A Deadly Brew (14 page)

‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. He shrugged. ‘I just experiment more than you do.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Philius. ‘Isaac told me …’ He trailed off and the events of the previous night hung in the air uncomfortably between them. Philius swallowed hard and continued. ‘Isaac told me that you had treated a case of the bloody flux with nothing more than boiled water.’

‘It worked,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘And I used infusions of cumin and anise as well, not to mention a specially devised diet for afterwards–’

‘I know, I know,’ said Philius, raising one hand to quiet him. ‘I was not criticising you, merely repeating what I had been told. I was going to suggest we might learn something if we could be a little more patient with each other’s ideas. I hear you are writing a treatise on fevers. I have always been interested in fevers and would very much like to read it when it is completed.’

‘That will not be for some time,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘There are too many distractions – teaching, my patients and now this summons to Ely.’

He told Philius about the attack on the Chancellor. The Franciscan shook his head. ‘Cambridge is becoming a dangerous place. I am seriously thinking of leaving and returning to Italy. There are brigands there, too, of course, but at least it does not rain all the time.’

He toyed with his food and then looked at Bartholomew, his eyes anxious. ‘It is a bad business with Isaac. I was uncertain whether you understood what I was trying to say. Isaac was always looking to make money, although I usually turned a blind eye. Anyway, I attended Stanmore’s house late on a Saturday night – more than a month ago now – where one of the apprentices had been struck down with some kind of seizure. He was already dead when I arrived and, since there was nothing I could do, I left almost immediately. But I noticed the symptoms you mentioned last night – blistering of the lips and signs of suffocation.’

He paused, gazing at the logs crackling merrily in the hearth. The charred rugs had already been replaced with newer, finer ones, and large bowls of dried flowers added their pungent scent to the underlying acrid stench of burning. Philius continued.

‘Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Isaac slip something into his bag, although I was not certain what it was. When I heard you question him about the wine he used in my purge, I realised exactly what had happened. I take a purge each Saturday morning to maintain the balance of my humours and Isaac makes it up for me once a month. The poisoned bottle must have sat harmlessly for four weeks before Isaac used it. I was lucky you guessed the cause of my ailment or I might be dead.’

‘Probably not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You might have recovered on your own.’

‘Perhaps. But I would have taken the purge again next week – not knowing it was the cause of my illness – and then I would have died for certain. It is due to you that I am alive today and I thank you for it most sincerely.’

Bartholomew rose to leave, embarrassed by the Franciscan’s profuse gratitude. ‘I am glad the treatment worked, Philius. I admit I was uncertain that it would.’

‘So was I, given that you had not consulted any astrological charts to see what my stars suggested, or even bled me.’

Bartholomew raised his hands, not wishing to become embroiled in a debate over the efficacy of the methods Philius employed while Michael waited for him. ‘I imagine you had bled all too much as a result of the burning nature of the poison.’

Philius held out his hand to Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you are right. Meanwhile, when I am well I will make some inquiries among some of my brethren who have experience with poisons, and if I discover the nature of the potion that struck me down, I will let you know.’

Bartholomew thanked him politely, declining to ask how Philius’s Franciscan brethren had acquired their ‘experience with poisons’. Philius had completed his medical training at the University of Salerno in Italy, and Bartholomew had been told that Italians were very skilled in the uses of toxic substances. Philius probably knew far more about them than did Bartholomew.

‘You said Grene died from drinking this poison, as well as the young student from Bernard’s?’ asked Philius as Bartholomew reached the door. ‘Perhaps it was as well. Poor man.’

Bartholomew gazed at him uncertainly, the hand that had been stretching out to the handle arrested in mid-air.

‘Around Christmas I diagnosed a wasting sickness in Grene,’ Philius continued. ‘You and I have seen many such cases before – there is no cure and the demise is long and painful. I estimated that he had a few months to live at most. At least he was spared a lingering death.’

Bartholomew nodded slowly and took his leave of Philius. Grene must have been told of his illness after he had lost the election to Bingham. No wonder he was bitter. Bartholomew considered Eligius’s story – that Grene had claimed to be in fear of his life. Were they the ramblings of a man already fatally ill and perhaps weak in his wits? Or was there some truth to his fears? Or was the whole thing a fabrication and had Eligius’s disregard for both Grene and Bingham driven him to use the death of one to rid Valence Marie of the other?

