A Deadly Brew

Chapter 8

Although the death of a scholar was not the concern of the Sheriff, Tulyet went with Bartholomew and Michael as they hurried down Castle Hill towards Gonville Hall.

‘You seem to have most of your soldiers out in the Fens, Dick,’ said Michael. ‘Given that the outlaws have started to attack places in the town itself – the Round Church and poor little St Clement’s Hostel to name but two – perhaps you would be better advised to keep a few back to patrol the streets.’

‘Damn these villains!’ spat Tulyet in sudden anger. ‘What am I supposed to do? It is like looking for a needle in a haystack! Do I concentrate my searches on the Fens, or do I withdraw men, as you suggest, and look for them here? Your descriptions will help, but names would have been better.’

‘I think we can provide you with some of those,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I have an informant who knows the identities of several of these smugglers. The attack I was investigating on St Clement’s Hostel distracted me – I should have told you before now.’

Tulyet stopped walking abruptly, and seized the fat monk’s sleeve. ‘How have you come by such information?’ He shook his head quickly. ‘Never mind. Just give me the names.’

‘A nun has all the information you need,’ said Michael. ‘We brought her with us from Denny.’

‘Well, where is she? Can I speak with her now?’

‘I thought she would have passed this information to you on the way back from Denny,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant for a well-known public figure like the Sheriff to visit Matilde’s house and alert the outlaws to Dame Pelagia’s whereabouts. ‘She had plenty of time.’

‘Of course she did not,’ said Michael, treating Bartholomew to the kind of look that he normally reserved for students who made exceptionally stupid observations. ‘First, it would not have been wise to discuss such matters on an open trackway – who knows who might have been listening from among the bushes at the roadside? Second, the fewer the people privy to this kind of information, the better – what one does not know, one cannot be forced to tell – and, anyway, Julianna was with us a good deal of the way, and I did not want her knowing more than she already does. And, third, Dame Pelagia is an old lady and needed all her energy for walking. She did not have excess breath to be chattering with me.’

Bartholomew’s recollections of their journey suggested that it was probably Michael who had needed all his breath for walking, while Dame Pelagia had remained very sprightly, even at the end of the walk.

Tulyet made an impatient sound at their digression. ‘Never mind all that. I want to speak with her immediately!’

Michael shook his head. ‘I do not want anyone to know her whereabouts because I believe her to be in grave danger from these outlaws. I will ask her for the information and pass it to you as soon as we have finished with Father Philius.’

‘No,’ said Tulyet, hauling on Michael’s sleeve as he made to walk on. He gestured up at the sky. ‘If you tell me now, I can set about hunting these rogues immediately, while there is enough daylight. If you tell me later, I will have to wait until tomorrow, and by then who knows what might have happened? Go now. I will accompany Matt to see about Father Philius.’

Michael made as if to demur, but Tulyet stood firm. The Sheriff was right: the sooner the outlaws were rounded up, the sooner he, Bartholomew and Dame Pelagia would be safe. Michael nodded acquiescence, and headed off towards The Jewry. After a moment of hesitation, Cynric slipped away after him, and Bartholomew was reminded, yet again, what a dangerous position they were in.

A student was waiting outside Gonville Hall to conduct them to Father Philius’s room. In it, Master Colton paced back and forth, pulling at his beard in agitation, while Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Philius’s room looked as though a fierce wind had blown through it. Parchments were scattered everywhere, and the table and several stools had been overturned. The collection of fine crucifixes had gone, too – the hooks where they had hung were empty. As Bartholomew recovered himself, and walked towards the body that lay on the bed, glass and pottery crunched under his feet from the bottles and cups that had been shattered.

He knelt on the floor, and eased the dead scholar over onto his back. Philius’s eyes were wide open, there were traces of blood around his white lips, and his face revealed an expression of profound shock. Tulyet leaned over Bartholomew’s shoulder to look, and crossed himself hurriedly.

‘It seems to me that the evil humours, for which you treated Philius recently, must have burst from him,’ said Colton from the doorway as he watched. He gestured around the room. ‘He must have done all this in his death throes. We decided we should leave everything as we found it, so that you could be certain it was these evil humours that killed him. I cannot have lies circulating that Philius died in suspicious circumstances, not so soon after the rumours that he was poisoned by his own book-bearer. What will people think of us?’

Bartholomew stood up, and turned to face Colton.

‘But I think Father Philius has been murdered,’ he said quietly. He looked around the room. ‘And it seems he put up quite a fight.’

‘Murdered?’ echoed Colton nervously. ‘But that cannot be so! The porter heard and saw nothing, and these days – with the outlaws at large – we keep our gates locked during the day as well as the night.’

‘But he must have heard something,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Surely the sound of that table falling would have been audible from the porter’s lodge?’

‘Send for him,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘We shall see.’

With a long-suffering sigh, Colton hailed a passing student, and instructed him to fetch the porter.

‘We might know what happened for certain once I have looked more closely at Philius’s body,’ said Bartholomew. He crouched next to the dead Franciscan, and inspected his face. Colton reached past him and hauled the bed-cover up, so that it covered the body. Bartholomew twisted round to gaze at the Master of Gonville Hall in astonishment.

Colton shook his head firmly. ‘I am sorry, Bartholomew, but I cannot permit this. I will not have it put about that a murder has taken place in my College in the wake of this nasty affair of the poisoned wine. If I had thought you would try to prove Philius had been murdered, I would never have allowed you to come here. I expected you simply to confirm that Philius died as a result of his earlier affliction.’

‘Did you ask me to come because you want to know what really happened, or because you want me to say what you hope to be true?’ asked Bartholomew quietly. ‘Because I will not lie for you.’

Colton looked angry. ‘Philius could not have been murdered! I ate breakfast with him this morning! He had been very careful about his personal safety after Isaac’s death: he locked his room at all times, even when he was in it. You are mistaken if you suspect foul play. I tell you, poor Philius had an attack of the same evil humours that struck him before.’

Bartholomew disagreed. ‘He seemed to have recovered from that.’

‘Seemed, yes,’ insisted Colton. ‘But you know diseases appear to be healed and then return with greater vigour. You must have seen how that happened with the Death?’

That was true. Bartholomew had seen many plague victims who seemed to be mending, but promptly died just as their family and friends were giving thanks for their deliverance. But he was certain that was not what had happened to Philius. He looked reappraisingly at Gonville Hall’s Master. Did he have something more to hide than a desire to suppress rumours that might damage his College’s reputation? Colton had been present in his College when Isaac was murdered and now, it seemed, he had seen Philius at breakfast – a matter of hours before the man had been dispatched. And Colton had been at the feast where Grene had died.

