A Deadly Brew (13 page)

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ admonished Kenyngham soothingly. ‘There is no need for such rage while debating philosophical questions.’

‘The shape in which God created the Earth is a religious question, not a philosophical one,’ put in William quickly, determined not to lose the opportunity to utter a little dogma.

‘Religion and philosophy reach a point where they become one and the same,’ said Alcote.

There was a brief silence as the others digested this bit of profundity from such an unexpected quarter.

‘Heretic!’ yelled William after a moment, stabbing a finger at Alcote’s puny chest. ‘Theology is the noblest of all subjects and should never be mistaken for any of the lesser disciplines.’

‘You are trying to sidetrack me,’ snapped Langelee accusingly. ‘I was just telling Alcote that the Earth was a perfect sphere and–’

‘One does not “tell” another scholar something like that,’ said Michael pompously. ‘One raises the matter as a question, and there follows a stimulating and mutually beneficial exchange of views, during which each listens to the other, offering evidence for support or refute as appropriate.’

‘Not if the other’s point of view is the intellectual equivalent of horse dung,’ retorted Langelee. ‘I do not have time to listen to drivel!’

‘I would stay out of this, if I were you, Brother,’ cautioned Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘You will not make them accept the validity of your statements, and Langelee looks as if he might resort to physical persuasion to me.’

‘How can the Earth be a perfect sphere?’ asked Runham with affected weariness. ‘There would be nothing to prevent the sea invading the land, and there would be water everywhere.’

‘And what about mountains?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s grin of amusement that he was unable to follow his own advice.

‘And where, pray, do you see mountains?’ demanded Langelee icily. He gestured out of the window. ‘Show me a mountain and I will concede your point.’

‘Obviously there are none in East Anglia,’ said Bartholomew, wondering, not for the first time, how Langelee had inveigled an appointment at Michaelhouse. ‘But there are hills in the north of England and mountains in Italy, France and Spain.’

‘You are lying,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘There are no mountains in York.’

In the body of the hall, the students were enjoying the dissension between the Fellows with unconcealed delight, much of their gleeful amusement directed against the unpopular Langelee.

‘I visited York once,’ said Kenyngham, smiling wistfully. ‘What a charming place! The Minster is a fabulous thing, all delicate tracery and soaring windows.’

‘But did you see mountains?’ asked Alcote, reluctant to allow the Master to change the subject to something less contentious.

‘Castle Hill is a mountain,’ said Runham. ‘Or it is mountain enough to prove Matthew’s point. If the Earth were a perfect sphere, Castle Hill would not exist.’

‘That is a foolish argument!’ spat Langelee. ‘If Castle Hill did not exist, there would be nowhere to put the castle!’

The others regarded him uncertainly, none of them sure how he had arrived at such a conclusion or how to refute it. Before the debate could begin anew, Kenyngham wisely took advantage of the momentary silence to stand to say grace. The others scrambled to their feet and bowed their heads as the Gilbertine’s words echoed around the hall. As soon as he had finished, the students clattered noisily down the stairs and across the courtyard, some to read in their rooms, others to escape the College and indulge in something better than enduring Michaelhouse’s petty restrictions on the one day they were free from their studies.

Michael and Bartholomew made a hasty exit, too, neither wanting to become embroiled in a debate with the others, particularly Langelee. Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief as he overheard the philosopher informing William that the Earth was a perfect sphere because it was created by God, and God could create nothing imperfect. Langelee, however, was preaching to the converted, and William agreed with him that all mountains and hills were therefore an abomination and should be levelled. Raising his eyes heavenwards, Michael went to the kitchens to scavenge leftovers, while Bartholomew escorted Father Paul to the room he shared with William.

‘When a man loses a sense, such as sight, the body compensates,’ announced Paul, somewhat out of the blue.

‘I have heard that,’ said Bartholomew, steering him around a puddle. ‘I knew a deaf man once who was able to tell from shadows and smell when there was someone behind him.’

