A Deadly Brew (28 page)

On the left side of Philius’s chest, a sliver of metal was embedded, all but invisible among the hair. Bartholomew leaned closer and saw that only the merest fraction protruded. Someone had clearly forced it in as far as it would go to hide it from view. Bartholomew took it between thumb and forefinger, and drew it out with some difficulty. Tulyet edged closer to watch, while Colton abandoned his manicure and stood next to him, his mouth agape with horror. The metal object was a nail, as long as Bartholomew’s hand was wide, and whoever had used it had known exactly where to strike to bring about almost instant death.

‘It penetrated his heart,’ explained Bartholomew, holding it up for Colton to inspect. Colton’s eyes were wide in a face that was suddenly bloodless. ‘He would have died quickly and, as you can see, the wound did not bleed much. My interpretation of what happened is that Philius was asleep, but was roused by a knock at his door. The killer forced his way in and Philius began to fight – hence the scattered parchments and the upturned furniture. The killer then must have thrust the nail into Philius’s chest. If you look here, you can see a little hole in his gown, and there is a small bloodstain that barely shows because of the dark colour.’

‘There must have been two of them, Matt,’ said Tulyet, putting both hands firmly behind his back as Bartholomew offered him the nail to examine. ‘Philius would hardly stand still while someone stabbed him. One must have held him while the other drove the nail into him.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. He stood behind Tulyet, and wrapped an arm around his throat to demonstrate. ‘Philius was not a large man. His assailant might have managed to grab him from behind, and hold him still, like this, and the rest would be easy.’ He made a quick, downwards motion with the nail in his hand to illustrate his point, making Colton flinch.

‘This nail,’ said Colton, unable to drag his eyes from the grisly object. ‘Why did the killer not take it back?’

‘Probably because it prevented the wound from bleeding,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And because it was virtually invisible anyway. The gown Philius is wearing will do well enough as a shroud, and I imagine the killer did not anticipate anyone taking it off to conduct a more rigorous investigation. You were meant to believe he died naturally. As indeed you have been suggesting.’

Colton slumped down on a stool, and clasped unsteady hands together. ‘This is dreadful! We said a mass yesterday to give thanks for his recovery. Afterwards, he and I went for a walk to the Franciscan Friary.’ He gazed at Philius’s body, swallowed hard, and looked up at Bartholomew. ‘Are you certain this nail killed him? Could it not have been there some time before today?’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Hardly! It was driven into his heart. Call Lynton to confirm it, if you like. Or Robin of Grantchester. Both will tell you the same. The wound was a fatal one.’

Just then, the student returned with the porter who had been on duty that day. Bartholomew took one look at his heavy eyes and rumpled clothes, and guessed exactly why he had not heard anything from Philius’s room.

‘Do you sleep all the time you are supposed to be guarding your College?’ he asked coolly.

‘No, not all the time,’ said the porter, and bit his lip when he realised what he had said.

Colton gave him a withering look. ‘John!’ he said tiredly. ‘How could you? You know what happened here three days ago. I trusted you to be vigilant.’

‘I was vigilant!’ protested John. ‘But there was nothing going on, and the whole place was as still as the grave. All the students were studying with the masters in the hall, and the cooks were busy in the kitchen. The College was so quiet, it was almost like the middle of the night. So, I thought there would be no harm if I just closed my eyes for a moment.’

‘And you heard nothing?’ asked Colton, looking at the porter in weary resignation.

‘Nothing!’ said John. ‘Nothing at all. The first I knew of this …’ his eyes strayed to Philius’s body on the bed, ‘was when you raised the alarm. I swear, I heard nothing!’

‘And then, when you went to unlock the main gate to send for Matt and the Proctors you found it already open,’ said Tulyet, walking to the window and leaning his elbows on the sill.

‘Yes. No!’ John gaped at the Sheriff, aghast at having been so easily tricked.

‘And how much were you paid to leave the door unlocked, John?’ Tulyet continued softly.

Colton stared at the Sheriff in mute horror. Disgusted by the porter’s treachery, Bartholomew turned his attention back to Philius, straightening the stiffening limbs, and smoothing down the rumpled gown. Philius was not a man whom Bartholomew had especially liked, but he was a colleague and he would miss him – even if only for the dubious pleasure of disagreeing with his theories.