‘If the humours had burst forth from his body as you suggest,’ said Bartholomew, ‘then we would see signs of it. He would have vomited, or had some other kind of flux, and there would be a recurrence of the small blisters I saw earlier.’

‘What are you saying, Matt? That someone forced his way in and killed him?’ asked Tulyet.

Bartholomew nodded slowly.

‘That is ridiculous!’ snapped Colton dismissively. ‘I have told you already that Philius has been careful since Isaac’s death. He kept his door locked at all times, and allowed few people in. And you are asking me to believe that someone entered the College, and killed him in broad daylight? As I told you, I saw him fit and well at breakfast when I joined him here, in this very room, this morning.’

‘If he had been fit and well at breakfast, why should he suddenly die a couple of hours later?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If his humours were unbalanced, he would have complained about it then.’

‘Perhaps it came upon him all of a sudden,’ said Colton, exasperated. ‘And how could a murderer gain access to his room? The door was locked.’

‘Was it locked when you found his body?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘With him dead inside?’

Colton considered. ‘Well, no. It was unlocked when I found him like this, but he might have opened it as these evil humours burst forth in an attempt to call for help.’

‘Then why did he not die outside in the yard?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Unless you moved the body?’

‘I have touched nothing!’ said Colton angrily, enunciating each word. ‘And the reason I have touched nothing is so that we might quell any vicious rumours that Philius’s death was anything but natural. I did not want you claiming that I have tampered with evidence. And, anyway, see reason, man! You are reading far too much into all this. Philius died, purely and simply, of a surplus of the evil humours that sickened him a few days ago.’

‘Why do you keep saying Philius’s last illness was caused by evil humours?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘We both know very well that he was poisoned with the same substance that killed Grene and Armel.’

‘I know nothing of the sort!’ retorted Colton. ‘I suggested to Philius, only this morning, that his ailment a few nights ago was a case of an overly acidic purge. He was not poisoned.’

Bartholomew stared at Colton in disbelief. ‘Really? And I suppose this new diagnosis has nothing to do with the fact that you do not want your College associated with the murder of University scholars? Did you and Philius sit down together and discuss how you might best protect Gonville Hall from unseemly rumours?’

Or, he thought, perhaps it was more sinister than that, and Colton had ensured Philius would not live to spread tales of tainted purges and slain book-bearers.

Colton flushed furiously. ‘I resent that implication, Bartholomew. You are accusing me, and one of your own medical colleagues, of plotting to tell the most atrocious lies!’

Bartholomew sighed, weary of argument. ‘But even you must see there are problems with your conviction that Philius’s illness and subsequent death were natural, Master Colton – such as why did Philius display the same symptoms of poisoning as did Armel and Grene, if his ailment was caused by an excess of bad humours? And why was Philius so careful to lock his door, if he had nothing to fear?’

Colton said nothing, but glowered at Bartholomew, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘You said Philius secured his door,’ Bartholomew continued relentlessly, ‘but why was his room unlocked when you discovered his body? The answer to that is because his killer did not latch it when he left.’

‘That is dangerous, unfounded speculation!’ hissed Colton. ‘How can all this be true? Philius would hardly unlock the door and allow a killer in his room!’

‘He probably did not know this person was a killer when he admitted him,’ said Bartholomew, with more patience than he felt Colton deserved, ‘but it is clear from the state of the room that they struggled.’

Colton shook his head angrily, and gestured at Philius. ‘There is no blood to suggest a wound, and his head is not caved in. There are no marks on his corpse at all. You should have evidence before you make such horrible assertions.’

‘Give me a few moments to inspect the body, and I might be able to provide you with some,’ said Bartholomew, fighting not to lose his temper. He felt vulnerable in the room where Philius had probably been murdered, even with Tulyet standing behind him, and Colton’s unsettling attitude was not making him feel any better. He considered giving in to Colton’s demands, just to ensure measures were not taken to ensure his silence over Gonville’s precious reputation. He had not wanted to become involved in the investigation of the suspicious deaths in the first place, and bitterly resented the fact that it seemed to have placed him in such a dangerous position.

Colton scowled at him, but then, to Bartholomew’s surprise, he yielded. ‘Very well, then. I suppose that unless you satisfy yourself that poor Philius died of a flux of bad humours, rumours will follow that Gonville is seeking to hide the truth. But, be assured, Bartholomew, I will ask Doctor Lynton from Peterhouse to verify anything you find. I will not have my College dragged through the mire because you are unwilling to admit that you misdiagnosed Philius’s illness the first time.’

He walked to the other end of the room so he would not have to watch, and began to pare his nails with a small knife in the light from the window.

Bartholomew bit back several scathing remarks that flooded into his mind, and bent to inspect Philius once again. It appeared that the Franciscan had prepared himself for bed when he was struck down – wary of over-exerting himself following his close brush with death a few days before – because he wore a long brown nightgown with a silk robe over the top. His feet were bare, so perhaps he had already been asleep. Bartholomew felt carefully around the friar’s head, but Colton was right in saying there was no wound. Then he looked at the dead man’s neck, but there was no bruising and no marks to suggest throttling. Finally, he drew the gown up, and looked for puncture wounds. With Tulyet’s help, he turned the body over, but there was nothing to be seen.

Perhaps he had been wrong after all, he mused, and the internal damage sustained from the poison Philius had swallowed earlier had killed him. Bartholomew had worried about the long-term effects of the poison when he first attended the friar. But the expression on Philius’s face did not seem right somehow. Bartholomew knew this was insufficient evidence on its own, but it set bells of warning jangling in his mind. He turned the corpse onto its back, and stared down at it, perplexed. And then a tiny glitter caught his eye.

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?’

While Agatha went to fetch the bacon fat from the pantry, Bartholomew told Michael about his findings regarding Philius’s death, and how John the porter had been killed.

‘We are left with a good many unanswered questions regarding Philius,’ he concluded. ‘We still cannot be sure where the wine that killed him came from – Oswald vehemently denies one of his apprentices is missing, and now both Philius and Isaac are dead there is no one we can ask to verify who is telling the truth.’

‘This crossbow business bothers me,’ said Michael. ‘It seems very convenient that an archer just happened to be in place at the precise moment when John ran from the College.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Michael rubbed at the whiskers on his chin. ‘I think this archer was waiting for you, not John. He was going to kill you, just as the knifeman attempted to dispatch me. When John came racing out, obviously in some distress – and it would not take a genius to guess why, with the Sheriff in the College and Philius’s body just found – this archer decided to prevent John from telling any more than he might have revealed already. It takes a while to rewind a crossbow, and no murderer wants to tarry too long at the scene of his crime. Rather than take the risk of waiting for you after he had slain John, he decided to slip away while he could.’

