A Deadly Brew (43 page)

Bartholomew’s boot fell from his hands and he swung round to face Michael in amazement. ‘Now I have heard everything! What would Edith know about smuggling? If you must prevaricate, Michael, at least think of something convincing to say.’

‘Why do you think I have kept it from you?’ snapped Michael. ‘I knew your reaction would be just what it is – furious disbelief. And it was safer for Edith that only I knew. Even Oswald is ignorant of the matter. And you are right – if I were going to deceive you, I would come up with a better story than this. However, it happens to be the truth.’

Bartholomew sat on the bed and watched Michael warily. ‘Tell me, then,’ he said. ‘How did you persuade Edith to act as your spy?’

‘I did not persuade her,’ said Michael huffily. ‘Her involvement was her own choice, not mine.’ He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. ‘As we have said,
ad nauseam
, since all this started, smuggling has always been rife in these parts. Therefore it was no great surprise when the Fenmen grew increasingly bold and began selling their goods more openly in the town this year because the waterways have remained ice-free. At first, neither University nor town saw harm in it. Why should people not have small luxuries from time to time?’

‘Most laudable, Brother,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘It is always wise to tempt people to buy foods they have no idea how to prepare – like Constantine Mortimer and his lemons. We are lucky no one has become seriously ill. But what of Edith? And hurry up. I have to go out.’

Michael shot him an unpleasant look. ‘This year, the Fen smugglers have been especially successful. Because they have become wealthy, some of them have become brazen. A few have been exceptionally indiscreet and have been bragging about their escapades, and that is where Edith comes in.’

‘Go on,’ said Bartholomew, emptying the rank river water from his boots out of the window.

‘From time to time, as Senior Proctor, I have to deal with students who have become lonely, homesick or love-lorn, and some of them try to take their own lives. I am no maidenly aunt as you know and I have had occasion to call upon a woman’s gentle touch with some of the more difficult cases. Edith has helped me several times, the most recent example of which was Brother Xavier.’

‘Xavier?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up from tugging on his boots. ‘Xavier from St Bernard’s Hostel, who came to fetch us when Armel was poisoned?’

Michael nodded. ‘I am under seal of confession, you understand, but suffice to say Xavier is a troubled soul who needed a motherly shoulder. Edith was kind and helped him immeasurably. Now, Bernard’s is next to the Brazen George, and the dormitory overlooks one of its gardens. Through his window, Xavier heard some of the smugglers boasting about the profits made this year to a few of their companions and told Edith about it. Edith, acting as a good citizen, told me.’

‘Why you?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Why not Oswald? Or Tulyet?’

‘Partly because I was available, partly because she trusted me because I am your friend, and partly because she was afraid Oswald would prevent her from helping Xavier if he knew what the lad was telling her. You know he is overly protective.’

‘And?’ asked Bartholomew, unimpressed. ‘This is still a long way from why you lied to me about seeing Dame Pelagia.’

Michael sighed. ‘Edith, through listening to Xavier, sent me the names of several Fenmen involved in smuggling. It was interesting to know the identities of these men, but not particularly important. Until, that is, the smugglers became more confident and brash, and we reasoned that they might be the same outlaws that Tulyet had been chasing – and even, perhaps, the same ones who hired the mercenaries to attack us near Denny. Then Edith’s information became very important. I told Tulyet I could get the names he needed from my grandmother so he would not guess I had them already.’

‘So you lied to protect Edith,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing him with open scepticism.

‘Yes,’ said Michael, ignoring his friend’s doubtful expression. ‘As I said, when we thought we were just dealing with the Fenmen who have been running their smuggling trade for years, her information was nothing. But when smuggling developed into outlawry, and there were burglaries and attacks on travellers, her information became potentially dangerous – especially to her. And can you imagine what Oswald would say if he learns what she has been involved in? She also made me promise I would not tell you.’

‘And so, when you told Tulyet you were going to see Dame Pelagia, you had no intention of visiting her,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘It was an excellent opportunity to pass along Edith’s information and it did not put her, Dame Pelagia or Matilde at risk.’

