A Deadly Brew (42 page)

‘I am sorry for Gray,’ said Bartholomew, coming to a decision and meeting Harling’s eyes. ‘But I will not tell you what you want to know.’

For a moment, Harling and Bartholomew regarded each other without moving. And then both moved suddenly. As Harling lunged at Bartholomew with the knife, Bartholomew dived under its blade, grabbed Harling around the knees and twisted to one side. The two men tumbled to the ground, spray flying high as they hit the sodden grass. Harling’s dagger glinted once in the dull light of the late afternoon and then plunged downwards.

Chapter 11

Bartholomew saw Harling’s knife flash above his head, and twisted sideways so that it plunged harmlessly into the mud. He grabbed Harling’s wrist as the Vice-Chancellor raised his arm to try again, flinching away when he saw the knife begin to descend a second time, inching inexorably towards him as Harling leaned all of his weight behind it. Bartholomew suddenly pulled downwards and to one side, so that Harling was thrown off balance and the weapon went cartwheeling away to land somewhere out of sight.

Immediately, Harling leapt at him again, hands clawing at his clothes as he tried to haul the physician towards the churning river. Startled by the ferocity of the attack, Bartholomew could do little more than fend off the blows, trying to prevent the enraged Vice-Chancellor from gaining a good hand-hold. His feet skidded in the thick, cloying mud near the water’s edge as he felt himself being dragged towards it. Not far away, the great mill wheel pounded and thumped through the racing river, the hiss of the fast-flowing current almost drowned out by the creak and groan of the protesting wood. And then Bartholomew realised exactly what Harling intended to do with him.

He knew the miller would not run the wheel while the river was flooded, and could think only that Harling had managed to start it before he had captured his prey in the churchyard outside Peterhouse: even if Bartholomew were stabbed, the wheel would destroy any evidence that his death was anything other than an appalling accident.

They were at the water’s edge, so close that Bartholomew could feel the breeze of it passing almost underneath his head. Another few inches and he would be under, helpless while Harling held him below the surface until he drowned. With a strength made great by fear, he struggled with all his might, succeeding in partly dislodging Harling’s grip on his cloak so that he was able to rise to his feet. Harling reacted quickly, hooking a foot behind Bartholomew’s legs, so that the physician fell flat on his back. Before he could move, Harling had pounced, and sat astride him, seizing two handfuls of his hair to force his head down towards the water.

Bartholomew felt icy fingers of river touch the back of his scalp and struggled for all he was worth. But Harling was strong, and Bartholomew felt himself beginning to weaken. Above him, he could see the grin of tense concentration on Harling’s face as he leaned forward, intending to use the weight of his body to press Bartholomew under the water. With all his remaining strength, the physician brought both knees up as hard as he could, at the same time grabbing Harling’s tabard and pulling on it. With a yelp of surprise, Harling, his balance already precarious, sailed clean over Bartholomew’s head and landed with a splash in the river.

For a moment, Bartholomew could do nothing but stare up at the dirty grey clouds that gathered overhead, but then he forced himself to sit up. At first, he thought the Vice-Chancellor must have already been swept away to be crushed under the great wheel, but then he glimpsed something white, and he saw Harling gripping the long grass at the side of the river, looking up at Bartholomew in a mute appeal for help. Revolted, Bartholomew gazed back at the man who had admitted to killing poor, helpless Philius, and who had unleashed the vile substance on the town that had provoked such bitter accusations and treachery.

‘For God’s sake!’ Harling cried piteously, his teeth chattering with cold and fear. ‘Help me!’

‘Where is Gray?’ asked Bartholomew, edging nearer, aware that their struggles had weakened the bank, and that it might collapse at any moment and send them both away down the river towards the waterwheel and certain death.

‘Help me and I will tell you,’ pleaded Harling. ‘Please hurry!’ Terrified, he stretched one hand towards Bartholomew, clinging to the grass with the other.

Bartholomew stared at it. ‘Where is Gray?’ he demanded again, aware that Harling’s left hand was sliding slowly, but inexorably, down the stems as the river tugged at him.

‘I will tell you when I am out,’ Harling shouted desperately. ‘If you do not help me, you will never find him, and he will die. Hurry, for God’s sake!’

