A Deadly Brew (37 page)

He turned to Eligius, whose eyes were closed, as if in prayer. For the third time since their dramatic entry, there was a heavy silence as everyone waited for him to give Michael permission to take Thorpe away. Thorpe swallowed hard as Bartholomew looked more closely at Eligius, and then he darted past them, aiming for the door and freedom. Bartholomew dived at him, and both went tumbling to the floor. Thorpe scratched, kicked and bit like an animal as Bartholomew fought to pin him down. The Countess leapt to her feet.

‘For God’s sake!’ she exclaimed in angry exasperation. ‘Eligius has just proved the boy’s innocence: Bingham killed poor Grene and there is an end to it. Eligius? Order Brother Michael and this brawling physician to leave my presence at once. I will not be insulted in this way!’

‘Eligius will not be ordering anything ever again,’ gasped Bartholomew, still struggling with Thorpe. ‘He is dying.’

It was not until much later that Bartholomew and Michael were able to leave Valence Marie and go to make their report to Harling. He listened to their description of events in silence.

‘So,’ he said, when Michael had finished. ‘Thorpe maintains the whole affair was Grene’s idea?’

Michael nodded, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. ‘He says he fled to Grene – his father’s best friend – when Will Harper died from the poisoned wine. Apparently, Thorpe and Harper liked to drink together – Stanmore disapproves of his apprentices frequenting taverns and had forbidden Thorpe to meet his cousin on pain of dismissal from his service. When Harper died on Stanmore’s premises, Thorpe was afraid he would be sacked for disobedience – or, worse, that he would be accused of his cousin’s murder. Thorpe described Harper’s quick, and seemingly painless, death to Grene, and Grene conceived the notion of revenge for them both.’

He rubbed his chin, and continued. ‘According to Philius, Grene was dying anyway, and had very little to lose. His death at the installation was not as painless as Thorpe had probably led him to believe it would be, but the rest of the plan went perfectly. Over the previous week, Grene made claims to three other Fellows that he was in fear of his life from Bingham, including to Father Eligius on the eve of his death. The scene was set: Grene died; Bingham was arrested for his murder; Grene was avenged for his defeat; and Rob had struck a blow against the College that he felt had wronged his father over the business of the false relic.’

Harling swallowed hard. ‘And this Rob Thorpe is just seventeen, you say? Yet he plotted all this murder and mayhem?’

Michael shrugged. ‘With Grene’s help. But perhaps he is not wholly without hope. Edith Stanmore told us he has been having nightmares over the last month or so, and all that time he spent in St Botolph’s Church – such as when we thought he had fled to his accomplice – must count for something. He was clearly suffering from remorse.’

‘But not enough to prevent him from attempting to murder the Countess,’ remarked Bartholomew, recalling Thorpe’s gloating expression when Edith and Stanmore had prevented Bartholomew from hauling him off to the Proctors’ cells after he had gone to inspect Egil’s mutilated corpse.

Harling was silent, shaking his head slowly and looking down at his ink-stained table. ‘What bitterness,’ he said at last. ‘I, too, lost an election, but it never occurred to me to poison myself so that Tynkell would be blamed for my murder.’

‘But you are not fatally ill,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Harling began to speak again before Bartholomew could moderate his remark so it did not sound as if he believed Harling might well have conceived such a plan given the right conditions.

‘So circumstances were simply opportune,’ mused the Vice-Chancellor. ‘The poisoned wine coming into Thorpe’s possession merely provided Grene with an opportunity for revenge that he had been considering for some time.’

‘So it would seem,’ said Michael, standing and walking to the window. ‘And it might have worked, had Thorpe left the town quietly after the installation as he had promised Grene he would. But Bingham’s arrest was not enough for him. He decided to commit one last act of vengeance before leaving Cambridge to join his father in York.’

‘The Countess?’ asked Harling.

Michael nodded. ‘But by this stage he had no more of Sacks’s wine left: one of his bottles had killed his cousin and then been stolen by Isaac; the other he had used to kill Grene.’ He gestured that Bartholomew should continue.

