A Deadly Brew (6 page)

‘Your father will make a full recovery,’ said Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Edward. ‘His malady was a simple case of too many lemons.’

‘Lemons?’ queried Deschalers, perching on the edge of the table and tossing back his cloak to reveal the elegant cut of his clothes. ‘The lemons I sold him?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are a bitter fruit unless properly prepared.’

‘Ah,’ said Deschalers as a faint smile touched his handsome features. He needed to say no more because the implication was clear: anyone of gentle birth would have known how to prepare the costly fruits and Mortimer had inadvertently exposed his humble origins by his ignorance. He exchanged a superior glance with Cheney.

‘We thought it might be a case of this winter fever that has struck at the river people,’ he said, addressing Bartholomew again. ‘One of my servants was stricken yesterday.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I feel sure this fever has something to do with the well in Water Lane. Master Mortimer’s house has its own well.’

Deschalers was patently uninterested in issues of health. ‘Then can we expect Mortimer at the meeting of the town council next week, when we discuss our building plans for the town?’ he asked.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I do not see why not.’

‘Good,’ said Cheney. ‘We need him to help us finance the continuing construction of Bene’t’s.’

‘The College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary,’ corrected Deschalers, giving Cambridge’s newest College its full and official title. Most people referred to it simply as Bene’t’s because it was attached to St Bene’t’s Church by a slender corridor, like a cloister. ‘The only University College to be founded by townspeople and paid for with town money,’ the grocer added with an odd mixture of pride and smugness.

‘It is a fine building,’ said Bartholomew politely.

‘It will be the best College in Cambridge given time,’ claimed Deschalers, ‘and will be a noble memorial to the men of the Guild of Corpus Christi and the Guild of St Mary who endowed it.’

As they had been speaking, Deschalers’s eyes had been roving around the hall, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that the grocer was looking for someone more influential with whom to talk. Bartholomew watched as Deschalers suddenly became aware of the intense conversation between Oswald Stanmore and the Master of Gonville Hall. The grocer’s eyes narrowed. He nodded a brusque farewell to Bartholomew and was away towards them, weaving his way between the revellers and expertly avoiding slopping, wine-filled goblets and hurled pieces of food. Cheney hastened after him, but lacked his colleague’s agility, and his progress was marked by a profusion of apologies and spillages. Edward escaped from them with relief and went to talk to some of Valence Marie’s students.

‘Look at James Grene!’ exclaimed Langelee, suddenly grabbing Bartholomew’s arm with a hot, heavy hand and pointing at the high table. ‘Now there is the face of a man who believes he has been cheated out of his rightful position as Master of Valence Marie!’

Bartholomew looked to where Langelee indicated and saw what he meant. While all around him his colleagues threw themselves into the spirit of the occasion with laughter and good humour, Grene leaned back moodily in his chair on the dais. Bartholomew saw him take a hefty gulp of wine, noted the redness of his face and drew the conclusion that while Grene might not be enjoying the festivities, he was certainly availing himself of the refreshments provided by his victorious rival.

Michael roared with laughter. ‘I made a wise decision to stay away from Valence Marie, my friends!’ he shouted, raising his cup in a slopping toast. ‘Here is to Michaelhouse!’

‘Michaelhouse!’ yelled Langelee in reply, standing to crash his own brimming goblet into Brother Michael’s.

‘Have a care!’ warned Bartholomew, looking to where several other guests were eyeing them with disapproval. ‘We should not risk offending members of Valence Marie in their own hall.’

‘Where lies the risk?’ bellowed the belligerent Langelee, slamming his cup down on the table. ‘Are you so lily-livered that you will not fight for your College?’

Bartholomew regarded him coldly. ‘I should not want to set that kind of example to my students and I suggest you should not either.’

‘Example!’ sneered Langelee, leaning towards Bartholomew and wafting alcoholic fumes into his face. ‘The example you set them is one of foolishness! All this washing of hands and clean rushes on the floor.’ He spat viciously. ‘What do you think we are, mewling babes?’

Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘This feast will end in violence soon. I am leaving.’ He stood, but Langelee grabbed the front of his gown and jolted him back down. Bartholomew felt a surge of anger, but before he could react Michael had intervened.