Bartholomew had a sudden unpleasant thought. ‘If you are correct, could he have been forewarned that we might be visiting Gonville Hall? By someone who had called us and knew that we would not refuse to attend? Someone such as Colton? He was unduly nervous about the whole thing. And he had cooked up some ungodly lies – supposedly with Philius’s blesssing, he was claiming that Philius had never been poisoned, but was suffering from an excess of evil humours.’

Michael scratched his head. ‘Colton cannot be ruled out as a suspect. I have known him for years, and he is clever and ambitious. But so are most Masters. I would not have marked Colton down as the kind of man who would be an accessory to murder, but who knows?’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘What is happening? Why are these men so intent on killing us? What have we done to incur such a reaction?’

‘It must be this poisoned wine,’ said Michael, picking at a food stain on his habit. ‘It is the only common factor.’

‘Or perhaps we have yet to learn what this common factor is,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes tiredly. ‘Perhaps we are overlooking something.’ He paused. ‘And I do not know what to believe about Grene. It seems something of a coincidence that he should be murdered the day after confessing to Eligius that he was in fear of his life from Bingham. Yet I am not completely convinced of Bingham’s guilt.’

‘But it does not look good for Bingham. Eligius is a highly respected scholar and I know of no reason why he and his two colleagues should lie.’

‘I just cannot see how Bingham could have passed this wine to Grene at the feast,’ said Bartholomew, frowning. ‘They did not sit next to each other. How could Bingham be certain that the bottle would reach its intended victim? You said yourself that everyone was watching to see how Grene was taking his defeat – it would have been impossible. And if Grene really did believe himself to be in danger, why should he drink from a bottle given to him by the man he feared?’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Had I been in that position, I would have eaten nothing at the feast, yet Grene positively gorged himself. Perhaps Eligius and the other two are lying after all. Grene’s death has provided them with a splendid opportunity to rid themselves of Bingham – the Master for whom they did not vote.’

‘I am so tired I can barely think,’ said Bartholomew, his mind whirling as he tried to sort the facts into some semblance of order. ‘Everything seems connected, yet is jumbled – the attack on us in the Fens; the poisoned wine; Bingham, Grene, Eligius and that stupid relic; Philius and Colton and their concoction of lies about Philius’s illness; the smugglers and Julianna …’

‘It has been a long day and we should both rest,’ said Michael. He stood up, and glanced out of the window. ‘There are your students back from their disputations. You cannot expect Deynman to have passed, but the others should have good news for you.’

He grinned at Agatha as she returned with a huge plate of oatcakes heavily smeared with the salty white fat that Michael loved. Bartholomew felt sick just looking at them, but Agatha presented him with a piece of seedcake instead. He leaned over and, before she could guess what he was going to do, kissed her cheek and fled the kitchen. Michael roared with laughter as Agatha’s astonishment changed to delight. She beckoned Michael back to the fireplace, and the two of them proceeded to devour the entire greasy repast.

Wiping cake crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, Bartholomew tapped at the door of the room Gray shared with Bulbeck, and entered. He sensed in an instant all was not well. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and sat on the window sill, silhouetted against the remaining light of the darkening evening.

‘They asked me about trepanation.’ said Gray in an accusatory tone. ‘You never taught us about that! How am I supposed to know things you have never told us?’

‘We discussed trepanation last summer, Sam,’ said Bartholomew wearily, ‘when Brother Boniface was with us. I take it you did not pass?’

‘It was not fair!’ shouted Gray petulantly, kicking off his boots so that they fell with a crash against the wall. ‘Then they asked me to debate the question: Did God create the world out of nothing or out of the primordial darkness?’

‘And?’

‘And how should I know?’ snapped Gray. ‘I was not there!’ His two friends looked aghast at his blasphemy, and he relented. ‘I did my best, but the examiners did not like my answers.’

‘I hope you were not flippant with them,’ said Bartholomew, concerned. His own reputation for unorthodoxy was as much as he could handle, and he did not want to be blamed for teaching Gray bad habits, too.

‘He was not flippant,’ said Bulbeck, from where he lay on the bed with his arm across his eyes. ‘He was just unfortunate in the questions they asked. If he had got Rob’s questions, he would have been fine.’

‘I did not pass,’ said Deynman gloomily. ‘I cannot think why – I answered all they asked me.’

Bartholomew did not want to know what Deynman’s answers to the questions were, but the student was relentless.

‘They asked me what I would do for a patient bleeding from a serious wound on his head, so I told them I would check his legs were not broken–’

‘His legs?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Whatever for?’

‘In case he had sustained the injury falling from a horse,’ replied Deynman with confidence. ‘Then I said I would see if there was another wound underneath the one in his head–’

‘Underneath it?’ interrupted Bartholomew, not understanding. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You told us we should be careful that one symptom does not mask another. So I would poke about under the wound to make sure there was not another, more serious, injury underneath.’

‘That was not really what I meant,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his hand through his hair, too tired to feel exasperated. ‘I meant symptoms for diseases and ailments, not wounds. And while you are looking at his legs and prodding about with his head, this poor patient of yours might have bled to death.’

Deynman looked crestfallen, but continued with his answer anyway. ‘Then I said I would bind the injury with a poultice of clean water and henbane–’

‘And a pinch of arsenic to kill the infection, you said,’ interrupted Gray scornfully. Bartholomew regarded Deynman with awe, wondering if there was anything of his lectures the student remembered even remotely accurately.

‘Then they asked me to debate the question: When a man takes a pig to market on a rope, is the pig taken by the man or by the rope? I told them it mattered neither one way nor the other to the pig.’

‘So the debate was a short one, then?’ asked Bartholomew drily. ‘And you did not reveal to the examiners the true extent of your incisive and orderly grip of logic?’

‘He did. That was the problem,’ muttered Gray.

‘But you passed, Tom,’ said Bartholomew, looking at his best student. He had certainly not expected Deynman to be successful, but he was disappointed in Gray’s performance. They had discussed trepanation at some length, and Gray should have been able to answer questions about it. Gray was also a consummate liar and was good at twisting people’s words and meanings. He should have excelled in his disputation.

‘I failed,’ said Bulbeck.

Bartholomew closed his eyes and tipped his head back to rest on the wall behind him. His three students were silent, aware that they had let him down, but not certain what they could do to make amends. Bartholomew wondered where he had gone wrong: perhaps he should have done more to curtail the illicit drinking in taverns that had been taking place, or perhaps he should have spent less time on his treatise about fevers and given them additional lessons. Their lack of success would not have been so bad, but the country was in desperate need of trained physicians to replace those who had died during the plague.

‘All the others passed,’ Deynman ventured. ‘It was only us who … did not do so well.’

‘But you, Tom!’ groaned Bartholomew, regarding Bulbeck in despair. ‘I expected better things of you.’

