A Deadly Brew (29 page)

While Agatha went to fetch the bacon fat from the pantry, Bartholomew told Michael about his findings regarding Philius’s death, and how John the porter had been killed.

‘We are left with a good many unanswered questions regarding Philius,’ he concluded. ‘We still cannot be sure where the wine that killed him came from – Oswald vehemently denies one of his apprentices is missing, and now both Philius and Isaac are dead there is no one we can ask to verify who is telling the truth.’

‘This crossbow business bothers me,’ said Michael. ‘It seems very convenient that an archer just happened to be in place at the precise moment when John ran from the College.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Michael rubbed at the whiskers on his chin. ‘I think this archer was waiting for you, not John. He was going to kill you, just as the knifeman attempted to dispatch me. When John came racing out, obviously in some distress – and it would not take a genius to guess why, with the Sheriff in the College and Philius’s body just found – this archer decided to prevent John from telling any more than he might have revealed already. It takes a while to rewind a crossbow, and no murderer wants to tarry too long at the scene of his crime. Rather than take the risk of waiting for you after he had slain John, he decided to slip away while he could.’

Bartholomew had a sudden unpleasant thought. ‘If you are correct, could he have been forewarned that we might be visiting Gonville Hall? By someone who had called us and knew that we would not refuse to attend? Someone such as Colton? He was unduly nervous about the whole thing. And he had cooked up some ungodly lies – supposedly with Philius’s blesssing, he was claiming that Philius had never been poisoned, but was suffering from an excess of evil humours.’

Michael scratched his head. ‘Colton cannot be ruled out as a suspect. I have known him for years, and he is clever and ambitious. But so are most Masters. I would not have marked Colton down as the kind of man who would be an accessory to murder, but who knows?’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘What is happening? Why are these men so intent on killing us? What have we done to incur such a reaction?’

‘It must be this poisoned wine,’ said Michael, picking at a food stain on his habit. ‘It is the only common factor.’

‘Or perhaps we have yet to learn what this common factor is,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes tiredly. ‘Perhaps we are overlooking something.’ He paused. ‘And I do not know what to believe about Grene. It seems something of a coincidence that he should be murdered the day after confessing to Eligius that he was in fear of his life from Bingham. Yet I am not completely convinced of Bingham’s guilt.’

‘But it does not look good for Bingham. Eligius is a highly respected scholar and I know of no reason why he and his two colleagues should lie.’

‘I just cannot see how Bingham could have passed this wine to Grene at the feast,’ said Bartholomew, frowning. ‘They did not sit next to each other. How could Bingham be certain that the bottle would reach its intended victim? You said yourself that everyone was watching to see how Grene was taking his defeat – it would have been impossible. And if Grene really did believe himself to be in danger, why should he drink from a bottle given to him by the man he feared?’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Had I been in that position, I would have eaten nothing at the feast, yet Grene positively gorged himself. Perhaps Eligius and the other two are lying after all. Grene’s death has provided them with a splendid opportunity to rid themselves of Bingham – the Master for whom they did not vote.’

‘I am so tired I can barely think,’ said Bartholomew, his mind whirling as he tried to sort the facts into some semblance of order. ‘Everything seems connected, yet is jumbled – the attack on us in the Fens; the poisoned wine; Bingham, Grene, Eligius and that stupid relic; Philius and Colton and their concoction of lies about Philius’s illness; the smugglers and Julianna …’

‘It has been a long day and we should both rest,’ said Michael. He stood up, and glanced out of the window. ‘There are your students back from their disputations. You cannot expect Deynman to have passed, but the others should have good news for you.’

He grinned at Agatha as she returned with a huge plate of oatcakes heavily smeared with the salty white fat that Michael loved. Bartholomew felt sick just looking at them, but Agatha presented him with a piece of seedcake instead. He leaned over and, before she could guess what he was going to do, kissed her cheek and fled the kitchen. Michael roared with laughter as Agatha’s astonishment changed to delight. She beckoned Michael back to the fireplace, and the two of them proceeded to devour the entire greasy repast.