‘Fight him and you fight me,’ said the monk, knocking Langelee’s hand from Bartholomew’s robe. ‘And fight me, Master Langelee, and I will see you spend the next three nights in the Proctors’ gaol.’

Langelee opened his mouth to reply, but was silent when Michael’s unsmiling expression penetrated his befuddled mind. He glowered at Bartholomew briefly, before turning his back on them and beginning a discussion with Roger Alcote to his left. Fortunately, Alcote had the foolish grin on his face that told Bartholomew, familiar with the Senior Fellow’s habits, that he was drunk to the verge of insensibility and could take no offence at anything Langelee might say to him.

Bartholomew flashed Michael a grateful smile and prepared to leave. At last, other guests were beginning to depart, drifting out in twos and threes as they made their farewells to the new Master of Valence Marie. As Bartholomew stepped forward to offer his congratulations to Bingham, there was a commotion further along the high table – shouts of alarm and the sound of chairs falling as people leapt to their feet. Imagining it to be another skirmish between Fellows made argumentative with too much wine, Bartholomew ignored it and hastened towards the door. Reluctantly, he stopped as he heard people calling his name.

Turning, he saw Grene lying across the table, his face a chalky white, while his hands scrabbled at his throat. Before Bartholomew could so much as take a step towards him, Grene gave a great groan and went limp. Bartholomew elbowed his way through the scholars who surrounded him, but could already see that there was little he could do. As he reached Grene and fumbled to loosen the clothes around his neck, he recalled how the scholar’s face had been flushed deep red with drink earlier, whereas now his complexion was bloodless. Bartholomew searched for a lifebeat in the great veins of the neck and felt it pulsing weakly. As he heaved Grene on to the floor and tried in vain to restore him to consciousness, Bartholomew glanced furtively at the table. There, lying on its side, was a thin, smoked-glass bottle, its contents flooding out across the table and dribbling onto the floor.

Michael shoved himself to the front of the ring of spectators, ordering them back to give Bartholomew room to work, aided by an officious young servant wearing a blue tunic.

‘Is it a seizure?’ Michael asked, leaning over to look at the dying scholar, his voice barely audible over the excited hubbub. ‘Was the strain of watching his rival installed too much for him?’

‘I cannot be certain,’ said Bartholomew, meeting Michael’s eyes steadily, ‘but I think Master Grene may have had an aversion to the wine.’

It was not long before the feeble pulse in Grene’s neck fluttered to nothing, and Bartholomew commandeered the servant in blue to help him carry the body to St Botolph’s Church. Michael accompanied them, all traces of his earlier intoxication vanished, while behind, the Fellows of Valence Marie clustered around their new Master and waited for him to tell them what to do next. Vice-Chancellor Harling had followed them and watched with his restless black eyes.

‘Well?’ Bingham demanded of Bartholomew, his uncertainty of how to deal with the situation making him uncharacteristically abrupt. ‘I assume it was the excitement of the day that killed him?’

‘I need to conduct a more thorough investigation of the body,’ said Bartholomew cautiously. Although the symptoms of Grene’s sudden demise and Armel’s had been virtually identical, he wanted to be absolutely certain before he made his suspicions public.

Bingham appeared flustered by his reply. ‘It was a seizure, surely? You said the wine had caused it. What will be gained from a more thorough investigation of the corpse now?’

Behind him, Bingham’s Fellows were silent, but Bartholomew saw their rapidly exchanged speculative glances. He suppressed a sigh of resignation, aware that in that moment rumours had been given life: Bingham’s surly rival for the Mastership had just died most conveniently and there would be few wagging tongues in the University community that would not gain some mileage from that fact.

Harling watched the exchange with cool interest, clearly unimpressed by Bingham’s poor handling of the first crisis of his incumbency. It was no secret that Grene had been one of Harling’s most ardent supporters during his campaign to be Chancellor. Bingham had immediately announced his vote would go to Tynkell, not because he considered Tynkell a better candidate – he, like virtually every other scholar in the University, knew nothing about Tynkell – but simply because the two contenders for the Mastership of Valence Marie seemed to feel obliged to oppose everything the other said or did. It must be gratifying, Bartholomew thought, for Harling to see the man who had campaigned against him to be placed in such an awkward and delicate position.