‘I hear exceptionally well,’ continued Paul, ‘and although you and Michael took care to keep your voices low before that silly debate started, I heard what was said. I also have an excellent sense of smell. Should you recover these bottles, I would be happy to see if I can detect similarities or differences in this poison for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But this substance is foul, and I would not like anyone to smell it, in case they inhale noxious fumes. Presumably, the stuff is odourless anyway, or Armel and Grene would not have drunk it.’

‘True,’ said Paul. ‘Although my offer remains should you need it. But, regardless, take care, Matthew. Brother Michael is an ambitious man, and little will stop him attaining the power and influence he craves. He will not hesitate to enlist your help to gain it.’

Bartholomew stared at him. It was true that Michael, as Senior Proctor, regularly called on his medical knowledge to help him solve mysteries concerning violent deaths. But would Michael involve him in something dangerous to secure his own advancement? Bartholomew would like to believe not, but he knew Paul’s observation held more than a grain of truth. Michael’s ambition must be strong indeed for him to forgo the opportunity to be Master of a wealthy institution like Valence Marie on the strength of some unspecified promise for the future made by a Bishop whose own empire might crumble in the shifting grounds of political alliances at any moment.

Although Bartholomew could attest that Michael really had been unwell on the day of the Chancellor’s election, he had put up little resistance when Bartholomew had advised him to stay in bed. Bartholomew also knew the monk well enough to see that he had not been surprised in the slightest at the suggestion that the voting process might not have been honestly conducted. Was his illness that day a coincidence and, if so, did he know more about it than he was admitting? But it was surely in Michael’s interests to have Harling as Chancellor – rather than the unknown quantity represented by Tynkell – and Bartholomew did not believe that the fat monk would keep silent if he had tangible evidence that the election had been fixed.

He was about to reply in Michael’s defence, when Paul thrust something into his hand. Bartholomew stared down at the gold coins in astonishment.

‘I hear there is fever among the town’s poor,’ said Paul. ‘Perhaps this might go some way to providing medicines they might need.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘It would, indeed. But you cannot give me all this!’

He tried to make Paul take the coins back, but the friar pushed his hand away. ‘I have recently come into a little money,’ he said enigmatically. ‘I would sooner it went to the poor than sat in my room. I plan to give the remainder to the leper hospital.’

‘Then, thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will send Gray this morning to buy medicines, and Bulbeck can arrange for deliveries of eggs and bread to those that need them. The reason why many take so long to regain their strength is because they cannot afford the proper food.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Paul. ‘You believe the well in Water Lane is responsible?’

Bartholomew nodded, forgetting Paul could not see. ‘I have never encountered a fever quite like this – except once in Greece when a brook was fouled because a goat had died in it further upstream. But the Water Lane well is protected by a wall and a cover, and it is impossible for an animal to fall in. The only explanation I can think of is that the raised level of the river has invaded the well – the river became flooded around the same time that the fever claimed its first victim.’

They turned as a messenger was allowed through the gate and came racing across the yard towards them.

‘Brother Michael?’ he asked of Paul, and stopped dead as Paul’s opaque blue eyes turned towards him. ‘Where can I find Brother Michael?’

‘In the kitchens,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you have a message for him from the Bishop?’

The messenger nodded vigorously. ‘And then I must deliver the same message to the Vice-Chancellor. There was an attack yesterday on a party travelling from Ely to Cambridge for the installation. Three clerks lie dead. And among the injured is Chancellor Tynkell.’

Chapter 4

Bartholomew stared at the messenger in horror. While the road from Cambridge to London was dangerous, the one between Cambridge and Ely had always been comparatively safe from outlaws. The Bishop of Ely was a powerful man, and usually ensured the routes between his Abbey and the towns and villages with which he needed to communicate were well patrolled.

‘How many have been injured? How badly hurt?’ he asked.