‘Father Philius’s medical notes showed that he had prescribed a powerful opiate for Grene to use should the pain of his illness become too great. Thorpe confessed to Michael that he took this from Grene’s room after the installation. He then mixed all of it with the wine he planned to serve the Countess when she visited Valence Marie.’

‘So this was premeditated,’ said Harling sadly. ‘Thorpe planned to murder the Countess as long ago as last Saturday.’

Michael nodded. ‘I imagine he was encouraged by the ease with which he helped Grene to his death, and so decided to try it once again. And his reason, of course, was that by murdering Valence Marie’s benefactor, he would assure the College’s dissolution. His bag was already packed so that he could flee the moment he saw the Countess swallow the wine. He was appalled when Eligius drank it, and probably anticipated that he would keel over immediately.’

‘And he did not?’ asked Harling. ‘Not like Grene?’

‘No,’ answered Bartholomew. ‘This opiate is slower acting and less dramatic than the poison in the wine Sacks sold him. By the time we realised there was something wrong, it was too late to do anything to save Eligius. He had fallen into a deep sleep and could not be roused. His breathing grew shallower and slower until it stopped completely; he died about an hour ago.’

‘So Eligius’s faith in Grene’s claims and his belief in Bingham’s guilt, brought about his own death?’ asked Harling.

‘I suppose it might be viewed like that,’ said Michael. He sat back down on the wall bench so heavily that Bartholomew was forced to grab the table lest he be catapulted from the other end. ‘But let us not forget the role the relic played in all this.’

‘Ah, yes. The relic,’ said Harling heavily. ‘I wish to God that foul thing had never been found. It has been nothing but trouble ever since it emerged from the foul black mud of the King’s Ditch. If I were Chancellor, I would throw it back, where it can do no more harm.’

‘Eligius was convinced that the relic was genuine – as was Grene,’ said Michael. ‘Bingham, on the other hand, has the sense to see it for what it really is – a monstrous fraud foisted on the town by an evil man. Part of Eligius’s conviction that Bingham killed Grene stemmed from that, despite the fact that it was an illogical conclusion to draw.’

‘Even great minds like Eligius’s can be confounded when it comes to matters of faith,’ said Harling. ‘He told Chancellor Tynkell and me that he sensed an aura of holiness emanating from the relic, and that its purity and goodness touched his soul. It is difficult to argue with someone who has convictions like that.’

Bartholomew recalled Eligius standing with him and Michael as they inspected Grene’s body, and the fleeting expression of remorse that had crossed his face. It was not simply faith in Grene’s claims nor belief in Bingham’s guilt, nor even his total conviction that the relic was holy, that had prompted him to drink the Countess’s wine: it was his own troubled conscience – that Grene had come to him with his fears and he had done nothing about them. Bartholomew was sure that Eligius held himself responsible for Grene’s death, which explained why he had initiated his own quest to have Bingham indicted of his murder. He had even gone to the Sheriff and made out a case for Bingham’s arrest, because he felt he could not wait for the Senior Proctor to return from dealing with the burglary at St Clement’s Hostel.

Harling sighed. ‘I am certain poor Master Thorpe knows nothing of his son’s plans for revenge,’ he said. ‘There is some talk that the King has regretted his hasty decision in removing Thorpe from the Mastership, and is considering reinstating him. He will be aghast when he hears what his son has done.’

Bartholomew felt sick at the futility of it all. ‘Please do not tell Edith Master Thorpe might be reinstated. All this is hard enough for her to accept without the knowledge that Rob’s drive to avenge his father’s unjust treatment was all for nothing.’

Harling and Michael were silent, so that Bartholomew wondered whether his request had already come too late. For all he knew, Master Thorpe was already riding south to reclaim his post as head of Valence Marie.

Michael stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘So, Rob Thorpe is lodged in the Proctors’ gaol, the Countess is safe, and Bingham is freed from his cell in the castle. But we still do not know how Sacks came by this poisonous wine.’

‘We know it must be related to the smuggling in the Fens,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hopefully, we will find out who was responsible when Tulyet arrests the contrabanders.’

‘And then there is still the missing bottle,’ said Michael. ‘Sacks had six and we only know what happened to five of them.’

‘Perhaps Thorpe had three, not two,’ said Harling, patting his greased hair with both hands.