‘I feel ill,’ said Bulbeck in a weak voice. Bartholomew went to his side, and rested a hand on his forehead. He was feverish and looked pale.

‘How long have you been unwell?’ he asked, wondering whether he had put too much pressure on the student, and made him sick from worry.

‘Since midday,’ said Bulbeck. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and put both hands on his stomach, closing his eyes tightly in pain.

‘Have you drunk any wine? Or eaten anything from outside Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, reaching for a cloth with which to wipe Bulbeck’s face.

Bulbeck shook his head. ‘You told us not to,’ he said.

‘You had that cup of water,’ said Gray. ‘From the well.’

‘Water does not count,’ said Deynman disdainfully. ‘Doctor Bartholomew meant that we should not touch foods and wines from outside the College. Water is nothing!’

‘Which well?’ asked Bartholomew, already guessing the answer.

‘The one near the river,’ said Deynman. ‘Winter fever!’ He exclaimed suddenly, pleased with himself. ‘Tom has winter fever!’

Bartholomew could think of no other explanation. Since he had advised people against using the well in Water Lane – on the grounds that the river had somehow invaded it – the number of cases of fever had dropped and only the stubborn or lazy, who ignored his advice, were stricken. Bartholomew supposed that the contagion must increase in still-standing water, because those who drank straight from the river did not seem to catch the sickness. Several, however, were afflicted with other ailments, for which Bartholomew was reasonably certain that the foul, refuse-filled Cam was responsible.

‘I was thirsty,’ said Bulbeck in a small voice. ‘And I forgot what you said about the well. I know you said we were not to eat or drink anything outside Michaelhouse, but I thought a sip of water would not harm me.’

Bartholomew patted his shoulder and went to make up a potion to ease Bulbeck’s stomach cramps. When he returned, Gray and Deynman had put the ailing student to bed and closed the window shutters to keep some of the cold from the room. He saw that Bulbeck finished the medicine, and left the others to watch over him while he slept. Although this particular fever was unpleasant, it was not usually fatal, and Bartholomew was sure Bulbeck would make a full recovery, given rest and a carefully selected diet for a few days.

He closed the door and began to walk across the yard to his own room. He rubbed his eyes as he walked, feeling them dry and sore under his fingers. Then he collided so heavily with someone that he staggered, and almost lost his footing in the slippery mud of the yard.

‘Watch where you are going!’ yelled Langelee, his voice drawing the attention of several scholars who were talking together near the door to the hall.

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to step round the philosopher, but Langelee stopped him.

‘Sorry?’ he sneered. ‘Is that all?’

‘What more do you want?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

Langelee leaned nearer, and Bartholomew detected a strong odour of wine.

‘It is a disgrace the way you and Brother Michael have leave to come and go all hours of the night,’ he hissed. ‘And I know where you go.’

‘I go to see my patients,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘You can come with me next time if you wish.’ He pushed past Langelee, intending to end the conversation there and then.

‘Maybe I will,’ said Langelee, turning to follow Bartholomew to his room.

‘Fine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will send Cynric for you when I am called.’ He wondered what he had agreed to, but reasoned it might not be a bad thing to have the company of the brawny philosopher – his presence would certainly make opportunistic outlaws think twice before attempting to rob him. But he saw it would be foolish to go out at night – even with Langelee – when there were people who wanted him dead. He had been lured out of the safety of Michaelhouse and attacked while trying to solve other mysteries in the past, and would not allow himself to fall for such an obvious ploy again.

He pushed open the door to his room and threw himself on his bed. He closed his eyes, but opened them again when he sensed the presence of another person.

‘What do you want, Langelee?’ he asked irritably, when he saw the philosopher close the door behind him and gaze around the room speculatively. ‘I am tired and would like to sleep.’

Langelee perched on the edge of the table and crossed his ankles. ‘Sleep? When three of your students have disgraced the College by failing their disputations?’

Bartholomew sat up. ‘Were you one of their examiners?’

Langelee nodded, his face smug. ‘I was assessing their grasp of philosophical issues, and I have never seen such a miserable performance. Even Tom Bulbeck was dreadful, and he is said to be your best student.’

‘He has a fever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have just made him a physic.’

‘I hope you told him to wash his hands before he took it,’ said Langelee with a sneer. ‘If you taught traditional medicine instead of all this cleanliness nonsense they would have passed. All three are quick enough.’

‘Can we discuss this another time?’ asked Bartholomew, refusing to be drawn. If Langelee considered Deynman quick, he must be drunk indeed.

Langelee stared down at him. ‘And why are you so weary? Worn out after a night with your harlot Matilde? I suppose she offers you her services for free. The rest of us pay, of course.’

Bartholomew glared at him, fighting a wild impulse to shove the man backwards through the window. Was there anyone in the College who was not intimately acquainted with his harmless affection for the town’s most exclusive prostitute? He wondered whether his students knew, and the dour Franciscans. But they could not, he reasoned, because Father William would certainly have challenged him about it if they had. He frowned. It was not as if he had anything about which to feel guilty: he and Matilde had never been anything but friends. She had, however, told him that she considered Langelee an attractive man, although looking at the philosopher now, when his pugilistic features were stained red with drink, Bartholomew seriously doubted her good taste.

‘Go away,’ he said, leaning back on the bed again and closing his eyes.

Langelee picked up a scroll from the table and squinted to read it. Bartholomew sighed. So far, he had responded to Langelee’s goading with admirable calm, but his patience was beginning to fray and it would not be long before they ended up arguing. It did not take a genius to deduce that Langelee wanted a fight: his fingers twitched and flexed as if in anticipation of action. But Bartholomew knew who would win such an encounter, and he was not foolish enough to allow himself to be battered to a pulp merely to satisfy Langelee’s abnormal craving for violence.

‘Aristotle,’ announced Langelee, laying the scroll down and picking up another. ‘And Galen, of course. What about Albucasis, the Arab surgeon? Do you use his works to teach your students?’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew cautiously, wondering where all this was leading. ‘And Masawaih al-Mardini and Al-Ruhawi. There is much to be learned from Arab medical practice.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Langelee. ‘I was told that you had studied with an Arab in Paris. A curious choice of master, was it not?’

‘I heard you studied with Father Eligius at Valence Marie,’ said Bartholomew, deftly changing the subject before Langelee could attack him about his training. ‘He must have made a fascinating teacher.’

‘Oh, he was,’ agreed Langelee. ‘It is good to be in the same town with him again. I can debate with him and keep my skills honed.’

Bartholomew was surprised that the eminent Dominican logician had either the time or the inclination to help Langelee keep his mediocre skills honed, but said nothing.

‘Now I should see your students,’ said Langelee, dropping the scroll back on the table and standing up. ‘I should let them know where they went wrong in their disputations.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘It would be very kind of you to take the trouble. I am sure they will appreciate your help.’

