A Deadly Brew (9 page)

Philius shook his head again and closed his eyes tightly. Bartholomew patted his shoulder.

‘Believe me, Philius, I saw Grene stricken and he died almost instantly. You must have taken a very small dose of this poison since you are alive several hours after swallowing it, and there is every chance you will recover.’ Bartholomew looked away as he spoke. Lying to his patients was not something he did well but he did not want to frighten Philius into losing hope.

He wondered what the best way to proceed would be. He considered administering an emetic to force Philius to vomit the poison out of his system, but Philius had swallowed the poison hours ago and Bartholomew was sure it was too far into his innards to be brought out. He rummaged around in his bag.

‘Since this poison seems to burn, I think the best way to balance its effects is by absorbing the acid. I prescribed something for Master Mortimer much the same. He had been eating raw lemons.’

Bartholomew talked to reassure and saw the ghost of a smile play over Philius’s blistered lips as he listened to the story about Mortimer’s lemons. Bartholomew dispatched Cynric for milk, mixed as much of the fine, white chalk powder with it as he dared, and added a small amount of laudanum and some charcoal dust. Supporting Philius in the crook of his arm, he helped him swallow the potion sip by sip, a process which took so long that by the time it was finished Bartholomew’s arms ached. Philius lay back exhausted and Bartholomew watched him anxiously. He was far from certain whether his cure would work. And even if Philius did not die soon, Bartholomew wondered whether his innards would be able to heal themselves of the poison’s lesions.

Eventually, Philius slept and Bartholomew went to sit near the fire to wait with Cynric. Neither spoke, but sat in companionable silence, staring into the flames.

‘Isaac is taking a long time,’ said Cynric eventually, in a whisper so as not to waken the sleeping Franciscan. ‘I will slip out and have a look for him.’

Bartholomew left the fire and went to check on Philius. It might have been his imagination, but he thought the Franciscan’s breathing seemed easier. Round his lips, the blisters seemed less raw where the chalky-grey milk had stained them, and Bartholomew felt his hopes rising.

Within moments, Cynric was back, his expression anxious. ‘You had better come and see this for yourself,’ he said unsteadily.

Mystified, Bartholomew followed Cynric across the yard to the cellar-like room where Philius kept his medicines. Judging from the bundles of herbs that hung from the roof and the neatly stacked sacks of flour at the far end, it seemed Philius shared his medicine room with the cook. At first, Bartholomew could not see why Cynric had dragged him away from the warm fire. And then he became aware of a regular creaking sound. Bartholomew looked upwards to the rafters where the bunches of herbs were hanging – along with the lifeless body of Isaac.

Chapter 3

Even as they cut the body down, Bartholomew could see that help had come too late for Isaac. His hands had been tied behind his back and a gag fastened around his mouth to stop him from crying out. Bartholomew was curious as to why the room did not show signs of a struggle, but an examination of Isaac’s body revealed that he had been dealt a vicious blow to the head. In fact, the blow had been so hard that Bartholomew wondered if that, and not the strangulation, had been what had killed him. His murderer, evidently, was taking no chances.

While Cynric went to fetch Michael – whose duty as Senior Proctor it would be to investigate a murder on University property – Bartholomew sat back on his heels next to the body and considered. Was Isaac a random victim of violence? Had he disturbed a burglar when he entered the storeroom to fetch the wine he had used in the purges at Bartholomew’s request? Or was his death connected somehow to the wine itself? Bartholomew stood, and looked around for the bottle.

Isaac seemed to have used one particular bench for making his purges. Bartholomew inspected it, and then bent to peer underneath. The slender, smoked-glass bottle lay smashed, the wine pooling on the floor. As Bartholomew considered it, a ginger cat reeled out from behind one of the flour bags and swayed towards him unsteadily. Before he could stop it, it had bent to the wine and had lapped several mouthfuls from a small amount that remained cupped in the bottle’s base. He watched curiously as it wove its way from under the bench and rubbed around his legs. He picked it up and inspected it closely. It was certainly drunk, and the few gulps it had swallowed as he had watched were evidently not all it had consumed that night, yet it showed no signs of poisoning. He carried it to the candle Cynric had lit and prised open its mouth. There was no blistering.

He released it and watched it wobble out of the door. He frowned, puzzled, and then leaned forward to retrieve the fragments of bottle. As his fingers groped around for the glass, they touched something warm and furry and he quickly withdrew his hand in disgust. A rat! He looked closer and saw it was lying very still. He reached under the bench and took a cautious hold of the rodent by its long bony tail. A brief inspection showed him that it was quite dead, and a bubble of blood oozing from its mouth suggested that it, unlike the cat, had been poisoned. Now Bartholomew was truly bewildered. He had seen the cat drink the wine with no ill effects other than intoxication, whereas the rat – that obviously had not been drinking while the cat was under the bench and so could only have had time for the merest sip – had been killed in an instant.