‘I did not … they made me!’ John said in a wail. ‘They said they would kill me if I did not do what they said. I was to leave the door open and ask no questions. I decided it would be safer for me if I was asleep when it happened.’

‘Who, John?’ asked Tulyet calmly, still looking out of the window. ‘Who told you to do this?’

‘Them!’ insisted John. ‘The outlaws!’

‘And how do you know they were outlaws?’ asked Tulyet, his voice deceptively quiet. Bartholomew, who knew him well, was aware that his measured tones concealed a deep anger – partly at John’s selfishness, but mostly that the outlaws who were outwitting him at every turn had succeeded yet again.

John clasped his hands together and gnawed at his knuckles. ‘I just know,’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘They were the outlaws who killed Isaac and are robbing houses and church in the town.’

‘But how do you know?’ persisted Tulyet.

He spun round as John bolted from the room, slamming the door closed behind him. They heard a thump as the bench in the hallway – on which Philius’s patients sat while they waited to be seen – was jammed against the door to prevent their escape. By the time Tulyet had forced it away, John was out of the yard and through the front gate. Tulyet tore after him, Bartholomew and Colton at his heels.

‘Damn!’

Tulyet kicked the gate in frustration and pressed his palms into the sides of his head as he walked in a tight circle, every movement betraying the fury and helplessness he felt.

The lane was deserted: nothing moved and all was silent. In the middle of it lay John. The porter was slumped on his side, a crossbow quarrel embedded in his back and a thin trickle of blood oozing from his nose.

As the sun disappeared from the sky, Michael eased himself into Agatha’s great chair by Michaelhouse’s kitchen fire, and allowed her to fuss over him. He accepted yet another oatcake smeared with honey, and washed it down with the cup of ale that she had placed at his elbow. Next to the cup was a small dish of roasted nuts and a wizened pomegranate.

‘Where did these come from?’ he asked, shovelling a handful of the nuts into his mouth.

‘I bought them from the market,’ replied Agatha evasively. She picked up the pomegranate and studied it curiously. ‘Just look at this peculiar thing! Have you ever seen its like?’

‘What is it?’ asked Michael, taking it from her and inspecting its rough pinkish-yellow skin with deep suspicion. ‘You do not expect me to eat it do you?’

‘It is a pomegranate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have never seen one in England before.’

‘What do you propose we do with it?’ asked Michael, tossing it to him and taking another handful of nuts.

‘You can eat the fruit, or make it into a drink. The seeds can be used as a preservative,’ Bartholomew answered. He threw it back to Michael. ‘But we have more important things to be discussing than pomegranates. Like what happened to you.’

‘That was outrageous!’ muttered Agatha indignantly. ‘What is the town coming to?’

Bartholomew sat on a stool near the fire and began to poke at the flames with a stick. ‘Tell me again,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

Michael gave a great sigh. ‘Not again, Matt! I am too tired.’

‘He has told you once already,’ said Agatha, prodding Bartholomew in the back with a spoon handle. ‘The poor lad needs to rest.’

‘We will never get to the bottom of this if we rest!’ shouted Bartholomew, standing so abruptly that the stool went skittering across the kitchen floor.

Michael and Agatha gazed at him, startled. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, retrieved the stool and sat again.

‘Sorry, Agatha,’ he mumbled. ‘But we must reason this out before anyone else comes to harm.’

Agatha continued to stare. She had known the mild-mannered physician since he had come to take up his post as Master of Medicine at Michaelhouse nine years before and, during all that time, he had never once raised his voice to her. She had heard him shouting at his students from time to time, but he did so far less than the other Fellows, and it was usually frustration with their speed of learning rather than genuine anger. But it had been anger that had prompted him to yell at her now.

He twisted round when she did not reply, and saw the hurt expression on her rounded features. He was surprised. Agatha won, and maintained, her position of power over the other College servants on her claim that she was more of a man than any of them or any of the scholars. It was an assertion none was brave enough to dispute, and she ruled the domestic side of the College with a ruthless efficiency no one dared question. Even the forceful fanatic Father William had never won an argument with Agatha, yet Bartholomew had silenced her with a few words.