‘I do not believe so,’ said Michael. ‘Or I imagine he would have used the last one on the Countess, instead of resorting to the unknown qualities of Grene’s medicine. I think we have yet to discover the fate of the sixth bottle.’

Chapter 10

Bearing in mind Harling’s disapproval of his working relationship with the Sheriff, Michael informed the Vice-Chancellor that they were going to advise Stanmore of Thorpe’s arrest, rather than that he planned to visit the castle. Stanmore already knew about Thorpe: he had been waiting for them when they eventually emerged from Valence Marie and had gone to take the news to Edith. Some of the relief Bartholomew had felt, that Thorpe no longer represented a threat to his family, evaporated when he saw the slump in Stanmore’s shoulders and his grey face.

Tulyet was sitting at a table in his room in the great keep, reading a sheaf of hastily scribbled notes. He stood as they were shown in, and offered them stools near the fire.

‘What a day!’ he exclaimed, sitting again with a sigh. ‘I have been questioning those I have arrested since dawn, and then there was that unpleasant affair of the body in the well.’

‘And?’ asked Michael, stretching his feet towards the blaze. ‘Are you too busy or too weary to waste time in idle conversation with scholars?’

‘And nothing,’ said Tulyet gloomily. ‘The smugglers in my prison have told me the identities of a few other Fenmen and the locations of one or two trading routes, but I am really no further forward than I was before.’

Michael gazed at him in disbelief. ‘But that is not possible! My informant risked her life to provide you with those names I gave you. Let me question these smugglers – I will find out what you are lacking.’

‘You will not, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘And you will not because I honestly believe they have already told me all they know. The names you gave me are men at the lowest possible level, and a long way from the evil minds who are controlling all this.’

‘I have been thinking about this smuggling,’ said Bartholomew, staring at the flames flickering over the white-hot logs in the hearth. ‘There must be two independent operations.’

‘Yes?’ said Tulyet, regarding him intently. ‘Go on. We are listening.’

‘It is generally known around the town that smuggling has been taking place along the waterways for many years,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘It is a way of life for some Fenmen, and it provides a service to the town to which the authorities usually turn a blind eye. But, of late, the goods have not been trickling in surreptitiously: they have been flooding in, and anyone can buy exotic goods on the black market. You have assumed that the smugglers have suddenly become greedy and incautious, but it is their livelihood and I think they are unlikely to risk it so openly.’

‘I came to the same conclusion myself,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘It is encouraging to hear that you have been thinking along the same lines. I believe the unseasonably warm weather and flooded channels have attracted others to try their hand. The men I have in my cells are of the old breed – those who pilot the odd shipment of cloth, grain or spices through the Fens. The men who are bringing in these lemons and figs are using the same routes, but are doing so on a much grander scale.’

He paced back and forth in the small room, pulling at his beard.

‘I am certain the men I arrested confessed everything they knew, but they were unable to tell us anything about the attacks on the travellers on our roads – including the one on you – and very little about the sudden surfeit of goods on the black market. I decided to risk all and speak to the men who are benefiting from this additional trade: I managed to frighten old Master Cheney into telling me where his extra spices had come from.’

‘And they came via the Fens?’ asked Michael, twisting round to look at the Sheriff. When Tulyet nodded, Michael turned back to the fire again. ‘Deschalers virtually admitted as much to us when we took Julianna to him. He said he was unaware that smuggling was taking place around Denny – suggesting that he clearly knew smuggling was taking place elsewhere.’

Tulyet said nothing and Bartholomew noticed the rings of tiredness under his eyes.

‘So what is wrong, Dick?’ he asked. ‘What is stopping you from simply arresting all these people – Cheney and Deschalers and anyone else who is profiting from this illegal trading?’

Tulyet closed his eyes and pulled at his beard again. ‘While the King can be expected to overlook a little illicit trade – the odd casket of claret or consignment of wool – he cannot be expected to ignore smuggling when it has become so flagrant, and when it involves robbery and violence.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘Arrest the lot of them – anyone who is involved at any level. Do you know who they all are?’

