A Deadly Brew (10 page)

Bartholomew and Michael took their leave of Colton, collected Cynric and walked the short distance back to Michaelhouse.

‘I was wrong about the outlaws,’ said Michael. ‘A band of thieves intent on robbery would not come without knives or swords with which to protect themselves. It must all relate to this vile wine. I will talk to Harling at first light, but I am sure he will want us to keep it quiet. There will be all manner of trouble if the scholars believe the town is trying to kill them with poisoned goods.’

‘There will be all manner of trouble if they succeed because we have not issued a warning,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Our priority must be to save lives. We will not do that by staying silent.’

‘Oh, but we will, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘If we allow rumours to escape that three members of the University – Armel, Grene and now Isaac – have been murdered with or because of poisoned wine, the scholars will riot for certain. And then who knows what the death toll will be? We will talk with Harling and the Sheriff tomorrow, and decide what to do then.’

‘You talk to them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will test the wine from Valence Marie and Bernard’s. You need to be absolutely certain that the poison is the same before you start your inquiries. Then I will check Armel’s body and tell you whether the blisters are the same as the ones on Grene.’

‘What do you mean by
my
inquiries?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Will you not help me solve this foul business? These are your colleagues who are being so callously dispatched.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Not this time, Brother. I have my teaching, my patients and my treatise on fevers, and I cannot spare the time to help you delve into the sordid world of murder. I have told you what I will do to help. The rest is for you and your beadles to investigate.’

Michael said nothing and Bartholomew suspected his clever mind was already devising some plot to ensure his co-operation. But it was late, he had had a long day and he was disinclined to discuss the matter any further that night. He waited in silence while Cynric rapped on the great gate for Walter to let them in.

‘You said you heard one of your attackers speak,’ said Michael, after a while. ‘Did you recognise the voice?’

Bartholomew considered and then shook his head. ‘It could have been anyone. It might even have been Colton.’

‘Really?’ said Michael, startled. ‘You think he might have set the fire in Philius’s room?’

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Bartholomew wearily, closing his eyes and rubbing them hard. Cynric banged on the door again. ‘I meant only that I did not hear the attacker speak long enough to be able to identify his voice.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘Damn! I have a feeling this will not be easy to resolve. Especially if you refuse to help me.’ He shot the physician a resentful glance. ‘These killers have left little behind in the way of clues.’

‘You will not keep this wine affair quiet for long, you know,’ said Bartholomew, stepping forward to pound on the gate himself. Where was Walter? ‘The students at Bernard’s will talk and Grene died in front of a large audience.’

‘But they do not know Grene and Armel drank from similar bottles,’ said Michael. ‘And only you and I have surmised that there may be a plot afoot more damaging than the deaths of a couple of dispensable scholars – that someone is masterminding an attack on the University itself.’

‘I doubt Grene and Armel would regard themselves as dispensable,’ said Bartholomew drily. He hammered again, but the gates remained firmly closed.

Michael shuffled and tutted impatiently. ‘Wretched Walter!’ he grumbled. ‘It is one thing dozing all night, but it is another being so soundly asleep that he cannot hear us knocking.’

‘Perhaps he is out on his rounds,’ said Bartholomew, leaning back against the wicket-gate.

He staggered as it gave way beneath him; it swung open under his weight and almost deposited him in the mud of the yard.

‘So now, as well as sleeping, the lazy tyke cannot even ensure the College is secure!’ said Michael indignantly, elbowing past Bartholomew and heading for the porter’s lodge. ‘I will have words with Master Kenyngham about this!’

Bartholomew exchanged an uneasy glance with Cynric, and a chilling sense that all was not as it should be gripped at him as he followed Michael inside.

The porter’s lodge was in darkness, and Michael’s mutterings and irritable sighs as he fumbled with a tinder were loud in the still room. As Michael’s candle finally flared into light, Bartholomew braced himself for the unpleasant sight he was sure would greet them.

Walter lay on the floor, swathed in a blanket and bound with ropes at the feet, waist and elbows. The porter’s own hood had been rolled lengthways and tied firmly around his head to prevent him from raising the alarm. Michael stared in horror and Bartholomew had to push him out of the way so that he could begin sawing through the ropes to set Walter free.

