A Deadly Brew (15 page)

‘Doctor!’ she said breathlessly. ‘Edward and I wanted to thank you once again for coming to Constantine yesterday, especially since it meant missing part of Master Bingham’s installation.’

Edward nodded his agreement. He still wore his sober brown tunic, looking like a drab little wren when compared to the colourful spectacle presented by the two older merchants.

‘How is Master Mortimer?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s impatient huffing at his elbow. ‘I hope he is feeling better.’

She smiled. ‘He must be: he is sitting in the solar demanding his breakfast. Masters Cheney and Deschalers came to visit him.’

Bartholomew nodded a greeting to the two merchants and then turned back to Katherine. ‘You must not let him overeat,’ he warned. ‘His stomach will not yet take kindly to the kind of repast your husband seems to enjoy.’

Katherine laughed. ‘That is why I am so grateful to Masters Cheney and Deschalers – they took his mind off his food for a while at least. Constantine is not an easy man to advise – especially in matters concerning his stomach.’

There was a brief silence as Bartholomew, Michael and the merchants reflected that Mortimer was not an easy man in any sense of the word. He was unpleasant when he was fit and well, but being deprived of what seemed to be his main love in life would render him unbearable.

‘We were telling him about that dreadful affair with Grene last night,’ said Cheney, changing the subject and leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘That should be a warning to us all. Grene was so sour and bitter during the celebrations that God struck him down for the deadly sin of envy.’

He looked unpleasantly smug, and Bartholomew was tempted to point out that malice and pride were just as likely to catch God’s attention as envy.

‘There are stories that he died in the service of Valence Marie’s relic,’ said Deschalers, regarding them questioningly. ‘The one that some scholars tried to discredit last year.’

‘That is arrant nonsense!’ said Michael brusquely. ‘Poor Grene’s death had nothing to do with that hand – and I can assure you, Master Deschalers, that those damned bones are no more saintly relics than is that dead dog I can see on the top of that pile of rubbish!’

‘But his demise was a shocking incident, nevertheless,’ said Deschalers, looking anything but shocked. ‘Perhaps he should have taken some lemon juice to soothe his choleric humour.’

‘Those lemons of yours are an unusual sight in Cambridge in winter,’ said Bartholomew, more to prevent them speculating about the Valence Marie relic than to learn about groceries.

Deschalers nodded proudly. ‘Indeed they are. But I have developed a system for keeping them in the cool of my basement. They do not perish there as they do in the warmer storerooms above ground. Thus I can provide my customers with goods not normally seen in wintertime, and they pay most handsomely for the service. It is a pity you cannot do the same with bread, eh, Edward?’ He gave the young man a poke in the ribs with his elbow.

Edward’s attention had clearly been elsewhere. ‘Of course not,’ he said hastily, and smiled nervously. Deschalers looked piqued.

‘Pay attention, Edward,’ he said testily. ‘You will never be a good merchant if you do not listen.’

Bartholomew had the distinct impression that a good merchant was the last thing Edward wanted to be. But he was the eldest son of one of the most powerful traders in the town and his fate was already sealed: Edward would inherit the business whether he liked it or not.

Michael tugged impatiently at Bartholomew’s sleeve. They bade the Mortimers, Cheney and Deschalers farewell, and hastened to St Mary’s Church on the High Street, where the Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor and their clerks administrated the University’s complicated business dealings.

Harling was waiting for them, sitting behind the desk in his small office behind the church. He wore a neat, black gown and his short hair was, as usual, neatly slicked into a smooth cap with generous dabs of scented animal grease.

‘There you are,’ he said when they knocked at his door. ‘You have heard what has happened?’

Michael nodded. ‘Three dead and a number of people injured, including the Chancellor.’

‘This is dreadful,’ said Harling, his face pale and his hands unsteady. Bartholomew was surprised, imagining that Harling would relish the prospect of a little longer in his position of power. But, almost as soon as the thought had entered his head, he saw it was a foolish one: why would Harling wish to continue as Tynkell’s representative when the University was facing such dire difficulties – Grene’s death at a public occasion; the murders of Isaac and Armel on University property; and now a violent assault on the Chancellor himself?