He was sure they would not, and was certain that Gray would make some insolent remark that might lead Langelee to respond with physical force. But by the following day, Langelee would probably have forgotten his offer, Gray would be less angry about failing his examination, and an unpleasant scene would have been averted.

‘Now would be better,’ said Langelee. He tapped his temple. ‘While it is still fresh.’

‘I have given Bulbeck a sleeping draught,’ said Bartholomew patiently. ‘He has a fever. Please leave him alone this evening. Speak to them tomorrow.’

Langelee shook his head. ‘You are too soft with them. I will speak with them now. I know how to make them listen.’

Bartholomew stood. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘See to your own students. I am sure they will be missing the benefits of your learning if you have been conducting disputations all afternoon.’

Langelee narrowed his eyes and Bartholomew opened the door for him. Then, in a blur of movement, Langelee had lunged across the room and had placed two meaty hands around Bartholomew’s throat.

Bartholomew, however, had sensed that Langelee would not leave his room without some display of aggression, and was ready for him. Calmly, he lifted the small surgical knife he had kept hidden in his sleeve, and pointed it at Langelee’s neck. Horrified at the touch of cold steel, Langelee immediately lowered his hands.

‘Matthew!’ Kenyngham’s appalled voice startled Bartholomew and Langelee alike. The physician let the knife drop from Langelee’s throat, and they both turned to face the Master of the College who stood in the doorway. Bartholomew had never seen him quite so angry. His face was white, and his eyes had lost their customary dreaminess and were a hard, cold blue. Behind him was Michael, taking in the scene with horrified amazement.

‘What do you two think you are doing?’ demanded Kenyngham, his voice tight with fury.

Langelee shrugged. ‘I came to tell Bartholomew about his students’ disputations – and I am not obliged to do so, I was doing him a favour – when he became belligerent and attacked me with his knife.’ He raised his hands. ‘You can see I am unarmed.’

‘You are drunk,’ said Kenyngham in disgust. ‘Go to your own room, and do not come out again until you are sober.’

He stood aside for Langelee to leave. Langelee looked as if he would argue, but Kenyngham fixed him with a look of such hostility that the philosopher left without another word. Kenyngham watched him walk across the yard, and then turned to Bartholomew.

‘Well?’ he asked, his tone chilling. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

Bartholomew could think of no excuse that would mitigate the fact that he had been caught holding a weapon at the throat of one of his colleagues. It sounded churlish to claim that Langelee had followed him to his room with the clear intention of provoking him to fight: the philosopher had known exactly which subjects might be expected to evince a response from him – his unorthodox medical training, Matilde and then threatening to disturb the ailing Bulbeck. He shrugged apologetically, while Kenyngham glared at him.

‘I will not have my Fellows setting a poor example to the students,’ he said icily. ‘If I catch you menacing Langelee – or anyone else – with knives again, I will be forced to terminate your Fellowship. You think I will not do what I threaten, because we will be unable to replace you, but I would rather Michaelhouse had no Master of Medicine than one who uses the tools of his trade to intimidate the other scholars!’

He turned on his heel and strode out. Bartholomew sank on to the bed, feeling drained, and Michael closed the door.

‘What were you doing?’ asked the monk, regarding Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Threatening a colleague with a dagger? Matt! What is wrong with you? You are usually so opposed to that sort of thing.’

‘He came looking for a fight,’ said Bartholomew, pulling off his boots and lying on the bed with a sigh. ‘I reacted with admirable restraint – right up until moments before you and the Master barged in. It was unfortunate that you did not come a few moments earlier, or a few moments later.’

‘It looked terrible,’ said Michael, eyeing Bartholomew dubiously. ‘Langelee standing there looking frightened to death, while you waved that sharp little knife at his throat. I was with Kenyngham when I saw him follow you into your room. We came because I was afraid he meant you harm, but it seems he was the one who needed our protection! I am not surprised Kenyngham threatened you with dismissal. What else could he do? You offered no defence of yourself.’

‘What could I say?’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘Damn! Do you really think Kenyngham believes I was the aggressor?’

‘Matt, I thought you were the aggressor,’ said Michael, sitting on the end of the bed. ‘I thought you disapproved of brawling.’

‘I do. Usually,’ replied Bartholomew. He reflected. ‘Kenyngham was serious: he would terminate my Fellowship over a set-to with Langelee.’

Michael nodded. ‘I believe he would. He has always liked you, and has often spoken out in your defence. Either the sight of you armed and dangerous forced him to see you in a new light, or Langelee must have some powerful supporters to whom Kenyngham is forced to yield.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, folding his arms behind his head. ‘What kind of supporters?’

‘Perhaps Langelee is a relative of one of Michaelhouse’s benefactors,’ said Michael. ‘Or perhaps he has made the College the sole beneficiary of his will. Whatever, it is clear that he has some kind of advantage over you, if it comes to Kenyngham choosing between you or him. I would advise you to stay away from that lout in future. What did he say to drive you to such extremes?’

Bartholomew told him and Michael looked thoughtful.

‘Matilde said Ralph de Langelee was the man of Julianna’s choice. Perhaps Julianna has told him about our midnight flight through the Fens, and he was needling you because he is jealous.’

‘Jealous of what?’ protested Bartholomew. ‘I loathe the woman. That pair deserve each other!’

‘Perhaps that is not what she led him to believe,’ said Michael. ‘Matilde said Julianna knows how to get her own way. It is possible she is using you to make him more enamoured of her.’

‘And what would you know of such things?’ asked Bartholomew, closing his eyes. ‘You are not a love-sick woman of twenty-two – as Matilde pointed out to us recently.’

Michael stood to close the window shutters. A wind had picked up, and was sending chilly blasts across the room, sending parchments and scrolls tumbling from the table onto the floor. When he turned around again, Bartholomew was asleep.

The scrawny cockerel, which Agatha fed on kitchen scraps, crowed yet again outside Bartholomew’s window and woke him up. Exasperated, he hurled a boot at the shutter, hoping the sudden thump would be sufficient to drive the bird away without his needing to climb out of bed to see to it. It was pitch dark in his chamber, and he was certain it could not yet be time to rise for mass. He was just allowing himself to slide back into the uncertain area between sleep and wakefulness, when Michael tiptoed into his room.

‘It is morning, Matt!’ he whispered. ‘Although you might not believe it. It is dark and cold, and no time for sane men to be up and about.’

‘Then go back to bed and leave me alone,’ mumbled Bartholomew, pulling the blanket over his head in an attempt to escape the cold draught that flooded the chamber as Michael opened the window shutters. There was a flapping sound as the cockerel was startled into removing itself to crow outside someone else’s quarters.