‘Doctor Bartholomew, as the University’s most senior physician, will conduct an examination of Grene’s body,’ said Harling smoothly, smiling at the new Master with what seemed to be more vindication than reassurance. ‘Just to establish beyond all doubt what we know to be true – that Master Grene died of a simple seizure brought on by disappointment.’

The uncertainty evident in his voice did more to fan the flames of mystery about the cause of Grene’s death than anything Bartholomew could have said. The Fellows looked at each other with renewed suspicions.

‘But what if it should be found that Grene’s death was not brought on by disappointment?’ asked one of the Fellows, a tall Dominican friar whom Bartholomew recognised as Father Eligius, Valence Marie’s most celebrated scholar. There was a murmur of consternation from the others.

‘And why should such a thing be found?’ asked Harling softly, addressing Father Eligius but then shifting his eyes to Bingham, who shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Far from suppressing the rumours that would soon begin to circulate, Harling’s meaningful look and Bingham’s response seemed to suggest that the Fellows had good cause to speculate.

‘That will be for the Senior Proctor to determine,’ said Eligius. Behind him, the other Fellows muttered and gazed worriedly at Michael, concerned, no doubt, that having the Senior Proctor investigate the death of one of their number would do their College’s reputation no good, thought Bartholomew uncharitably.

‘Indeed,’ said Harling politely. ‘And Brother Michael will do a thorough job, you can be certain.’ He regarded Bingham suspiciously again, before looking at Grene’s sheeted body.

The loaded conversation, thick with inner meanings and positively dripping innuendo, was becoming too much even for Michael. He took control.

‘Go back to your guests, Master Bingham,’ he said firmly, taking the new Master’s arm and leading him away. ‘Assure them that all is well and then arrange for a vigil to be mounted over Grene.’

Bingham hesitated, but then complied, evidently grateful to be given an escape route from a situation that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Vice-Chancellor Harling and the Valence Marie Fellows followed him out of the church, leaving Bartholomew and Michael alone. Michael closed the door as the last scholar left and came to stand near Bartholomew as he stared down at the corpse. Grene’s body lay on a trestle table in the chancel, draped with a darkly stained sheet that had evidently been used to cover the victims of violent death before. At his head and feet, the servant in blue had lit thick wax candles that cast long shadows around the chapel.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, his voice echoing in the silence. ‘Was he poisoned?’

Bartholomew took one of the candles and held it close to Grene’s face, inspecting it with a care he had been unable to exercise while watched by the dead man’s colleagues. Sure enough, Grene’s lips were blemished with small blisters, like the ones Bartholomew had noticed on Brother Armel. Giving the candle to Michael, he prised Grene’s mouth open and looked inside.

‘Good God! Look at this!’

Grene’s mouth was a mass of tiny white blisters that bled and oozed even after death. Michael glanced down and moved back quickly with an exclamation of disgust. Bartholomew forced Grene’s mouth open further and tried to inspect the back of his throat.

‘I cannot see,’ he complained. ‘Hold the candle nearer.’

‘What more do you need to see?’ protested Michael, keeping his eyes averted. ‘It is clear that he has been poisoned. And we both saw that the bottle was of the same kind as the one from which Armel drank.’

Bartholomew snatched the candle from Michael impatiently and resumed his examination. ‘No wonder death was instant!’ he exclaimed after a moment. ‘This poison has burned the skin at the back of the throat and the resulting swelling has closed it completely. Even if I had been able to force something into his throat to keep it open for air, he probably would have died when the poison reached his stomach. What a foul substance!’

‘Was it the same with Armel?’ asked Michael, noting with relief that Bartholomew had finished his repellent investigation and had closed the unfortunate Grene’s mouth.

‘I did not look,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I could not with all his friends watching me – you know how people react over such things. But I can look now.’

‘Not now,’ said Michael, nodding towards the unglazed windows. ‘It is dark and the curfew bell will sound soon. I take it Armel’s condition will not change overnight?’ Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Then tomorrow will be soon enough, when you have the daylight to help you.’