As he pondered, an unpleasant thought occurred to him that had him up on his feet and racing towards Philius’s room. If Isaac’s killer had come for the bottle, and if he had not found it because it had been smashed under the bench, he might consider looking for it in Philius’s chamber!

He entered the Franciscan’s quarters at a run, and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Philius move restlessly on the bed. He was about to walk towards him when something struck him heavily on the back, sending him sprawling forwards onto his hands and knees. He tried to scramble to his feet, but a blanket was hurled over his head. He struggled violently, desperately trying to free his hands from the clinging material. Someone’s arms wrapped round him, trying to hold him still. He struggled more frantically than ever, lashing out with his feet, and then threw himself backwards with all his might and heard a heavy grunt as he crushed his attacker against the wall.

There was a loud crash and his attacker’s hold suddenly loosened.

‘Leave him!’

Bartholomew was swung round so that he lost his balance and toppled over, and then heard running footsteps. He fought himself free of the blanket and was about to follow when he saw the fire at the far end of the room. The crash had been the lamp being hurled against the wall: it lay on its side and flames were already licking at the woollen carpets on the floor. There was a crackle as they ignited and fire inched towards the bed. Bartholomew saw two figures race past the window: Isaac’s killers, and one was, perhaps, the man who had sold poisoned wine to young Armel, too. He stood immobile for an instant, itching to give chase. But the edges of Philius’s blankets were beginning to smoulder and the room was filling with a thick, choking smoke.

He swept up the blanket that had been flung over his head and beat the flames away from the bed. Philius shifted slightly, but did not wake. Bartholomew swiped again, but the dry rugs were like tinder and the fire was already touching the tapestries on the walls. With horror, he wondered whether he would be able to douse it before it took a good hold. Fire was something everyone feared in settlements where most buildings were made of timber: if Gonville burned, the flames would spread to the adjoining houses in St Michael’s Lane and the entire town might be engulfed. He redoubled his efforts, yelling at the top of his voice for help. In desperation, he hauled the bedclothes away from Philius, tumbling him to the floor, and hurled them over the burning rugs. He was looking around for something else to use when Cynric arrived with help in the form of a handful of students, Michael and John Colton of Terrington, the Master of Gonville.

Cynric and Bartholomew beat at the now blazing rugs, Michael yelled at the students to fetch water, and it was not long before the fire was under control. Leaving Cynric to ensure it did not ignite again, Bartholomew turned his attention to his misused patient. Philius stared around him in a daze as Bartholomew lifted him back onto the bed. Colton tucked him in, while Michael sent the porter with a message to his beadles to be on the lookout for the three people who had knocked him to the ground as they came hurtling out of Gonville’s main gate.

‘Three?’ queried Bartholomew, looking round at him. ‘I saw only two.’

‘There were three,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric would have been after them had he not heard your shouts for help.’

‘Has Father Philius come to any harm?’ asked Colton anxiously, peering at the Franciscan in the room that was almost pitch black now the flames had been doused. ‘He does not seem to be himself.’

Colton was a small, neat man with a well-trimmed grey beard and a dark complexion, almost like an Arab. He was the first Master the College had ever had, and had been elected at the height of the plague when no one was sure who, if anyone, would survive.

Bartholomew knelt next to the bed. ‘The opiate is making him dazed. We should let him rest.’

He tried to stand, but Philius grabbed his wrist.

‘What happened?’ he croaked.

‘You can speak!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pleased. ‘That is a good sign!’

‘Isaac.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank, thinking of the lifeless body of Philius’s book-bearer in the storeroom, but, before he was forced to lie, Colton intervened.

‘Isaac is resting, Philius. As should you.’

Philius shook his head. ‘Isaac,’ he croaked, his voice little more than a rustle. ‘Isaac steals.’ He swallowed painfully and tried again. ‘He stole wine from Stanmore.’

‘Oswald Stanmore?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘My brother-in-law?’

Philius nodded. ‘His apprentice drank the wine and died.’

His eyes began to close, and Bartholomew knew they would get nothing further from him that night. The dose of laudanum he had used had been a powerful one: Bartholomew had intended that Philius should rest until the morning, so that sleep could allow the body to heal itself.

‘Did that mean anything to you?’ asked Michael, leaning over Bartholomew’s shoulder, and looking down at the sleeping friar. Bartholomew shrugged, his expression troubled, and stood up. He ordered that the shutters be opened to allow the smoke out, and closed again when the room was clear. Meanwhile, the nightporter set about building up the fire in the hearth, and restoring order to Philius’s room. Bartholomew promised to return to visit the ailing physician the following morning, and took his leave. In a few words, he told Michael what had happened as they walked across Gonville’s yard together. Colton hurried after them and waylaid them by the gate.

‘What is happening?’ he demanded of Bartholomew. ‘The porter woke me to say Isaac was dead, and then I find someone has tried to ignite Philius in his room.’

‘Some wine made him ill,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly, not wanting to go into details. ‘Isaac was fetching it for me to examine when he seems to have been struck down.’

‘Isaac was struck down for wine?’ asked Colton, confused.