The messenger shrugged. He was a young man and, judging from his rough clothes and casual manner, not someone regularly employed by the Bishop – the Bishop set great store by appearances and his staff usually wore liveries.

‘I was told only that three were dead and several injured, including the Chancellor,’ he said impatiently. ‘But I must find Brother Michael.’

Bartholomew hailed Cynric, watching curiously from where he was feeding the chickens outside the hall, and sent him to find Michael. Cynric knew exactly where Michael would be, and within moments the fat monk was puffing across the yard to greet the messenger. He received the news with the same shock as had Bartholomew.

‘But the Bishop keeps a regular patrol on the Ely to Cambridge road. How could such a thing happen?’

The messenger shrugged again. ‘I am telling you only what I know. The Bishop said that you are to go to Ely immediately, and that you are to bring Doctor Bartholomew for the injured.’

‘But Brother Peter at Ely is a fine physician,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why does the Bishop want me?’

The messenger was becoming exasperated at their questions. ‘I do not know! Perhaps the Chancellor asked for you specifically.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘The Chancellor is highly suspicious of Matt’s dedication to cleanliness. Given his own aversion to bathing, I suppose that is not surprising.’

‘We should not waste time,’ said the messenger, squinting up at the sky. ‘We do not want to be caught on the open road tonight, and the riding is hard after all this rain. The Bishop has provided an escort for you – I left them taking refreshments at the Brazen George. By your leave, I will give the Bishop’s message to Master Harling and wait for you in the tavern.’

Michael waved him away and turned to Bartholomew. ‘This is a bad business, but if the Bishop has commanded us to go, we have little choice in the matter. We will miss teaching for a few days. I will inform Master Kenyngham.

‘A few days?’ exclaimed Bartholomew in horror. ‘I cannot leave my students that long! I am already behind with the third years and Gray looks set to fail his disputation–’

‘Then they will just need to work harder when you get back,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Your students are a worthless rabble anyway. None of them will make decent physicians, despite all the attention you have lavished on them.’

‘Bulbeck will,’ said Bartholomew, stung, but Michael was already striding away. Cynric, eyes alight with excitement, offered to pack what they would need and Bartholomew saw that the Welshman intended to accompany them, invited or not.

As he turned to hunt down Gray and Bulbeck, who would need to supervise the other students while he was away, Father Paul stopped him.

‘This has an odd ring to it,’ he said. ‘How could a large party – for the Chancellor never travels without his clerkly retinue – be attacked on the Ely road? And three dead? It sounds excessive!’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘Do you think the messenger is lying?’

Paul pushed out his lower lip. ‘I could not say,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘But I think he is not telling you the whole truth. And why would the Chancellor suddenly ask for you when he has never requested that you attend him before?’

Bartholomew watched Cynric disappear through the door to his room to collect what they would require for the journey. ‘Are you suggesting we should not go?’

Paul shook his head. ‘I am only reiterating what I said to you earlier. Be careful.’ He sketched a benediction in the air above Bartholomew’s head, and took his leave. Bartholomew watched him walk away and then thrust the warning from his mind. He knew from long experience that men brought low by sickness and injury often did or said things out of character, so perhaps Tynkell’s request was not so curious after all. Perhaps he simply wanted a physician from his own University over the Benedictine infirmarian at Ely Abbey.

He found Gray and Bulbeck, his two senior students, playing dice in the room of one of his younger pupils, Rob Deynman. The substantial payments Deynman’s wealthy father made for the training of his barely literate son kept Michaelhouse in bread for at least half the year, and so Bartholomew was stuck with him, despite the fact that Deynman would never pass his disputations. In time, bribes would have to be made, but, in the interim Bartholomew intended to shield the unsuspecting public from the lad’s dubious medical skills for as long as possible.

He told the three students that he had been summoned to Ely and that they would need to supervise the other students’ classes until he returned. He handed Paul’s gold coins to Bulbeck, and issued instructions about the food and medicines for the poor.