Tulyet scrubbed at his face. ‘I am fairly certain the men in my cells gave me the names of most of the Fenmen, and once Master Cheney had started to bare his soul, it was almost impossible to stop him telling me who was flooding the black market with smuggled fruit and other goods. Then Constantine Mortimer, rather rashly, came to see why the Sheriff was taking such a long time at his neighbour’s house, and I terrified him into telling me all he knew, too. Between them they named most of the people in the town who are involved in the smuggling.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, then? Why all the gloom? You said you had learned nothing from my informant’s disclosures. But it seems to me you have learned a great deal.’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘Your informant’s disclosures allowed me to arrest the Fenmen – the old breed of smuggler. It was the Masters Cheney and Mortimer who provided me with the names of all the people involved in the opportunistic trading that has taken place this winter.’

‘But that means you have the identities of everyone involved,’ persisted Michael. ‘The Fenmen
and
the opportunists. It hardly matters whether the information came from Dame Pelagia or your dishonest merchants. I do not see why you are not broaching a bottle of fine wine to celebrate your victory.’

His none-too-subtle hint fell on deaf ears, and Tulyet sighed, too engrossed in his worries to think about pandering to Michael’s greed. ‘Although I have the Fenmen in my cells and I can arrest the opportunists at my leisure, I still do not know which of them is responsible for the burglaries in the town and the ambushing of travellers on the roads – including who organised the attack on you.’

Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘But if you know who is profiting from the smuggling, arrest them all. One – or perhaps more – of them will be responsible for the burglaries and attacks. I do not see your problem, Dick. Who are these people, anyway – other than Mortimer and Cheney?’

Tulyet sat in his chair and leaned back to look up at the cracked plaster on the ceiling. ‘Where shall I begin? How about with Father Paul from Michaelhouse?’

Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘But that is not possible!’ he exclaimed. ‘Paul is blind!’

‘So?’ said Tulyet wearily. ‘One does not need to be able to see to order illegally imported goods and sell them at a profit.’

He looked pointedly at Bartholomew’s grey cloak. Bartholomew’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Michael laughed nervously and Tulyet continued.

‘Doctor Lynton from Peterhouse; James Grene – before he died; Robin of Grantchester; John Colton of Gonville.’ He looked at Bartholomew. ‘Oswald Stanmore.’

Bartholomew groaned and sank back down on the stool. Poor Stanmore! First his apprentice arrested for attempting to murder the Countess of Pembroke, and now he himself was to be charged with smuggling.

Tulyet continued remorselessly. ‘Michaelhouse is particularly guilty: Roger Alcote has amassed a fortune by selling silver buckles; John Runham has been importing gold leaf with which to decorate his cousin’s tomb–’

Michael grimaced. ‘Damn! I thought I had foiled his plans to impose that monstrosity on us by bribing the goldsmiths not to sell him any.’

Tulyet tilted his chair backwards and put his feet on the table. ‘I have not finished. Father William has arranged to be sent hair shirts as a surprise gift for his students at Easter; Samuel Gray – your student, I believe, Matt – has a thriving business selling anything he can lay his hands on.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. No wonder Gray had failed his disputation if he was spending most of his time running a lucrative import business!

‘What about Ralph de Langelee?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘He always has money to spend on drink. He must be involved.’

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Tulyet. ‘As far as I can tell, he and Master Kenyngham are about the only two Fellows in your College who are innocent in all this.’

‘I am innocent!’ protested Michael.

Tulyet eyed the heavy gold cross Michael had worn since the installation. ‘Are you, Brother? Then where did that handsome bauble come from? It is not the work of any local smith.’

‘That is none of your affair,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But since you ask, I acquired it perfectly legally from Haralda the Dane, who occasionally works with gold.’

Tulyet smiled and Bartholomew saw he did not believe a word Michael had said. ‘To continue: Jonas the Apothecary has ordered a feather bed for his wife’s bad back; Constantine Mortimer has been selling fine leather gloves from France to boost the profits he makes by selling bread.’ He gave Bartholomew’s hands a hard look. ‘But you already know that.’

‘These?’ asked Bartholomew, looking down at his gloves, aghast. ‘Mortimer gave me smuggled goods?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Do not feign shock with me, Matt. Mortimer is a baker. How do you imagine he came by gloves to sell?’