He told Michael what Philius had said as they walked the short distance from Gonville Hall to Stanmore’s house on Milne Street, but the monk had no answers either. Engrossed in thoughts of Eligius and Grene, he was almost crushed by a brewer’s wagon as it thundered down the lane at a speed that was far from safe, and was saved only by a timely shove from the more alert Michael. The brewer was not in the least apologetic, announcing in a ringing voice that scholars had no right to wander all over the roads with total disregard for other users.

Several onlookers exchanged amused grins, gratified to see a townsman berating members of the detested University. Immediately, two friars and three undergraduates in black tabards came to stand next to Bartholomew, clearly itching to punish the brewer’s impudence with a show of violence. Michael ordered them about their business, nodded curtly to the brewer, and the unpleasant atmosphere dissipated. Bartholomew glanced around him uneasily, sensing it would take very little to spark off a fight between scholars and townsmen; and a rumour that poisoned wine sold by a town thief to a young student would be more than enough.

The house of Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, was one of the grandest on Milne Street, although Stanmore himself elected to live on his manor at the nearby village of Trumpington, away from the noise and the noxious smell of the river. Stanmore’s business was cloth and, as Bartholomew strode through the gates into the cobbled yard with Michael, he saw evidence of it wherever he looked. The doors to the storehouses stood open, revealing bales of wool that were stacked to the ceiling, while piles of the wooden cones on which the cloth was wound occupied one corner, ready to be re-used. Scraps of material left from cutting were strewn across the yard in a kaleidoscope of colours, and fluttered here and there where they were caught on doors or timbers.

Because it was Sunday, Bartholomew had expected Stanmore to be in Trumpington and had intended to speak with his steward. He was pleased to find that not only was Stanmore in Cambridge, but that Edith was with him. She ran forward to greet her brother in delight.

‘Matt! What a lovely surprise! I saw you at that dull installation yesterday, but every time I tried to make my way over to you, that boring Prior of Barnwell would start yet another tedious tale to keep me at his side. And after that dreadful scene with Grene, Oswald decided it was time to leave.’

Bartholomew hugged her, swinging her off her feet. She was ten years older than him, but she had retained the youthful exuberance he remembered from his earliest days. Her hair, like his, was black, although wisps of silver were beginning to appear here and there, and her dark eyes sparkled with humour. Stanmore placed an affectionate arm across Bartholomew’s shoulder, and invited him and Michael for breakfast. Bartholomew shook his head, although Michael was clearly tempted.

‘We cannot stay. We have been summoned to Ely by the Bishop.’

The laughter in Edith’s face was gone in an instant. ‘Why? What does he want with you?’ She looked at Michael anxiously, wondering in what murky subterfuge the fat monk was embroiling her brother this time.

Bartholomew put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Nothing to concern you. The Chancellor and a group of scholars attending the installation were attacked on the Cambridge to Ely road. I have been asked to tend to the injured.’

‘How can you say such a thing does not concern me?’ said Edith, knocking his hand away angrily. ‘If the Chancellor was attacked, how can the Bishop be sure you will be safe?’

‘He has sent an escort,’ said Michael. ‘And Cynric is going with us.’

‘Cynric will look after you,’ said Edith grudgingly. ‘But I am not happy about this. Tell the Bishop you cannot go. Tell him you are needed here. What will your patients do while you are gone – poor Mistress Pike took a turn for the worse last night.’

‘Edith is right,’ said Stanmore when she paused for breath. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘The Bishop’s summons is unreasonable. He has his own physicians at Ely.’ He called to his steward, who lounged against a wall watching two apprentices racing woodlice. ‘Hugh! You travelled the Ely road yesterday. Did you see any signs of trouble?’

Hugh shrugged laconically. ‘A cart had broken down near Stretham, but that was all.’

‘Any signs of outlaws on the roads?’

Hugh shook his head, his eyes not moving from the apprentices’ game. ‘Quiet as the grave. Sinister place, the Fens.’

‘Oh, Matt, please do not go,’ begged Edith. ‘The Sheriff told Oswald at the installation last night that three houses actually inside the town have been attacked by robbers. It is safe nowhere!’