‘Are you going to answer the charges of heresy brought against you for your theories about river water?’ asked Deynman, his eyes wide with interest. Gray was unable to prevent a muffled explosion of mirth at Deynman’s bluntness.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is about another matter.’

‘Not the business of Armel and the poison?’ asked Gray.

‘What do you know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Gray glanced furtively at his friends. ‘Nothing much. We heard that Xavier dragged you away from the feast and that Armel was poisoned. The story was all over the Brazen George last night.’

‘Was it now?’ said Bartholomew, eyebrows raised. ‘And how do you know? Surely you did not break College rules and slip out to visit a tavern while all the Fellows were at the installation?’

Gray flushed red and Bulbeck shuffled his feet around in the rushes.

‘Oh no!’ said Deynman, grinning cheerfully. ‘We went out long before that.’ The others gave him crushing looks. ‘What?’ Deynman demanded of them, oblivious of the implications of his reply. He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘We saw old Sacks selling Armel the wine, though.’

‘What?’ said Bartholomew, looking from one student to the other, confused. ‘Old Sacks?’

‘Sacks claims to be a Crécy veteran,’ said Gray reluctantly, still glaring at Deynman. ‘He is called Sacks because that is what he does – he makes sacks for flour and suchlike. He is often in the George, selling bits and pieces.’

‘Often?’ enquired Bartholomew casually.

Gray winced, caught out a second time.

Bulbeck gave Gray a withering glance and continued. ‘Sometimes he sells ribbons and laces, such as a chapman might have. Sometimes pots and pans. But recently he has had wine.’

‘My brother once bought a lute from him,’ said Deynman, eager to take part in the conversation, ‘but another student told him it had been stolen from Master Colton of Gonville Hall. We took it round to Gonville and the Master identified it as his, although all he did to reward us for our honesty was threaten to tell you that we had been drinking in the town’s taverns. So we never buy anything from Sacks because whatever he sells is bound to be stolen.’

‘Of course, Armel and his friends were not to know that,’ said Gray in a superior tone. ‘That bunch of nuns never break the University rules. They came to the George yesterday for the first time ever – can you believe it when the tavern is only next door to their hostel? – and fell for Sacks’s patter.’

‘Then why did you not warn them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it was uncharitable to allow them to buy potentially stolen goods?’

‘They are from Bernard’s,’ said Deynman with high indignation. ‘A hostel! Had they been Michaelhouse students, it would have been different.’

‘And it was only wine,’ said Gray, grinning at Deynman. He sobered suddenly as he thought about it. ‘Except it was not, was it?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘It was not. What of Sacks? Has he a grudge against students?’

The three looked at each other, mystified. ‘I would say not,’ said Gray. ‘Students provide him with much of his trade. He has been operating in the George for years.’

So, it would seem that Armel had not been sold the poisoned wine intentionally – at least not by Sacks. But there was always the possibility that someone had given it to Sacks to peddle knowing exactly what was in it.

‘Where does Sacks live?’ asked Bartholomew.

Gray shrugged. ‘No one really knows. He has cheated so many people that it is safer for him to keep his lodgings secret. I think he has some kind of dwelling to the north, up in the Fens. He certainly does not live in Cambridge.’

‘Two more questions,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and then we will say no more about these illicit visits to taverns. First, how many bottles did Sacks have yesterday?’

‘Four,’ said Gray promptly. ‘And they looked like the same ones he had tried to sell last month – thin bottles of a smoky-brown colour.’

‘And second, to whom did he sell the other bottle?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We know Armel bought three.’

The students looked at each other, frowning in concentration.

Deynman suddenly brightened. ‘One of fat old Stanmore’s apprentices bought one when Sacks first tried to sell the stuff a month or so ago. I do not know his name.’

‘One of Oswald Stanmore’s lads?’ asked Bartholomew.

Deynman blushed, embarrassed. He had forgotten Stanmore was his teacher’s brother-in-law.