Moving closer to the edge, Bartholomew crouched down and reached out until Harling could grip his outstretched hand. And then the Vice-Chancellor pulled as hard as he could. Tumbling forwards, Bartholomew snatched at the weeds on the bank, trying to tear his arm from Harling’s murderous hold. He grabbed a fistful of stalks, but heard them tearing from the ground as Harling braced both feet against the bank and yanked as hard as he could on Bartholomew’s hand.

And then Bartholomew’s glove began to slip loose. He saw Harling’s look of horror, as first one finger, and then another, came free. Then the rest flew off with a rush, and Bartholomew caught a fleeting glimpse of Harling’s disbelieving face before the Vice-Chancellor was swept away by the current. Bartholomew fell backwards onto the bank, trying to shut out the sound of the thumping waterwheel, and hoping he imagined the slight change in its tempo and pitch at about the time Harling would have reached it.

Shaking almost uncontrollably, he sat up and scanned the river for Harling, but the Vice-Chancellor was nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew did not feel able to look for the body he knew he would find squashed and battered further downstream: it would not be the first time he had seen a corpse crushed by the waterwheel, and he knew it would not be a pleasant sight. In sudden disgust, he tore off his other glove, and threw that in the river, too.

Thinking of nothing but of finding Gray, he snatched up his damaged bag, and began to run along the river path towards Michaelhouse. Dusk was falling when he reached the College, and he made straight for the student’s room. He flung open the door and sagged against the wall in relief when the astonished faces of Gray and Bulbeck looked up at him. Gray leapt to his feet when he saw the dishevelled, muddy state of his teacher.

‘What happened to you?’ he exclaimed, drawing Bartholomew inside and closing the door. ‘You look as though you have been rolling around in the mud near the river!’

Bartholomew glanced at him sharply, but Gray was already tipping some dirty clothes from a stool so that Bartholomew could sit down, and he supposed Gray’s remark was a chance one. He sank down on the stool, while Bulbeck regarded him dubiously from his bed. Gray handed the physician a cup of warm milk, and Bartholomew had drunk most of it before he realised it was probably something Agatha had sent to aid Bulbeck’s recovery.

‘You are unharmed, Sam?’ he asked Gray anxiously. ‘Nothing has happened to you?’

‘I am fine,’ said Gray, but then exchanged an unreadable glance with Bulbeck.

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, a cold, uneasy feeling fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

‘I went out to buy a candle,’ began Gray. ‘Deynman stayed here to take care of Tom.’ He exchanged another uncertain look with Bulbeck.

‘Where is Deynman now?’ said Bartholomew, sitting bolt upright and looking around the room as though he imagined Deynman might appear from under the bed or out of the chest.

‘A message came for me to attend one of the people with winter fever,’ said Gray, ‘but since I was out, Deynman wanted to go in my place.’

‘I tried to stop him,’ said Bulbeck. ‘But he insisted, even though you have instructed that he is not to attend patients without you.’

Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘Where is he? Did he not come back?’

The two students shook their heads. ‘He has been gone for ages,’ said Gray. ‘The curfew bell will ring soon and we are worried about him.’

‘Oh no!’ groaned Bartholomew. He closed his eyes in despair. Gray was safe, but Harling had Deynman instead, and Harling’s companions would surely kill him in retaliation for Bartholomew’s refusal to reveal the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia. But, then, perhaps they would not even know where Harling had secreted him, and with Harling dead, Deynman might never be found – just as Harling had claimed. He fought to bring his appalled imaginings under control.

‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Whatever happens, do not leave Michaelhouse. If anyone asks you to run an errand, say Tom is too ill to be left. Do you promise?’

The two students nodded. ‘But where is Rob?’ asked Gray. ‘What has happened to him?’

‘I will try to find out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Will you give me your word that you will stay here?’

Gray nodded impatiently. ‘We have already said we will. Do not worry about us, just find Rob. He owes me three silver pennies.’

Bartholomew’s only thought was to search Harling’s room at Physwick Hostel first and then his office at St Mary’s Church. He set off across the yard at a run, and almost collided with Michael and two beadles, returning from Valence Marie. Michael caught him by the arm as he made to rush past.

‘Matt!’ he exclaimed. He looked his friend up and down in horror. ‘What has happened to you? We were only gone a short while. How have you managed to end up in such a mess?’

‘Harling has Deynman,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, trying to tear himself free of Michael. ‘I must find him.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Michael. ‘Harling?’

‘Harling has been smuggling,’ said Bartholomew impatiently, desperate to begin his search for Deynman. ‘He kidnapped Rob, and said he would kill him if I did not reveal the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia.’