‘I will have that thing in a stew with onions one of these days,’ muttered Michael viciously. ‘It is the third time this month it has kept me awake half the night. But come on, Matt, or we will be late. Do not look so irritable! You said you would take mass duties today, because Father William did your turn while you were enjoying yourself at Denny.’

Still half asleep, Bartholomew hauled himself out of bed, and hopped from foot to foot on the icy flagstones while he washed and shaved. He grabbed a clean shirt with frozen fingers, and struggled into it, tugging hard enough to rip the stitches in one sleeve when it clung to his wet skin. It was several moments before he located his leggings in the dark and, by the time he was ready, Michael had already left for the church. Racing along the lane as fast as he could in a vain attempt to warm himself up, he almost collided with the solemn procession of scholars from Physwick Hostel, also making their way to St Michael’s Church for the early morning service.

Michael had been unable to light the temperamental lamp, and was fumbling around the chancel in the dark, grumbling to himself, and swearing foully when he stubbed his toe against the sharp corner of Master Wilson’s marble tomb.

‘That man continues to be a bane in my life, even though he is five years dead!’ the monk snapped, pushing Bartholomew out of his way as he groped towards the altar.

There was a loud crash that reverberated around the silent building, and made several of the Physwick scholars jump and cross themselves hurriedly. Michael’s stream of obscenities grew more expressive as he realised he had knocked over the vase of flowers Runham insisted on leaving on his cousin’s grave. Bartholomew lit the lamp quickly, and went to the monk’s rescue before he did any more damage. While he gathered up the wilting blooms and shoved them back into the now dented jug, Michael slapped the sacred vessels on the altar in an undisguised display of temper, limping far more than was necessary, and not always favouring the same foot.

Michael had completed his preparations and Bartholomew had just kicked the flowers that remained on the floor out of sight under a bench, when the Michaelhouse procession entered the church, sleepy and shivering in their scholar’s tabards – with the exception of Alcote, who was clad in a gorgeous, fur-lined cloak that an earl would have been proud to wear.

Father William’s leather-soled sandals skidded in the water that had been spilled from the vase, and he gazed up at the roof in concern, seeking signs of another leak. Runham frowned when he saw the state of his blooms, as many stalks pointing upwards as flower heads, and Bartholomew heard him muttering disparaging remarks about the parish children who sometimes played in the church when it was empty.

Because it was the festival of the Conversion of St Paul, and therefore a feast day, a few parishioners had dragged themselves from their beds to attend the mass. Most of them were members of Michael’s choir, present because the College provided oatmeal and sour ale to anyone who sang on special occasions. Also present were Thomas Deschalers and his niece Julianna. Julianna stood at the front of the small congregation, watching everything with open interest. She caught Bartholomew’s eye and gave him a wink, and then did the same to Langelee. Afraid that the philosopher would see her smiling at him so brazenly and start some kind of fight over it, Bartholomew studiously avoided looking at her for the remainder of the service.

When it was over, he waited until he was sure her attentions were fixed on Langelee, and then slipped past her quickly to walk back to Michaelhouse, without waiting for his colleagues. As he shoved open the wicket door, Walter started guiltily, and Agatha’s cockerel flapped out from under his arm. It rushed across the yard in a huff of bristling feathers and disappeared over the orchard wall. Bartholomew said nothing, although he suspected that he and Michael were not the only ones that the irritating bird was keeping from their sleep.

Master Kenyngham’s procession – with the marked absence of Langelee – was not long in following, and Walter went to ring the bell for breakfast. Bartholomew was in his room, putting dirty clothes in a pile for Cynric to take to the laundry, and folding the others, when the book-bearer tapped on the door.

‘A messenger has just arrived to say that Master Stanmore’s steward returned with Egil’s body late last night,’ said the Welshman. ‘Master Stanmore and your sister have spent the night in town, and he wants you and Brother Michael to go to his premises immediately.’

‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the warm oatmeal flavoured with honey and cinnamon that would be waiting for him in the hall. ‘Can it not wait a while?’

‘It sounded urgent,’ said Cynric. ‘Master Stanmore would not issue such a demand lightly.’

Bartholomew sighed and told Cynric to fetch Michael, who was already at his place at the breakfast table. He waited in the yard and shivered. It was beginning to rain: the dry spell of the past two days seemed to be over, and the weather was reverting to its customary dampness. He leaned against the wall and kicked absently at the weeds that grew around the door. He saw Father Paul walking hesitantly from his room to the hall, and he went to offer him his arm when the blind friar skidded in the mud.

Paul smiled. ‘How cold you are!’ he exclaimed, taking Bartholomew’s hand in both of his.

‘A problem with winter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially with no fires anywhere and Alcote the only one of us with enough money to buy wood to burn.’

‘Then you should inveigle yourself an invitation to his room,’ said Paul wisely. ‘Not only does he have roaring fires, but he has a lamp and comfortable chairs with woollen rugs.’

‘He is still indignant about three logs he thinks I stole,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. It was a shame, though: it would be worth enduring Alcote’s company for the pleasure of sitting in a comfortable chair by a fire with a lamp to read by.

‘Brother Michael took those logs,’ said Paul. ‘I quite clearly heard his distinctive puffing as he wrested with the stable door the night they disappeared. I put Alcote right about that, although you should not allow yourself to take the blame for things Michael does.’

Bartholomew smiled, amused that Paul should consider him in need of advice about how to deal with Michael.

Still clutching Bartholomew’s hand, Paul lifted his face to the sky. ‘It is beginning to rain; you are about to go out and you are not wearing your cloak.’

‘And how do you know all that?’ asked Bartholomew, laughing. He knew the friar relished playing such games, showing off his superior skills of detection.

‘The rain is simple,’ said Paul, showing an upturned palm. ‘I know you are going out because I heard Michael grumbling about missing breakfast; you are apparently waiting for him, which means you are going, too. And I know you are not wearing your cloak, because I would hear it moving around your legs. And I cannot.’

‘I lost it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shall I tell you how, or will you tell me?’

It was Paul’s turn to laugh. ‘Tell me when Brother Michael is not glowering at you to hurry,’ he said. Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise. ‘I just heard his thundering footsteps coming down the stairs from his room,’ Paul explained.

Bartholomew looked to where Michael waited impatiently by the gate.

‘I have several cloaks,’ said Paul. ‘I insist you borrow one.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but I could not. First, I do not seem able to take good care of clothes and will be sure to spoil it. Second, I cannot wear a cloak that is part of a Franciscan habit – Father William would construe it as heretical, and would have me burned in the Market Square.’

‘It is just a plain grey one,’ said Paul. ‘It is not part of my habit. And, as I said, I have several. If you find you like it, I can sell you one.’

The rain began to come down harder, and Bartholomew relented and accepted Paul’s kind offer. He waited while the friar fetched it, and then ran across to meet Michael.