‘There has not been trouble on the Cambridge to Ely road for years,’ Harling continued, gnawing on his lower lip. ‘It is outrageous – a direct attack on the University! And so is this affair concerning Grene and the Bernard’s novice!’

‘The ambush of the Chancellor may have been random,’ reasoned Bartholomew, to calm him. ‘Tulyet said raids are becoming more frequent, and even houses inside the town have been burgled.’

‘But this is the Ely causeway!’ insisted Harling. ‘Hitherto one of the safest highways in the kingdom.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I profess I am uncertain how to proceed – while I am keen for you to discover all you can about this foul affair, I am loathe to allow you to travel on the same road.’

‘The Bishop has sent an escort,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘We will be safe enough.’

Harling looked doubtful. ‘Brother Michael, you have provided – are providing – a vital service to the University. I have come to respect your opinions and judgement, and so I am considering sending a Junior Proctor in your place. You are, quite simply, too valuable to risk. Perhaps we can appoint that Father William from Michaelhouse – he has been pestering me to make him Junior Proctor for weeks. He can go to Ely with Bartholomew.’

‘I am touched,’ said Michael, his face expressionless. ‘But it is unlikely these outlaws will strike twice in the same place. I will be perfectly safe, and anyway I cannot refuse a summons from the Bishop. As a humble Benedictine monk, I am duty-bound to obey my spiritual master.’

Bartholomew thought Michael looked anything but humble, basking smugly in the urgency of the summons from the Bishop, and the praise and open admiration of the Vice-Chancellor.

Harling raised a hand in a submissive gesture and regarded Michael sombrely. ‘I suppose you are right,’ he said, clearly reluctant. ‘But I have already given my word that Bartholomew should be allowed to tend his patients without being hampered by University matters, and now he has been ordered to Ely!’

‘He cannot refuse a summons from the Bishop, any more than I can,’ said Michael.

‘Although I appreciate the fact that you tried to keep me out of it,’ Bartholomew added.

Harling gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I suppose going to Ely will mean that at least you are free from this vile business of the poisoned wine. And speaking of that, have you made any headway?’

Briefly, Michael outlined Bartholomew’s findings on the deaths of Grene and Armel, and related what had passed in Gonville Hall the previous night. Harling paled and put his head in his hands with a groan.

‘I will investigate all this as soon as I have returned from Ely,’ said Michael comfortingly.

‘Have you uncovered any clues the beadles might follow up in your absence?’ asked Harling, lifting his haggard face from his arms.

Michael nodded vaguely. ‘There is a man named Sacks they are trying to hunt down. He might be able to shed some light on the matter.’

Harling closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. Bartholomew felt sorry for him. His few days of power while Tynkell was away had turned into a nightmare and he looked ill from worry.

Harling’s eyes snapped open. ‘Do you think he did it?’ he asked.

‘Who did what?’ asked Michael, startled.

Harling sighed impatiently and patted his greased hair in an agitated gesture. ‘Do you think Bingham murdered Grene? Father Eligius came to tell me of his suspicions this morning.’

‘I have reservations about that,’ said Michael, rubbing the whiskers on his chin and filling the room with a scraping sound. ‘To kill a rival in full view of so many people would be very rash.’

‘Bingham is a man given to rashness,’ said Harling. ‘Perhaps someone gave him this poisoned wine and he decided to use it on the spur of the moment.’

‘But why would someone provide him with such a thing?’ said Michael. ‘It is not the kind of gift one usually presents at an installation.’

Harling gave him a curious look and Bartholomew wondered whether he, like the former Chancellor, de Wetherset, had been involved in University politics too long and had become paranoid in his suspicions. The University might be full of rumour and intrigue, but its scholars did not usually resort to killing their rivals. The students fought with the townspeople and with each other – hostel against hostel and hostel against College – but the masters usually managed to steer clear of physical violence, and generally employed more intellectual forms of vengeance.

Harling sighed and gazed out of the window. ‘What a mess,’ he whispered. ‘My poor University, assailed from all sides by evil men.’

‘Hardly that, Master Harling,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Just one or two minor mysteries that will easily be unravelled and eliminated. Do not fear. Matt and I will sort all this out before you know it.’