‘I expect he disturbed a burglar,’ said Michael, rubbing his chin. ‘The Sheriff was telling me only yesterday that the wolves-heads, who have been busy on the highways since Christmas, attacked three houses inside the town itself last week. They are growing bolder all the time.’

‘How secure is Gonville?’ asked Bartholomew of Colton. ‘How easy would it be to break in?’

Colton raised his hands, palms upwards, and gestured around him. Bartholomew saw he was shaking. ‘There is a porter on the front door, but if he is called away, I suppose it would be easy enough for a determined person to gain access. Do you think that is what happened?’

‘The alternative is that Isaac was killed by someone already inside,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Colton shook his head. ‘No one in Gonville would attack Isaac. And certainly no one would harm Philius. How was Isaac killed? Come with me to see. He is in the storeroom, you say?’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed him across the courtyard, Michael in tow, and into Philius’s medicine room. Colton bent to look at Isaac’s corpse. ‘Poor man. He has been Philius’s book-bearer for many years.’

‘Where is this bottle?’ asked Michael in a low voice, as Colton began to pray over Isaac’s body. ‘We should retrieve it before anyone else comes to harm.’

‘It is broken, under the bench,’ said Bartholomew, pointing. While Michael went to look, Bartholomew sank down onto a stool, and rested his head in his hands. He wondered what time it was. It must be almost time for lauds. He looked up as Michael began to sigh in agitation.

‘Where is it exactly?’ he hissed irritably. ‘I cannot find it.’

Wearily, Bartholomew hauled himself up from the stool, and crouched to point out the bottle. His jaw dropped in astonishment. A dark stain on the wooden floor indicated where the wine had spilled, but every shard of the broken bottle itself had gone. He exchanged a mystified glance with Michael, and looked again to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him.

He stood slowly and rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘It was there,’ was all he could think to say. He saw a furry body nearby and pushed it with his foot. ‘And there is the rat that drank it.’

Michael knelt to examine the rodent. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked doubtfully.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I did not see it drink the wine, but the cat …’ He looked around him. ‘Is there a cat in the College?’ he called to Colton. ‘A big ginger one?’

Colton paused in his prayers, and treated him to a suspicious look. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Have you seen it recently?’

Colton looked angry. ‘Isaac is murdered, Philius’s room set alight and there are robbers at large, and you enquire after the cat?’

As if on cue, the cat entered, still staggering uneasily on its feet.

Colton gave it an unfriendly look. ‘It drinks. It haunts the storerooms and kitchens in search of ale and wine, and needs to be carefully watched or it smashes things.’

‘We have one or two Fellows who are the same,’ said Michael drolly. Bartholomew picked up the cat, and inspected it a second time. It looked back at him through contentedly half-closed eyes and began to purr loudly. It struggled when he looked inside its mouth, but purred again when he rubbed its fur absently. He had been right the first time: the cat showed no signs of poisoning.

He shrugged at Michael, who sighed, and gestured to Isaac’s body.

‘What can you tell us about his death?’

Bartholomew put the cat down, and knelt to re-examine Isaac. ‘He was hit on the head first, and I think the blow was sufficient to kill him. Can you see how I am able to move the bones of his skull in my hands? The brain underneath must have been seriously damaged.’

The small room filled with unpleasant grating sounds. Colton turned white and Michael looked away in revulsion. ‘Please, Matt!’ he said. ‘We do not need to know every gruesome detail.’

Bartholomew grinned at him behind Colton’s back. ‘I think his hands were bound behind him and he was hauled up to the rafters by the neck after he was struck. There are no marks on his wrists, so he did not struggle as he would have done had he been alive and conscious. Whoever did this wanted to make certain he was dead.’

‘They did a good job,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Could they not tell the blow to the head had killed him? Was it really necessary to hang him too?’

Bartholomew looked at Isaac’s head. ‘It was probably dark, and, although the bones of the skull are smashed, the skin is barely broken. Perhaps they thought they had only stunned him. Leaving someone to hang is a reliable way of ensuring death if you are in a hurry and cannot afford to wait.’

‘But so is stabbing,’ pointed out Colton. ‘And a quick thrust with a knife would be considerably easier than heaving an inert body up by its neck.’

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But perhaps they had no weapons. They might have stabbed Matt, rather than engage in all that pointless struggling if they had.’ He gestured around the room. ‘And there are no knives here that could have been used, although there is plenty of rope.’

Bartholomew looked into the corner where Michael pointed and saw several lengths of rope discarded there that had been used to tie the sacks of flour. He was about to stand when a patch on one of Isaac’s hands caught his eye. He looked more closely, and saw the left palm was blistered and the surrounding skin was inflamed. Bartholomew racked his brains, trying to recall whether the injury had been present before Isaac had gone to the storeroom, but the memory eluded him. The porter at Valence Marie had complained of a burned hand after he had touched the bottles from St Bernard’s Hostel that Bartholomew had left in his care, and now it seemed as though Isaac might have sustained a similar wound after using the wine to prepare Philius’s purge.