Wiping cake crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, Bartholomew tapped at the door of the room Gray shared with Bulbeck, and entered. He sensed in an instant all was not well. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and sat on the window sill, silhouetted against the remaining light of the darkening evening.

‘They asked me about trepanation.’ said Gray in an accusatory tone. ‘You never taught us about that! How am I supposed to know things you have never told us?’

‘We discussed trepanation last summer, Sam,’ said Bartholomew wearily, ‘when Brother Boniface was with us. I take it you did not pass?’

‘It was not fair!’ shouted Gray petulantly, kicking off his boots so that they fell with a crash against the wall. ‘Then they asked me to debate the question: Did God create the world out of nothing or out of the primordial darkness?’

‘And?’

‘And how should I know?’ snapped Gray. ‘I was not there!’ His two friends looked aghast at his blasphemy, and he relented. ‘I did my best, but the examiners did not like my answers.’

‘I hope you were not flippant with them,’ said Bartholomew, concerned. His own reputation for unorthodoxy was as much as he could handle, and he did not want to be blamed for teaching Gray bad habits, too.

‘He was not flippant,’ said Bulbeck, from where he lay on the bed with his arm across his eyes. ‘He was just unfortunate in the questions they asked. If he had got Rob’s questions, he would have been fine.’

‘I did not pass,’ said Deynman gloomily. ‘I cannot think why – I answered all they asked me.’

Bartholomew did not want to know what Deynman’s answers to the questions were, but the student was relentless.

‘They asked me what I would do for a patient bleeding from a serious wound on his head, so I told them I would check his legs were not broken–’

‘His legs?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Whatever for?’

‘In case he had sustained the injury falling from a horse,’ replied Deynman with confidence. ‘Then I said I would see if there was another wound underneath the one in his head–’

‘Underneath it?’ interrupted Bartholomew, not understanding. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You told us we should be careful that one symptom does not mask another. So I would poke about under the wound to make sure there was not another, more serious, injury underneath.’

‘That was not really what I meant,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his hand through his hair, too tired to feel exasperated. ‘I meant symptoms for diseases and ailments, not wounds. And while you are looking at his legs and prodding about with his head, this poor patient of yours might have bled to death.’

Deynman looked crestfallen, but continued with his answer anyway. ‘Then I said I would bind the injury with a poultice of clean water and henbane–’

‘And a pinch of arsenic to kill the infection, you said,’ interrupted Gray scornfully. Bartholomew regarded Deynman with awe, wondering if there was anything of his lectures the student remembered even remotely accurately.

‘Then they asked me to debate the question: When a man takes a pig to market on a rope, is the pig taken by the man or by the rope? I told them it mattered neither one way nor the other to the pig.’

‘So the debate was a short one, then?’ asked Bartholomew drily. ‘And you did not reveal to the examiners the true extent of your incisive and orderly grip of logic?’

‘He did. That was the problem,’ muttered Gray.

‘But you passed, Tom,’ said Bartholomew, looking at his best student. He had certainly not expected Deynman to be successful, but he was disappointed in Gray’s performance. They had discussed trepanation at some length, and Gray should have been able to answer questions about it. Gray was also a consummate liar and was good at twisting people’s words and meanings. He should have excelled in his disputation.

‘I failed,’ said Bulbeck.

Bartholomew closed his eyes and tipped his head back to rest on the wall behind him. His three students were silent, aware that they had let him down, but not certain what they could do to make amends. Bartholomew wondered where he had gone wrong: perhaps he should have done more to curtail the illicit drinking in taverns that had been taking place, or perhaps he should have spent less time on his treatise about fevers and given them additional lessons. Their lack of success would not have been so bad, but the country was in desperate need of trained physicians to replace those who had died during the plague.

‘All the others passed,’ Deynman ventured. ‘It was only us who … did not do so well.’

‘But you, Tom!’ groaned Bartholomew, regarding Bulbeck in despair. ‘I expected better things of you.’

‘I feel ill,’ said Bulbeck in a weak voice. Bartholomew went to his side, and rested a hand on his forehead. He was feverish and looked pale.