He was relieved when the porter started to whimper. At least he was alive. The ropes had been tied securely, and it was some time before Bartholomew was able to loosen them all sufficiently to pull the blanket away.

Terrified eyes greeted him. Walter gazed at Bartholomew for a moment and then began to look about him wildly.

‘Are they still here? They said they would kill me if I moved before dawn!’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, helping Walter to a stool. He went into the small adjoining chamber in search of the jug of stolen ale he knew he would find there. He poured some into a grimy clay goblet and handed it to Walter. The porter gulped it noisily and held out the cup for more.

‘The men who came,’ he said. ‘They asked me which was your room and which was Brother Michael’s, and then they trussed me up like a Michaelmas goose! They said if I tried to go for help or made a sound before dawn, they would kill me!’

‘Who were these men? Did you recognise them?’ asked Michael.

Predictably, Walter shook his head. ‘I was asleep …’ he faltered, and gazed up at the scholars, aghast at his unintentional admission of guilt.

Michael gave a snort of disgust. ‘Tell us what we do not know, not what we do.’

‘I was resting my eyes in the dark, and the next thing I knew was that there was a blanket over my head. I started to yell and struggle, but a man’s voice said that if I did not shut up, he would strangle me. He asked which rooms were yours and then tied me up.’ He took another hearty gulp of ale and looked about him fearfully. ‘This town is becoming too dangerous for law-abiding folk.’

‘And I suppose you told him where our rooms were,’ said Michael, looking down at him disdainfully, his large arms folded across his chest.

‘Too right I did!’ exploded Walter, puffing himself up with righteous indignation. ‘They would have killed me if I had been difficult with them. And what does it matter, anyway? Neither of you owns anything worth stealing.’

‘But there are potent medicines in my storeroom,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘They might be used to injure or even kill.’

‘And I have a great many belongings that are of considerable value,’ said Michael, offended. ‘Besides my priceless illustrated books, I have a fine collection of gold crucifixes and a pair of silver candlesticks from the Holy City.’

‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘You have never shown them to me.’

‘You are not supposed to own that kind of thing!’ retorted Walter belligerently. ‘You are a monk who has taken a vow of poverty.’

‘You are confusing Benedictines with Franciscans,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘I have taken no such vow. And anyway, what I own is none of your affair. What is, however, is that you have failed miserably in your duty–’

He was interrupted by Cynric, who appeared breathlessly in the doorway. ‘When Walter said the robbers asked about your rooms, I slipped off to see if they were still there,’ he began.

‘And were they?’ demanded Michael, angry at himself that time had been wasted with Walter when he might have caught the thieves.

Cynric shook his head. ‘Your room is untouched,’ he said to Michael. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But the chest in your room has been turned inside out and the lock on the medicine room forced. As far as a glance can tell, nothing has been stolen. Except the poisoned wine.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘All of it?’ he asked. ‘All four bottles?’

Cynric nodded. ‘Every last one of them. They must have searched his bedchamber first and then forced the lock on the medicine store. The bottles were not hidden and so they would have been easy to steal once the thieves had gained access to it.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Now we cannot prove that Armel and Grene were killed with the same substance.’

‘You can always compare the lesions on the corpses,’ said Michael. ‘Those little blisters you were inspecting so keenly should be proof enough. Anyway, we both had a good look at all four bottles, and they appeared to be the same. I would say that is evidence enough – our testimonies should stand in a court of law.’

‘This is the second time I have been attacked because of you,’ said Walter in an accusatory tone. ‘It was only a couple of years back that some other villain almost killed me in order to get to one of you two.’

‘And this is the second time you have failed me,’ retorted Michael, unmoved. ‘You did not protect me from the scoundrel who wanted to break into my chamber to deliver that satanic regalia two years ago, and tonight you have allowed intruders to make off with vital evidence that might help me unmask a murderer.’

‘But you just told Bartholomew that your spoken testimony would do, since the bottles have been stolen,’ objected Walter. ‘Do not try to browbeat me into feeling guilty!’