‘If the robbers have turned their attention to the town itself, then I am probably safer away from it,’ said Bartholomew. He raised his hands to quell her angry objections. ‘I cannot refuse a summons from the Bishop – you know that. He has a good deal of influence over the Chancellor and I have no wish to lose my Fellowship.’

‘Take a couple of my men, then,’ said Stanmore. ‘Egil is from the Fens and Jurnet has a wife in Ely. They can go with you.’

‘That is not necessary,’ protested Bartholomew, but Stanmore had already moved away and was shouting instructions to Hugh. He turned to Edith. ‘I might be away a week and Oswald will need them before then.’

‘He will manage,’ she said. ‘And Egil and Jurnet will enjoy a few days away. Now. Why did you come? You know we are usually in Trumpington on Sundays, so you cannot have expected to see us here. Did you need something? To borrow a horse or a better cloak? Those are nice gloves you are wearing. They look new, although I see you have already torn the thumb. How long have you had them?’

Bartholomew smiled at her and evaded her question, not wanting her to know that he had managed to rip them in less than a day. ‘I came to ask about the apprentice that died here a month last Saturday. The one Father Philius was called to attend.’

Edith looked at him blankly. ‘What apprentice?’

‘The one that died a month ago,’ repeated Bartholomew. He wondered whether Stanmore might have kept it from her. He was apt to be over-protective of his family at times, as his insistence that Bartholomew took extra henchmen indicated. But Edith was probably more robust than her husband, and had no need of such coddling.

‘But none of our apprentices has died,’ said Edith, bewildered. She grabbed her husband’s arm as he walked past. ‘Tell him, Oswald.’

‘Philius said he had attended one of your apprentices four weeks ago on a Saturday night,’ explained Bartholomew again, trying to curb his impatience. ‘He arrived too late and the apprentice died.’

‘Not one of mine,’ said Stanmore. ‘They are all alive and kicking, believe me.’

‘Then perhaps Philius was mistaken in thinking it was an apprentice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he said he came here to tend a young lad who had been stricken with some kind of seizure.’

‘I repeat,’ said Stanmore, ‘not one of mine. I usually work late on Saturdays and Philius definitely did not come. And why would I call him? If one of my lads were sick, I would call you.’

Bartholomew had wondered about that at the time. Stanmore was well aware that Bartholomew and Philius did not see eye to eye on medical matters, and Bartholomew had been surprised to learn that Philius had been summoned to Stanmore’s house in his place.

‘But Philius seemed certain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His book-bearer, Isaac, stole a bottle of wine from you – the wine that probably killed the apprentice although Isaac did not know that – and then it nearly killed poor Philius, too. Isaac was murdered last night–’

‘Just a moment!’ protested Stanmore, raising a hand to slow Bartholomew down. ‘What are you involved in this time? I would have thought you had seen enough murder and mayhem to last you a lifetime! Now you say this man Isaac, who was supposed to have stolen from me, was murdered?’

Bartholomew saw the horror in his family’s faces and regretted his decision to try to find out about the apprentice. Now they would worry about him until he returned, and he had learned nothing new from his questions. He knew that Stanmore discouraged drinking among his apprentices and discharged frequent offenders from his service. Perhaps they had kept the incident secret from Stanmore, so as not to incur his wrath. He suggested as much to the merchant, who dismissed the notion disdainfully.

‘How could that be possible? Do you imagine I would not miss an apprentice if he disappeared?’

Bartholomew could think of no answer to the problem and was nonplussed. Philius had no reason to lie about a visit to Stanmore’s house, and his own students – Gray, Bulbeck and Deynman – had said that they had seen one of Stanmore’s apprentices buying the same kind of wine from Sacks in the Brazen George that had killed Armel. But Stanmore had no reason to lie either, and yet they all could not be right.

A nudge from Michael brought his attention back to the present. Time was passing and he had no desire to be out on the road after dark. With two heavily built labourers – clearly delighted by the unexpected excursion – in tow, he made his farewells, and he and Michael made their way back along Milne Street. Michael sighed in exasperation as Katherine Mortimer hurried from her house to waylay them. Behind her were the merchants Cheney and Deschalers, and her son Edward.