‘And of course Tulyet is still ignorant of who these outlaws are,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘Michael! How could you have been so foolish! You have assumed that the information Edith had from Xavier’s eavesdropping at the Brazen George is the same that Dame Pelagia would have heard from her questions in the kitchens at Denny.’

‘So?’ asked Michael defensively. ‘Of course it will be the same.’

‘It will not!’ yelled Bartholomew in frustration. ‘Deschalers was surprised when you told him the smugglers were active around Denny Abbey – not that there were smugglers, but that there were smugglers in
that particular area
. Tulyet knows he does not have the men who are responsible for the attacks on the roads and the burglaries in the town.
Those
are the names Dame Pelagia has, not those of the Fenmen who have been committing petty crimes with smuggled figs, nor those of the merchants and scholars who have been taking advantage of the opportunity to make a profit from the warm weather!’

‘But my grandmother told Deschalers that the men in Denny’s kitchens were just the kinsmen of the lay sisters,’ shouted Michael. ‘You heard her!’

Bartholomew slammed his hand on the windowsill, furious with him. ‘She is not stupid, Michael – unlike you it seems! What was sitting on Deschalers’s table as we waited for him to come to take Julianna off our hands? Sugared almonds! An expensive commodity to leave around for casual visitors to devour, you will agree. Dame Pelagia probably suspected Deschalers was involved and did not want him to guess she knew more than she was telling.’

‘But he was not involved!’ Michael insisted. ‘His lemons were legal.’

‘But Dame Pelagia did not know that, did she!’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Michael in a quieter tone, blood draining from his face. ‘You are right!’

‘Of course I am right!’ snapped Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair again and beginning to pace up and down in the small room. ‘And we told Harling all about it! He came to see us here and asked what we had discovered. He even offered Dame Pelagia a safe house. Safe indeed! We should have guessed all this days ago!’

‘But we had no evidence,’ said Michael in a low voice. Bartholomew saw the fat monk’s hands were trembling and that he was as white as snow. He swallowed his anger with difficulty, and went to the shelf near the window to pour him some wine. Michael took it gratefully and took an uncharacteristically small sip. Bartholomew imagined he must be shaken indeed.

‘Well, what do we do now?’ he asked, suddenly very tired, but far too agitated to sit. ‘By his own admission, Harling was guilty of kidnapping, smuggling and the murder of Philius. He was also the man responsible for bringing the poisoned wine to Cambridge.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael unsteadily. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because he told me he had killed Philius for asking too many questions about the nature of the poison in the wine. Which means he was probably also the third person who killed Isaac with Katherine and Edward. That whole business was well organised and no clues were left behind. It is exactly the kind of ruthless efficiency I would expect from a man like Harling.’

‘But why all this death and destruction?’ asked Michael, rubbing his face hard with his hands. ‘None of the other smugglers has gone to such lengths to hide his crimes.’

‘That is because Harling is doing this on a much grander scale than everyone else,’ said Bartholomew, pacing again. ‘He told me his interests extended beyond smuggling clothes and fruit. God knows what he is bringing into the country. Weapons, perhaps. Or livestock?’

‘I have seen Master Harling out after curfew,’ said Cynric, looking up from his sewing, ‘visiting Mortimer’s house.’

‘The room in which I tended Mortimer when he was sick was very masculine,’ pondered Bartholomew. ‘I wonder whether Katherine had her own chamber, and whether Harling was visiting her as his mistress.’

Michael regarded him sceptically. ‘That is something of a stab in the dark. Why could Harling not have been visiting Mortimer? We know the baker was involved in smuggling because he gave you those gloves.’

And one of the gloves was with Harling at that very moment, thought Bartholomew with a shudder, probably clutched in his dead hand. ‘Because we know Harling imported the poisoned wine, and that Katherine and Edward stored it for him in Mortimer’s cellars. That is the connection between them.’

‘But it would be a little risky, would you not say?’ said Michael, slowly drinking his wine. ‘Making a cuckold of Mortimer in his own house?’