He rubbed at his hair again and stood with a sigh. ‘Sorry, Agatha,’ he said again. ‘I should not have shouted at you.’ He took her arm and brought her over to the fire. While she descended ponderously onto the stool, he sat on the edge of the hearth, oblivious to the occasional sparks that spat from the damp wood and burned small holes in his tabard.

‘You are worried about Matilde!’ said Agatha with sudden insight.

‘No!’ he protested, embarrassed that she had so adeptly read his thoughts. ‘It is this entire business. Philius brutally murdered, and now this attack on Michael …’

Michael leaned forward and tapped Bartholomew gently on the head with a fat, white forefinger. ‘But it failed,’ he said soothingly. ‘And I am fine.’

‘He needs another oatcake,’ said Agatha, struggling up from the stool to fetch him one.

‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, looking at Michael’s ample girth and hauling her back down. ‘He needs to lose some weight. If you feed him much more, one day you will find him unable to get out of that chair of yours.’

Agatha screeched with laughter, a familiar sound that echoed around Michaelhouse’s yard several times each day. Michael smiled, too, and settled himself back comfortably.

‘Once again, then,’ he said, folding his hands across his stomach. ‘I was approaching All Saints’ Church on my way to see Matilde, when an ill-dressed villain came racing towards me from the direction of the Great Bridge. I took no notice, thinking it to be some apprentice late for his chores, but, as he drew nearer, I saw his eyes were fixed on me with more than a passing interest. He had a knife in his hand, and as he collided with me, he attempted to stab me with it. As you know, I am not a small man, and not easily tumbled to the ground. And more drunken students have taken swings at me with weapons than I care to remember. This little chap did not stand a chance. I wrested the knife from him, but then he was away, and was too quick for me to follow.’

Agatha pursed her lips and she shook her head disapprovingly. ‘That was why the Death came!’

Bartholomew stared at her, somewhat taken aback. ‘Because Michael is too fat to chase the man who tried to kill him?’

Agatha shot him a long-suffering look. ‘Of course not! Because of sinful acts – murders and ambushes and people riding horses too fast along the High Street. That was why the pestilence came in the first place, and that is why it is only a matter of time before it returns. You mark my words! Those of you who are not God’s chosen should beware.’

‘And why do you think you are God’s chosen and not us?’ asked Bartholomew warily. He had heard a good many explanations for why the plague had swept across the country, but reckless riding had not usually been among them.

Agatha drew herself up to her full height. ‘Because I walked daily among the victims of the pestilence and I was not struck down,’ she said grandly. ‘I did not die!’

‘But we did not die either,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And neither did the maniac who tried to stab me.’

There was silence as Agatha digested this, and Michael took the opportunity to continue with his tale.

‘I went to All Saints’ Hostel to recover with a drop of mulled wine, while Cynric tried to pursue this lout. But Cynric had been too far behind to start with – he had met that woman of his from Stanmore’s house, and had dallied talking with her – and he lost my would-be killer in the Market Square. We slipped out of the back door of All Saints’ to continue to Matilde’s house. Cynric is certain we were not followed and so am I. When we left Matilde’s, we went back through All Saints’ Hostel and emerged through the front door, so that anyone watching will have assumed we were there the entire time.’

‘These smugglers are clever and resourceful,’ said Bartholomew, biting his lower lip. ‘It was a stupid idea to leave Dame Pelagia with Matilde. Now neither of them is safe.’

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘They will be perfectly all right. Now Tulyet has the list of names from Dame Pelagia, we will not need to visit them again until this is over.’

‘That is what he is cross about!’ said Agatha with another ear-shattering howl of laughter. ‘Where will he spend his nights now that Matilde’s house is out of bounds?’

‘Agatha!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘What are you saying?’

‘All these night visits to people with winter fever,’ leered Agatha. ‘Likely story!’

‘But it is true!’ protested Bartholomew, horrified to feel himself blushing. ‘Matilde and I have never …’

He faltered and Agatha guffawed again. Michael came to his rescue.

‘Now, what about Philius? Agatha, more oatcakes, please. And do you have a little bacon fat to spread on them?’