Bartholomew gazed at him aghast, uncertain whether he was more horrified at Michael’s overconfident bragging, or the fact that he was being dragged into the murky world of University plotting and scheming.

‘Just a moment–’ he began.

Michael overrode his protestation with a wave of a flabby hand. ‘If your help is needed to solve this mystery, Matt, then I know you will give it freely and without question to express your loyalty to the University. But time is passing and we should go. We should not be on the road after dark.’

‘Very well,’ said Harling wearily. ‘Go if you must. But please return as soon as you can. We cannot be having scholars murdered with poisoned wine. And whatever you do, be cautious – both of you. I wish you God’s speed.’

‘Poor Harling,’ said Michael, as they walked towards the Brazen George to meet Cynric and the Bishop’s escort. ‘He is beginning to crack under the strain. It is just as well he was not elected Chancellor.’

Bartholomew sighed, still angry at the way the monk had volunteered his services in such a cavalier manner. But by the time they had returned from Ely, the mystery surrounding the wine might well have been solved by Michael’s beadles and he did not want to begin an argument over something that might transpire to be irrelevant. He thought about the state of the Vice-Chancellor. ‘I would have expected Harling to be more poised. I did not imagine him to be a man given to panic.’

‘He is always far more suave in the afternoons and evenings,’ said Michael. ‘I suspect he drinks, and is less controlled in the mornings before the alcohol has taken effect.’

It was an interesting concept, especially when Bartholomew recalled that Harling was well known for making all his appointments in the afternoons, maintaining that he liked to leave the mornings free for clerical duties. The Vice-Chancellor had been well in control of the situation with the Fellows in St Botolph’s Church the day before, but that had been at night and the wine had been plentiful. During mass, at dawn, he had been pale and his hands had been shaking.

‘I am sceptical of his concern, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has never expressed any particular fondness for either of us before.’

‘You do the man an injustice,’ said Michael reproachfully. ‘He is wholly loyal to the University and knows we serve it well. He is probably reluctant to let us leave Cambridge when he knows he will need our brains to solve the affair of the poisoned wine. If Tynkell dies of his injuries, Harling will need to find Grene’s murderer if he is to prove to the voting masters that he is competent to accede as Chancellor. He will stand no chance of winning an election if that remains a mystery.’

They made their way quickly along the High Street to the Brazen George, where Cynric and the messenger waited. The messenger paced back and forth, glancing up at the sky as if he imagined dusk might settle at any moment, despite the fact that it was barely mid-morning.

‘You are late,’ he said irritably. He looked at Stanmore’s men who walked behind them, holding the reins of sturdy nags with eager anticipation of the expedition through the Fens. They were large men, both with dark, almost swarthy, complexions. Cynric stood with them, holding the bridle of a fat pony from Stanmore’s stables that he liked to ride. Its saddlebags were already packed and Cynric, basically a man of action who chafed at the sedentary life of a book-bearer, was as keen to take part in the unexpected journey as were the two Fenmen.

‘The Bishop seems to have done us proud,’ said Michael, motioning to where their escort waited: six men wearing the boiled leather tunics and helmets of the mercenary.

‘Who are they?’ demanded the messenger, regarding Cynric, Egil and Jurnet with suspicion when he realised they were to form part of the group.

‘Men whom I trust,’ replied Bartholomew, resenting the hostility in the messenger’s voice.

‘They cannot come with us,’ said the messenger, turning away. ‘Send them home.’

‘What is your name?’ Bartholomew asked. Surprised, the messenger turned to face him.

‘Alan of Norwich,’ he answered. ‘Why?’

‘Well, Alan of Norwich, your career as a messenger will be short-lived if you dictate to your customers so,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘Now, you have two choices. Either these men come with us, or you return to the Bishop without me. Which is it to be?’

Alan eyed Bartholomew with dislike, but before he could reply, one of the mercenaries intervened, laying a callused hand on Alan’s leather-clad shoulder.

‘They will be no trouble,’ he said in the rough accent of a northerner. ‘Let them come.’

Alan pursed his lips but said no more. Michael and Cynric were already mounted, and Egil and Jurnet sprung lightly into the saddles of their small ponies. With a malicious glower, Alan handed Bartholomew the reins of a great snorting stallion that Bartholomew regarded with trepidation.