Michael’s eyes went round with shock. ‘Matt! You did not tell him?’

‘Of course I did not!’ snapped Bartholomew.

‘Are you sure Deynman has gone with Harling, and is not just off in a tavern somewhere?’ asked Cynric, emerging from some shadows where he had apparently been listening. ‘It would not be the first time.’

‘No, I am not sure. But he is not in his room, and Gray and Bulbeck are worried about him, so I can only assume Harling captured him.’

‘Harling!’ said Michael, with a glint of amusement in his green eyes. ‘No wonder he discouraged me from having dealings with the Sheriff, and gave you his permission not to help me with my inquiries. Crafty old devil!’

‘This is not a game!’ yelled Bartholomew in frustration. ‘Deynman might be in danger. He might even be dead. And meanwhile, Harling’s companions are out searching for Dame Pelagia, so do not look so complacent.’

Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘I apologise, Matt. Now, you cannot go out looking like that. I assume you mean to search Harling’s room at Physwick Hostel or his office at the church? Well you will not get past the porters dressed like a beggar. Put on a clean tabard and wipe the filth from your face. And while you do so, you can tell me what happened.’

Bartholomew shot a despairing look at the gate, but Cynric blocked his path. ‘Brother Michael is right, boy,’ he said gently. ‘No porter would open the gates for you while you are so covered in filth.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew went to his room and stripped off his dirty tabard and cloak. While he scrubbed the thick, peaty mud from his face and hair, and Cynric sat cross-legged on the floor and mended his bag, Bartholomew told them what had happened. Michael immediately summoned his two beadles, drinking ale in the kitchen with Agatha, and ordered them to make a search of the river near the King’s Mill for Harling’s body.

‘Harling could never have survived going down the mill race,’ said Cynric. ‘He is dead. And if he is dead, he cannot harm Deynman.’

‘But he is not so foolish as to keep a student locked in his hostel or his office,’ mused Michael. ‘He could not possibly keep such a thing secret. We will have to look elsewhere for Deynman.’

‘Such as where?’ asked Bartholomew helplessly, not having the faintest idea where to begin.

‘Such as one of the smugglers’ haunts,’ said Michael. ‘But to find out where those are, we will need to question the smugglers.’

‘Harling claimed you had not given Tulyet the names of the smugglers Dame Pelagia knew,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at Michael as he scrubbed at his wet hair with a piece of linen.

Michael shrugged and stared out of the window. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched.

‘I assured him you went with Cynric out of the back door of All Saints’ Hostel, so that no one would know where you were going,’ he said, staring hard at Michael. ‘And that you learned the names of the smugglers from Dame Pelagia, and passed them to Tulyet.’

Cynric looked uncomfortable. ‘All Saints’ does not have a back door, boy,’ he said. ‘When was this supposed to have happened?’

Bartholomew gazed at Michael accusingly. ‘You said you had been to get the smugglers’ names from your grandmother!’ he said in a low voice.

Michael gnawed at his lower lip nervously. ‘I can explain that. It is not how it appears.’

‘You lied to me,’ whispered Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Just like Harling said you did.’

‘I was afraid for her!’ shouted Michael angrily, as he leapt to his feet in Bartholomew’s room, driven to rage by the physician’s accusations of dishonesty. ‘And for Matilde, too, if you want the truth. I knew we were being followed and so did Cynric, and I was not sure we would be able to throw them off. The last thing I wanted to do was to lead these men straight to my grandmother and your woman!’

‘I am not questioning that!’ Bartholomew yelled back. ‘I am questioning why you lied to me. I would have understood perfectly if you had explained why you did not go to Matilde’s house. Why did you feel the need to lie?’

‘Because I already knew the names of some of these smugglers, and I did not want to tell you how I came by them,’ said Michael, more quietly.

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew coldly, pulling on the tabard Cynric handed him. ‘So I am good enough company when it comes to examining bodies for you and being attacked in the Fens, but I am not to be trusted with anything more sensitive!’

‘That is not true, Matt,’ said Michael wearily. ‘I would trust you with my life and well you know it. The reason I did not tell you the truth was that …’ His voice petered off into silence.

‘Well?’ demanded Bartholomew, hunting around in the semi-darkness for his boots. Cynric had fetched a candle from Michael’s room and so there was a little light. ‘What is this great reason?’

‘That the information came from Edith,’ said Michael softly.