‘How long have you been unwell?’ he asked, wondering whether he had put too much pressure on the student, and made him sick from worry.

‘Since midday,’ said Bulbeck. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and put both hands on his stomach, closing his eyes tightly in pain.

‘Have you drunk any wine? Or eaten anything from outside Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, reaching for a cloth with which to wipe Bulbeck’s face.

Bulbeck shook his head. ‘You told us not to,’ he said.

‘You had that cup of water,’ said Gray. ‘From the well.’

‘Water does not count,’ said Deynman disdainfully. ‘Doctor Bartholomew meant that we should not touch foods and wines from outside the College. Water is nothing!’

‘Which well?’ asked Bartholomew, already guessing the answer.

‘The one near the river,’ said Deynman. ‘Winter fever!’ He exclaimed suddenly, pleased with himself. ‘Tom has winter fever!’

Bartholomew could think of no other explanation. Since he had advised people against using the well in Water Lane – on the grounds that the river had somehow invaded it – the number of cases of fever had dropped and only the stubborn or lazy, who ignored his advice, were stricken. Bartholomew supposed that the contagion must increase in still-standing water, because those who drank straight from the river did not seem to catch the sickness. Several, however, were afflicted with other ailments, for which Bartholomew was reasonably certain that the foul, refuse-filled Cam was responsible.

‘I was thirsty,’ said Bulbeck in a small voice. ‘And I forgot what you said about the well. I know you said we were not to eat or drink anything outside Michaelhouse, but I thought a sip of water would not harm me.’

Bartholomew patted his shoulder and went to make up a potion to ease Bulbeck’s stomach cramps. When he returned, Gray and Deynman had put the ailing student to bed and closed the window shutters to keep some of the cold from the room. He saw that Bulbeck finished the medicine, and left the others to watch over him while he slept. Although this particular fever was unpleasant, it was not usually fatal, and Bartholomew was sure Bulbeck would make a full recovery, given rest and a carefully selected diet for a few days.

He closed the door and began to walk across the yard to his own room. He rubbed his eyes as he walked, feeling them dry and sore under his fingers. Then he collided so heavily with someone that he staggered, and almost lost his footing in the slippery mud of the yard.

‘Watch where you are going!’ yelled Langelee, his voice drawing the attention of several scholars who were talking together near the door to the hall.

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to step round the philosopher, but Langelee stopped him.

‘Sorry?’ he sneered. ‘Is that all?’

‘What more do you want?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

Langelee leaned nearer, and Bartholomew detected a strong odour of wine.

‘It is a disgrace the way you and Brother Michael have leave to come and go all hours of the night,’ he hissed. ‘And I know where you go.’

‘I go to see my patients,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘You can come with me next time if you wish.’ He pushed past Langelee, intending to end the conversation there and then.

‘Maybe I will,’ said Langelee, turning to follow Bartholomew to his room.

‘Fine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will send Cynric for you when I am called.’ He wondered what he had agreed to, but reasoned it might not be a bad thing to have the company of the brawny philosopher – his presence would certainly make opportunistic outlaws think twice before attempting to rob him. But he saw it would be foolish to go out at night – even with Langelee – when there were people who wanted him dead. He had been lured out of the safety of Michaelhouse and attacked while trying to solve other mysteries in the past, and would not allow himself to fall for such an obvious ploy again.

He pushed open the door to his room and threw himself on his bed. He closed his eyes, but opened them again when he sensed the presence of another person.

‘What do you want, Langelee?’ he asked irritably, when he saw the philosopher close the door behind him and gaze around the room speculatively. ‘I am tired and would like to sleep.’

Langelee perched on the edge of the table and crossed his ankles. ‘Sleep? When three of your students have disgraced the College by failing their disputations?’

Bartholomew sat up. ‘Were you one of their examiners?’

Langelee nodded, his face smug. ‘I was assessing their grasp of philosophical issues, and I have never seen such a miserable performance. Even Tom Bulbeck was dreadful, and he is said to be your best student.’

‘He has a fever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have just made him a physic.’