‘Oh, very nice,’ said Michael, eyeing the long garment with amusement. ‘Now you look like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Pestilence!’ He laughed uproariously, while Cynric crossed himself hurriedly, and muttered about the dangers of jesting about the plague.

Stanmore had left an apprentice to direct them to the room to which Egil’s body had been taken. It was an empty storeroom, and the corpse had been placed on a table and covered with a large piece of black cloth. Bartholomew saw dark red stains on the floor, and winced. Edith was ushering the fascinated apprentices away from the window, but when she saw Bartholomew she abandoned them to their own devices, and ran into his arms.

‘Oh Matt!’ she sobbed. ‘What vile business have you been dragged into this time?’

‘It will all be solved soon,’ said Bartholomew gently.

She wiped her eyes and stood back to look at him. ‘How did you come by those scratches on your neck? This is not your cloak! And who put that awful red patch on your hose?’

Bartholomew put his hands on her shoulders. ‘There is nothing to worry about. And I borrowed this cloak from Father Paul. I lost mine.’

‘It is fine cloth,’ said Stanmore, coming up behind him to feel it. ‘Best quality wool. He is a fool to lend it to you – you will have it spoiled in no time. I would recommend you use a hard-wearing worsted of some kind, perhaps–’

‘Oswald,’ prompted Edith, quelling the lecture that was about to begin. ‘We did not drag Matt from his breakfast to talk about cloth.’

Stanmore’s face became sombre. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Putting off the moment, I suppose.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It took some time to find Egil’s corpse – your directions were understandably vague, and my steward had to make three journeys to the Fens before he could locate it. It had been moved, and Cynric’s stick-marker was some distance away from it. It is Egil’s body, without question, because I recall he had a prominent scar on his left calf. But …’ His voice trailed off, and his eyes went to the body lying on the table. Since Stanmore made no move towards it, and was clearly reluctant to offer a further explanation, Bartholomew walked over and lifted the cloth. And drew in a sharp breath of horror. Egil’s heavy body, clad in its thick, homespun clothes, lay under the sheet. But someone had hacked off his head and both of his hands.

‘I take it this is not how you left him?’ asked Stanmore, watching Bartholomew’s expression of shock. ‘You said he had been hit on the head. You did not say the blow had taken his skull from his shoulders.’

Michael took a cautious peep and backed away hastily. Bartholomew inspected the rest of the body, and then covered it again with the cloth. There were no other injuries. He thought about what Tulyet had said – that Egil was a Fenman who knew his way around the area. If Egil had not been lying injured for two days – and there was nothing on what remained of his corpse to suggest that he had – then where had he been? And what had he been doing? Bartholomew wondered if Egil had somehow stumbled on an outlaw lair, and had been fleeing from them when he had his fatal encounter with the aggressive Julianna.

‘Who could have done this?’ asked Stanmore, looking at the corpse with a shudder. ‘Do you think the mutilation might be related to some satanic ritual?’

‘Well, I think we know who did it,’ said Michael, his face pale. ‘Some of these Fenland smugglers – such as that Alan of Norwich and his men. What we do not know is why, although I cannot believe the answer lies in witchcraft.’

They were silent, and the only sounds were the apprentices shuffling and whispering outside, daring each other to sneak a look through the window. One, bolder than his fellows, hauled himself up onto the sill, his feet scrabbling against the wall. Stanmore pursed his lips and closed the shutters firmly.

‘Youthful curiosity,’ he said, shutting the door as well. ‘And Rob is always the first.’

‘He looks familiar,’ said Bartholomew, the young man’s long, thin nose and hooded eyes ringing the same bell of recognition he had experienced the last time he had seen him in Stanmore’s yard. He shook his head. ‘I have probably seen him working here.’

‘Probably not,’ said Stanmore. ‘He is more often at my shop in Ely, although business has not been good there and I have had him here for the past few weeks. He is Robert Thorpe’s boy.’

Bartholomew and Michael looked blankly at him. ‘Robert Thorpe,’ repeated Stanmore. ‘The disgraced Master of Valence Marie. The elder Thorpe took to teaching when his wife died, and he left his son in the care of relatives. They apprenticed him to me when he declared he did not want to follow in his sire’s footsteps and become a scholar.’

‘Who can blame him, given what happened to his father,’ said Michael. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes. There is a resemblance now that you mention it – around the eyes and nose.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew suddenly, his raised voice making the others jump. ‘That is not it. I remember where I saw him before.’

He walked briskly to the door and flung it open. The group of apprentices was startled into silence as Bartholomew strode purposefully towards Rob Thorpe. Thorpe stood his ground, looking insolently at Bartholomew, but his nerve failed him at the last moment, and he made a sudden dart towards the gate. Bartholomew was anticipating such a move, however, and reacted quickly. He dived after the young man and had a good handful of his tunic before he had reached the lane.

Stanmore ran towards them, followed by the others.

‘What is happening?’ he demanded. ‘Matt! Leave him alone! You are frightening him.’

‘I know exactly where I have seen you before,’ said Bartholomew, not relinquishing his hold on Thorpe’s clothes. ‘You were standing behind Grene at Bingham’s installation. You helped me carry his body to the chapel.’

‘Not me!’ protested Thorpe, struggling free of Bartholomew’s grip. He brushed himself down indignantly, small eyes flicking from Bartholomew to Stanmore. ‘I was here all night.’

The other apprentices, who had clustered round to watch the excitement, nodded, although Bartholomew noted not all did so with conviction.

‘You were not,’ he said firmly. ‘You were at the installation, wearing a light blue tabard and serving wine at the high table.’

Thorpe brandished a handful of his dark green tunic at Bartholomew with a sneer. ‘Does this look light blue to you? And before you ask, I have another and that is green, too. You can go and look if you want.’

‘Matt!’ said Stanmore, trying to pull Bartholomew away. ‘The lad is telling the truth. You know that all my apprentices’ tunics are this colour. It helps me to keep an eye on them in a crowd.’

Bartholomew grabbed Thorpe by the scruff of the neck. ‘We are going to see Harling.’

‘Whatever for?’ said Stanmore, indignant for his apprentice. ‘You have heard what Rob has to say. He has done nothing wrong.’

‘If he has done nothing wrong, why did he try to run away from me?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘I would have run if I had seen you bearing down on me like something from hell!’ retorted Stanmore, becoming irate. He tried to prise Bartholomew’s fingers from his apprentice’s collar. Bartholomew pushed him away, and took a few steps towards the gate, the wriggling Thorpe firmly in his grasp.