‘But I did not know,’ objected Bartholomew. He sounded feeble, even to his own ears, and had clearly not convinced Tulyet. Michael simply regarded him with sceptically raised eyebrows. ‘I did not buy them. Mortimer gave them to me.’

‘Of course he did,’ said Tulyet flatly. Michael still said nothing and the Sheriff continued. ‘Do you want to hear more? There is not a merchant, and scarcely a scholar, in the town who has not taken advantage of what the mild weather has to offer – except, it would seem, Thomas Deschalers.’

‘Deschalers?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘He must be involved – there are lemons wherever you look in the town.’

The Sheriff gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Deschalers really
has
discovered that keeping fruit in his cellars increases its lifespan. He stockpiled lemons in the summer, and is able to sell them at a profit now. Because he is doing so well at his legal trade, he has had no need to engage in illegal activities. I checked everything in his cellars and he has the proper licences for the lot.’

‘Deschalers was the one who set us thinking about smuggling in the first place,’ said Michael, shaking his head slowly. ‘How ironic!’

‘Father Yvo of Bernard’s Hostel has been making money to repair a leaking roof by hawking fine quality parchment, would you believe!’ Tulyet leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘He thinks the constant damp is the cause of melancholia in one of his students, and he wanted to mend it to make the young man feel better.’

‘Paul gave me half the money he made from his contraband cloaks for the victims stricken with winter fever,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the gold the friar had given him, ‘and he sent the rest to the Leper Hospital.’

Tulyet groaned. ‘It is one thing arresting half of Cambridge for committing crimes for their own gain; it is entirely another when they do it to help the sick and the poor. What in heaven’s name am I going to do? Seal off the town and present the entire population to the King? What a mess!’

‘Your position is not so impossible,’ said Michael thoughtfully. Tulyet looked at him hopefully. ‘The King will not want his prisons full of the town’s leading citizens – or scholars. Go to arrest your miscreants, but do not be discreet about it. You cannot arrest anyone unless you find smuggled goods in their possession, yes?’ Tulyet nodded and sat up straight. ‘Inform all your sergeants what you plan to do, and make sure everyone hears what you say. Then have a leisurely meal and go about your business. Anyone who does not have the sense to take the necessary precautions within the next hour or so deserves to be arrested anyway.’

‘You are right,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘The King will impose new taxes on the merchants when he hears of this, and they will be too grateful that they have escaped imprisonment – or worse – to complain. It is a perfect compromise!’

Michael sat back, his arms folded and a self-satisfied smile on his face. Bartholomew looked out of the window, wondering whether the town possessed a single honest citizen other than Kenyngham, Langelee and Deschalers – who was not involved only because he was doing rather better than usual legally.

‘Right,’ said Tulyet, rubbing his hands together. ‘After I have been home for something to eat and played a while with my young son, I will visit Constantine Mortimer. I have never liked him – he is hard on his wife Katherine and she is a kindly soul. Then I will see Oswald Stanmore and then Father Paul. Hopefully, by then the word will have spread.’

He gave the scholars an absent grin and went to make his announcement to the soldiers in the bailey. Bartholomew and Michael left him to make a conspicuous show of organising his surprise raids and began to walk back towards Michaelhouse. On the way they met Cynric and dispatched him to tell Father Paul to dispose of his smuggled cloaks, while Bartholomew went with Michael to warn Stanmore.

It was nearing dusk, and the apprentices were busy taking bales of cloth into the storerooms and tidying their tools away. Bartholomew sensed a light-heartedness that had been lacking before: Stanmore and Edith might grieve for Thorpe, but their apprentices certainly did not. Francis darted up to Michael and flashed him a grateful grin full of missing teeth, before racing off to help another boy close the storehouse doors. Stanmore emerged from his house, straining to read some jottings on a scrap of parchment. He stopped when he saw Bartholomew and Michael.

‘What has he done now?’ he asked with a weary sigh. ‘Has he accused me of ordering him to kill the Countess? Or Edith?’

‘We have not come about Rob Thorpe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet is arresting people who are thought to be involved in smuggling.’

Stanmore met his eyes levelly. ‘So I have heard. Are you implying I might be a smuggler?’