‘He is
Doctor
Bartholomew to you!’ barked Michael. ‘And how did these intruders enter the College anyway? The gate should have been barred from the inside.’

Walter opened his mouth to answer, exchanged a glance with Cynric, and snapped it shut again.

‘It is better to be honest, Walter,’ said Cynric unsympathetically. ‘You will be found out eventually anyway.’

‘Thank you, Cynric,’ said Walter heavily, favouring the Welshman with a venomous glare. ‘Do I look like I need your advice?’

‘You did not bar the wicket-gate after we left earlier,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as he tried to remember. ‘I think I would have heard you. You left it undone, so that you would not have to get up to unlock it again when we returned.’

Walter refused to look at him, and sat stiffly, chin jutting out and arms folded.

‘Well?’ demanded Michael of Cynric. ‘Was the door barred when you came back to fetch me after you found Isaac dead?’

Cynric shook his head.

‘The intruders left it open after they escaped with your wine,’ said Walter with sudden inspiration. ‘You three are out to get me into trouble with the Master. It was not me who left the gate open when Cynric found it; it was the men who stole your wine!’

‘Lies!’ snapped Michael. ‘The intruders must have arrived
after
Cynric summoned me to Gonville. I am a light sleeper and would have heard someone ransacking Matt’s room – or mine. You left the wicket door open all night – from the time Matt was summoned to attend Philius, in fact!’

‘Oh, Walter!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, disgusted at the porter’s feeble attempts to vindicate himself. ‘You know these are dangerous times. How could you jeopardise the College and the scholars you are paid to protect when you know very well there are outlaws at large, just to avoid a few moments out in the rain.’

‘I do not even have a decent cloak,’ whined Walter, trying to shift the blame. ‘How can I be expected to go out on so foul a night with no proper clothing?’

‘Would you care to exchange yours for mine?’ asked Bartholomew sweetly, knowing that Walter had recently bought a very fine cloak that was far better than anything Bartholomew had ever owned.

Walter leaned forward acquisitively and felt the material of Bartholomew’s cloak between thumb and forefinger. ‘No,’ he said firmly, after the most superficial of examinations. ‘I will keep mine, thank you very much.’

‘All this is totally unacceptable,’ said Michael, watching the exchange in disdain. ‘You are a coward and a lazy, good-for-nothing wastrel! However, in view of your unpleasant experience, I will not recommend that the Master dismiss you. But this is your last chance, Walter. One more incident like this and I will ensure you never set foot in another College for the rest of your life. Not even in Oxford!’

Walter glowered and did not appear in the least bit grateful for Michael’s leniency. Michael favoured him with a scowl of his own and swept out, Bartholomew and Cynric at his heels.

‘Lord, Matt,’ said the monk, raising his face to let the rain patter down on it. ‘What a mess! Where in heaven’s name do we go from here?’

Michael wanted to discuss the case there and then, but Bartholomew was too tired. Ignoring the fact that his few possessions were strewn across his room, he took off his sodden cloak and best gown – now sadly stained and crumpled – and climbed wearily under the blankets clad in shirt and hose. The stone-built rooms in Michaelhouse could be miserable in winter: the constant rain had caused the roof to leak and great patches of moisture blotched the walls. Bartholomew had mould growing on some of his clothes and, worse still, he had noticed the College’s few and highly treasured books had developed water stains from the damp. Even the blankets on his bed had a chill, wet feel to them. He pulled them over his head and lay shivering until he fell into an uneasy doze.

What seemed like moments later, he was awoken by Michael vigorously shaking his shoulder and looming over him in the darkness like a great bird of prey.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He glanced to the ill-fitting window shutters, through which he could see the night sky was beginning to lighten, although dawn was still some way off.

‘It is Sunday, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘It is our turn to prepare the church for mass.’

Bartholomew groaned and flopped back onto the bed. ‘It is still the middle of the night!’

‘It is almost dawn and well after the time we usually rise. You know Sunday services are later than in the rest of the week.’ He gave Bartholomew an unsympathetic prod. ‘Hurry up, or we will be fined again for failing to carry out our duties.’