‘Well, what else would Harling be doing there in the depths of the night?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Counting the bottles of poisoned wine stored in the cellars?’ suggested Michael. ‘Discussing plans as to how they were to retrieve them after they were stolen by Sacks?’

‘Well, it is irrelevant, anyway, since Katherine is dead,’ said Bartholomew, looking for his cloak. He felt a twinge of guilt when he saw the clods of mud adhering to it, and determined to pay Paul for it next time they met. ‘But now, we must do all we can to ensure the safety of Matilde and Dame Pelagia. As long as Harling’s companions are at large, they will not be secure. And, since you say we can not help Deynman until a smuggler reveals where he is hidden, I am going to the castle to tell Dick Tulyet about Harling.’

He and Michael, with Cynric moving in and out of the shadows behind them, set off in the darkness towards the castle. Tulyet’s soldiers were out in force, and they were challenged three times before they reached their goal. Cynric muttered that he thought there was someone following them, but said he could not be sure. Bartholomew peered back down the dark street, but it appeared deserted and he could see nothing amiss.

He jumped as a soft slithering sound came from behind him, anticipating an attack, but it was only an old dog scavenging in a pile of offal that was blocking the drains in a dark runnel off the main road. There were other shadows around the offal, too, beggars trying to scrape together enough to make a stew over their fire in the shelter of the Great Bridge.

For the first time since the riots of the previous summer, the portcullis was down on the castle barbican. With a good deal of clanking and rattling, the guards raised it part way so that Bartholomew, Cynric and Michael could duck under it, which they did quickly, not trusting the strength of the ancient mechanism. It was common knowledge in the town that the chains that raised the portcullis were unreliable – chains were one of many items unavailable since the plague – and that every time it was used was potentially the last. It was also well known that Tulyet was so doubtful about the safety of the mechanism that he always used the sally-port at the rear of the castle when the portcullis was down.

Bartholomew and Michael walked through the barbican towards the castle’s main gate, and were challenged by two more guards whose crossbows were wound and ready. After some intense questioning, the wicket-gate was unbarred and a torch thrust into their faces so the sergeant could be certain they were who they claimed. He escorted them across the bailey to the black mass of the keep.

Lights burned in Tulyet’s office and they found him deep in discussion with several of his sergeants. While the sergeants listened, grimly satisfied to hear that the University was responsible for the outlaws, Bartholomew told him about his encounter with Harling.

‘Damn it, Matt!’ said the Sheriff irritably. ‘It would have been useful to have him alive.’

‘I am sorry!’ retorted Bartholomew, indignant. ‘I will try to do better next time.’

With a sigh, Tulyet relented. ‘My apologies. But this is a frustrating business – every time I think I have a lead, it fizzles out to nothing. But I have an idea. I will have these outlaws yet – the merchants and Fenmen are nothing. I want the third group of villains – the burglars, highwaymen and peddlers of poisoned wine. I might have known the University was behind all this!’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Michael. ‘Just because Harling had turned sour, it does not prove that the rest of the University is rotten.’

‘Does it not? That is not how it appears to me,’ said Tulyet hotly, his frustration and exhaustion making him uncharacteristically argumentative. ‘During the last few days I have seen a Fellow arranging his suicide so that his rival is blamed, using a youngster with a pathetic notion of vengeance to fulfil his plot. And I have seen supposedly upright scholars – some of them friars and monks – indulging in the evasion of the King’s taxes. And now I am informed that the Vice-Chancellor himself tried to throw a colleague into the mill race. Your place of learning is a den of corruption, Brother.’

‘No more so than your town,’ retorted Michael angrily. ‘And all the cases you mention are incidences of people acting independently of the University. Grene’s fatal illness must have unbalanced his mind; Rob Thorpe was not a member of the University; the scholars indulging in smuggling – as you observed yourself – were doing so for selfless reasons and gave the money to the sick and poor or to effect much-needed repairs on crumbling buildings; and Harling …’ He hesitated uncertainly.

‘And Harling?’ queried Tulyet, raising his eyebrows. ‘I suppose he tried to murder Matt to protect the population from his heretical medicine? Or to save them from the unpleasant experience of being examined by his notoriously cold hands?’