‘That was … four weeks last Saturday,’ said Bulbeck hurriedly, before Deynman could dig himself into a deeper trench of indiscretion. ‘Perhaps Sacks still has the last bottle. He said he had half a dozen when he first tried to sell them, and he had four last night. So, if he had only sold two bottles in a month, he could not have been doing too well with them.’

Gray and Deynman agreed and looked at Bartholomew warily, not certain what he would do with the knowledge that they had been regularly and flagrantly flouting the University’s rules about inns.

‘We only went out because Sam has been depressed,’ said Deynman. He looked at Gray, who gnawed anxiously at his lower lip. ‘He has been sad since Eleanor Tyler left town last year. He was fond of her and we only wanted to cheer him up.’

Bartholomew was unmoved. ‘That was months ago and you had not known her for long.’

‘But it was love at first sight,’ protested Deynman, rallying to his friend’s defence. ‘They adored each other and he misses her terribly.’

Bartholomew sighed. Unconvinced as he was by Gray’s lovesick state – he seriously doubted that anyone could penetrate the thick skin of self-interest that was one of the less attractive aspects of Gray’s personality – he often felt the University’s regulations were too restrictive for young men with high spirits. Trying to ban them from taverns was as hopeless as emptying a well with a sieve. But he was fond of these three students nevertheless, and the thought that one of them might go the same way as Armel filled him with horror.

‘While I am gone, and until this business is over, I want you to promise me you will stay away from taverns and eat only in Michaelhouse. Do I have your word?’ He looked at them one by one.

‘But you might be gone for ages,’ protested Gray. ‘We will starve if we eat only Michaelhouse food.’ He looked sly. ‘And I need to build myself up for my disputation.’

Bartholomew could not help smiling. ‘Then you must attempt to ingratiate yourself with Agatha. She feeds Michael well enough.’

Gray could not argue that the obese Michael was anything but well fed. He nodded with ill grace. ‘I suppose, since you seem so concerned for our welfare, that we will humour you and suffer on Michaelhouse fare until you return.’

‘I am more concerned that years of my hard work should not be brought to an untimely end by a single sip of wine,’ said Bartholomew. He was gratified to see Gray look indignant. Gray had twice saved Bartholomew’s life and both times had claimed his sole motive was that if he lost his teacher it would interfere with his plans to become a wealthy and successful physician. Bartholomew felt somewhat avenged.

When he had wrung similar promises from the other two, he took his leave. Cynric was waiting for him, holding Bartholomew’s cloak over his arm and with spare shirt and hose packed in a bag. Michael joined them.

‘I need to talk to Harling before we leave for Ely. I must tell him what we have reasoned about Grene’s death.’

‘We should also speak to Oswald about the apprentice that Philius said he visited a month ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The one who died of symptoms similar to those suffered by Armel and Grene.’

‘Should we?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘And here was I under the impression that you wanted to have nothing to do with my investigation. Silly me!’

‘I do not,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘I only want to ensure the safety of Oswald and his apprentices. And I promised to check on Philius this morning. It will not take long.’

Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘We must leave enough time to reach Ely by nightfall and we will need longer than usual if the riding is rough. Especially with you along,’ he added rudely, referring to Bartholomew’s notorious lack of skill on horseback.

Leaving Cynric to take their bags to the Brazen George, Bartholomew and Michael went first to Gonville Hall. Michael talked with Master Colton while Bartholomew went to see his patient.

Philius was sitting up in his bed eating oatmeal cooked with milk. He was pale and ate carefully so as not to hurt his burned mouth, but at least he was well enough to eat at all.

‘I hear I need to thank you twice – once for delivering me from the poison that was eating away at my innards, and once for quenching a fire that would have burned me to a cinder.’ He gestured for Bartholomew to sit on one of the stools near the bed. ‘Now, as to the matter of payment …’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Who knows? I might need your services one day.’

Philius smiled. ‘So be it. Although I was always under the impression that you regard my traditional approach to medicine with more than a degree of scepticism.’