Edith blocked his way. ‘Matthew, let him go!’ she ordered, incensed. Startled by the fury in her voice, Bartholomew obeyed. ‘Rob has told you he was here on Saturday night and the other apprentices have supported his claim. They have no reason to lie. Do you think I would not have noticed one of our lads serving at the installation? Or Oswald?’

She had a point. Bartholomew backed away, and Stanmore ushered the apprentices out of the yard and back to work.

The merchant turned to Bartholomew, his temper only just under control. ‘I suppose you are still thinking about that accusation of Father Philius’s – that he came here to see one of my apprentices die? Well, I hear Philius is dead himself – murdered in fact – and so it is quite clear that he is involved in all this foul business, and was lying to you. Look to him and to his acquaintances for your poisoner, but leave my lads alone! Rob is a good boy. If you cannot bring yourself to believe your own family, then you can ask the priests at St Botolph’s Church; he does odd jobs for them in his spare time and they think very highly of him.’

Bartholomew had rarely seen Stanmore so enraged and certainly never with him. He looked at Edith, standing with her hands on her hips and regarding him furiously. Edith had always taken a close interest in the apprentices, and she watched over them like a mother hen. Her instinct to protect one of them now was apparently stronger than her trust in her brother’s accusations. Bartholomew glanced over her head to where Thorpe walked with his friends towards the kitchens. The apprentice twisted round and favoured Bartholomew with a triumphant sneer that was anything but innocent.

‘He is the deposed Master Thorpe’s son, and he was at the installation,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into making rash accusations by Thorpe’s gloating. ‘He is the killer of poor James Grene!’

Edith and Stanmore gaped at him.

‘That seems to represent something of a leap in logic,’ remarked Michael, his eyebrows almost disappearing under his hair in his astonishment. He leaned over and whispered in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Have a care, Matt. You are distressing your sister.’

‘Rob is seventeen years old!’ said Edith hotly. ‘How can you accuse a young lad of so vile a crime? First, he was here all night and nowhere near Valence Marie. Second, he has alibis to prove it. Third, how would he come by poisoned wine with which to kill anyway? Fourth, Oswald and I would have seen him had he been at the installation – which he was not. And, fifth, since you seem to believe that wicked Father Philius rather than Oswald, you imply that our household is involved in something sinister.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘I only–’

Edith cut across his words. ‘I think it would be best if you left us now, Matthew. Go and catch your poisoner. But you will not be welcome in our house again if you come only to make horrible accusations. And if I see you anywhere near Rob Thorpe, I will tell Tulyet to arrest you for assaulting a child!’

She turned on her heel and stalked across the yard to the kitchen. After a moment, Stanmore followed. The door slammed, and Bartholomew and Michael were left standing alone in the yard.

‘You handled that well,’ remarked Michael, beginning to walk away.

Bartholomew was rooted to the spot. ‘She believes I am trying to implicate Oswald in all this,’ he whispered, appalled.

Michael took his sleeve and steered him out of the yard. ‘She spoke in anger,’ he said soothingly. ‘She will come to her senses in a day or two. And anyway, you did imply you did not believe her or Oswald when they told you Rob Thorpe was not at the installation.’

‘I have never seen her so fierce,’ said Bartholomew, still shocked.

‘I have,’ said Michael, with a wry smile. ‘And so have you if you allow yourself to admit it – only last week, in fact, when she caught that water-seller using the well near the river after you had told people not to drink from it. She had the man terrified out of his meagre wits. What you have not seen, Matt, is her ire directed towards you. Now you know how the rest of us feel when your beloved sister goes on the rampage.’

‘You make her sound like a tyrant,’ said Bartholomew resentfully. ‘She is not.’

‘She has a quick temper,’ said Michael. ‘And you rashly attacked one of her charges. But her wrath is always short-lived, and all will be well again tomorrow. Now, we both have duties to perform that we have been neglecting while we have been here – you should ascertain what caused Gray to put on such a disgraceful performance at his disputation, and give Bulbeck his medicine. Then, at noon you should come to dine with me in the Brazen George. It is time we treated ourselves to a little decent refreshment, and we need to talk undisturbed. Cynric?’

The small Welshman appeared behind him.

‘Watch Master Stanmore’s gates and tell us when Rob Thorpe emerges. If we are not teaching in College, we will be in the chapel. You know which one I mean.’ He winked meaningfully.

Cynric gave him a knowing grin and trotted away, leaving Bartholomew bewildered. He tried to make Michael tell him what was happening, but the fat monk would say nothing.

Several hours later, they were comfortably settled in a pleasant chamber at the rear of the Brazen George, with a plateful of lamb and boiled onions. The room was one of Michael’s favourite haunts when inclement weather rendered the garden impractical. The taverner kept it free for the exclusive use of ranking scholars who should not have been there, and there was a small door that led directly out into an alley that ran perpendicular to the High Street, thus allowing discreet exits to be made should an occasion arise when it became necessary. It was a comfortable place – small and cosy, with a fire burning cheerfully in a brazier and colourful tapestries hanging on the walls. The beaten-earth floor was liberally scattered with reeds collected daily from the river bank, while bowls of herbs on the window sill made the chamber smell clean and fragrant.

‘I call this the chapel,’ said Michael, gesturing around him with a grin. ‘It is an excellent place for uninterrupted contemplation, where the troubled spirit can be restored with a good meal and a goblet or two of fine wine.’

Bartholomew was about to speak, when the landlord entered, bringing a dish of dried figs, which he presented with a flourish.

‘Try these, Brother,’ he said ingratiatingly to Michael. ‘They are quite delicious.’

‘What are they?’ asked Michael suspiciously, poking at the wizened brown objects with the handle of his spoon, as if he imagined they might leap up and devour him.

‘I have no idea,’ admitted the taverner. ‘My wife bought them yesterday, but she says they are quite the fashion at the King’s table.’

‘The King can keep them!’ muttered Michael ungraciously. ‘I would rather have some tart, if you have it. And not one made of these things! Apple. Or sugared pears. Something normal.’

The landlord left, crestfallen, while Michael regarded the figs with a shudder.

‘They look as though someone has eaten them already,’ he said, pushing them away.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lemons at the feast at Valence Marie; pomegranates at Michaelhouse; sugared almonds at Deschalers’s house; oranges at Denny Abbey. The whole town seems flooded with unusual foods. Deschalers must be making a fortune. Winter is usually a time when only apples left over from the summer are available. Now every house in Cambridge is attempting to dine like the King. Even Agatha was persuaded to buy a pomegranate and she did not even know what to do with it!’

‘You will be having problems with people’s digestions if they go round eating this kind of thing,’ said Michael, pushing the figs further away from him.

Bartholomew stared at him, a notion beginning to unfold in his mind.

But Michael was speaking. ‘You were right about that snivelling apprentice Rob Thorpe, Matt,’ he said. ‘He was at the installation. I saw him too.’