. ‘But he is in York.’ She looked more closely. ‘You are his relative?’

Thorpe bolted, clambering over the table and sending dishes and bottles flying, only to run straight into the iron embrace of Michael. He struggled violently, but uselessly.

‘It was not me!’ he yelled, frightened now. ‘It was him!’ His flailing hand encompassed at least half the room.

‘Who?’ asked the Countess coldly. ‘And what was not you?’

‘It was him! Grene!’ yelled Thorpe.

‘This is nonsense,’ said Eligius. ‘The boy is raving. Grene is dead.’

‘What is Master Grene supposed to have done?’ the Countess asked impatiently, addressing the struggling Thorpe.

‘Poison!’ screamed Thorpe. ‘It was his idea. He forced me!’

The Countess indicated that Michael should let Thorpe go. Michael hesitated, but the sudden flash of anger in the Countess’s eyes convinced him that she was unused to having her orders disobeyed, and that she certainly did not like it. Thorpe shrugged himself out of Michael’s relaxed grip and advanced towards her.

‘You must believe me, good lady,’ he sobbed, taking her hand and gazing up into her face. ‘I am innocent of all this. I bought two bottles of wine from a thief in a tavern. I did not know it at the time, but they were poisoned, and one killed my cousin when he drank it. I came to Master Grene, who was my father’s best friend, for help. He suggested we throw my cousin’s body down the well, and told me to serve the other to him during the installation. He said it would avenge the wrong done to my father and would serve Bingham right.’

‘You suggest that Master Grene encouraged you to poison him at the installation?’ asked the Countess, scepticism written clear in her face.

‘Yes!’ said Thorpe desperately. ‘He made me! It was all his idea.’

‘Unlikely though it seems, he might be telling the truth,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Philius told me that Grene had been diagnosed with a fatal illness. If he was as bitter as everyone believes about Bingham’s election, it is entirely possible he might have decided to exchange his last few painful months for a quick death – and at the same time, take the opportunity to strike at Bingham in a most spectacular way.’

‘Suicide?’ whispered Michael uncertainly. ‘I do not think so. He would go straight to hell.’

‘Perhaps he did not see it so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or perhaps he was so eaten up with resentment and envy that he did not care.’

‘It would certainly explain his morose manner that night,’ muttered Michael. ‘Most people would have at least tried to be a little more gracious in defeat.’

‘Why do you two whisper so?’ called the Countess in aggrieved tones. ‘If you have something to say, say it aloud so we can all hear.’

She sounded like a schoolmaster, thought Bartholomew. Before he could respond, Eligius had stepped forward, his dark habit swinging several inches above his thin white ankles.

‘I apologise for this unseemly interruption, my lady,’ he said. He looked hard at Thorpe. ‘This boy has served at our high table on occasion recently, but I did not know he was a relative of Master Thorpe. We know him only as Rob. Yet I cannot believe that Brother Michael’s accusations are true. I am certain Grene’s death was at the hands of Bingham – as indeed I told the Sheriff when I petitioned for his arrest. I have already told you of how poor Grene voiced his fears to me the night before his death. So, I believe Rob will not mind tasting the wine, to assure you of his innocence.’

He picked up the Countess’s cup and held it out to Thorpe with an encouraging smile.

‘I do not like wine,’ said Thorpe, licking his lips nervously. ‘It makes my head swim.’

‘In that case,’ said Eligius, ‘let us put an end to this nonsense here and now.’ Before Bartholomew or Michael could stop him, he had put the cup to his lips and drained it in a single draught. There was a deathly hush in the hall. Eligius replaced the cup on the table and raised his hands. ‘Well, Brother? I am still here. I am not struck down in an instant like Grene. You have clearly been mistaken in your logic.’

Michael gazed at him in disbelief. Thorpe’s disbelief, however, was the greater. He looked at Eligius in horror and the blood drained from his face, leaving him an unhealthy grey-white colour.

‘You seem to have made a grave mistake, Brother Michael,’ said the Countess. ‘You have accused a young man of a vile crime of which he appears to be wholly guiltless.’

She rested her elbows on the table and steepled her beringed fingers. Meanwhile, Eligius walked around the table to the seat next to her and sat, leaning back in his chair to fix his gaze on Michael and wait for an explanation. Michael strode forward and seized the cup, his face almost as pale as Thorpe’s. For quite some time there was no sound in the hall as everyone watched Michael staring at the goblet. Bartholomew racked his brains for an answer, but he had been so convinced that Rob Thorpe had intended to harm the Countess, for some warped reason of his own, that his mind was nothing but a blank. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Eligius should be gasping his last, his lips and throat blistering from the same poison that had killed Grene, not reclining easily in his chair with his bony hands folded in his lap.

Eventually, when the Countess began to show signs of impatience, and the mutters of the cook at the rear of the hall that the food was spoiling grew embarrassingly audible, Michael spoke.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, turning the cup over in his hands in bewilderment. ‘I was certain we were correct in our beliefs. You see, we reasoned that Thorpe had killed Grene using one of six bottles of wine sold by a thief named Sacks. An apprentice – Thorpe’s cousin – was dredged from the well today and his body shows similar signs of poisoning as those we observed on James Grene.’

The Countess pulled a face of disgust. ‘I heard about the body in the well. But it seems as though your reasoning is flawed, Brother. Why should Thorpe – or anyone else for that matter – poison me? I am no candidate for the Mastership, and I played no part in his father’s dismissal.’

Michael raised his hands in defeat and took a few steps towards the Countess. ‘What can I say? I am sorry, my lady. My only thought was that you might be in danger, and I acted without giving the matter sufficient thought. But despite Father Eligius’s conviction regarding Bingham’s guilt, Thorpe has admitted that he gave the poisoned wine to Grene, and we must be allowed to question him further on the matter. He has also stolen from his employer. If he will come with us now, we will leave, and you will be able to finish your meal in peace.’