A Deadly Brew

Chapter 1

Cambridge, late January 1353

Rain slanted across Michaelhouse’s yard in a steady hiss, drumming on the wooden roof of the stable and staining the College’s honey-coloured stone walls a deep amber. The cat, its fur soaked into black spikes, sat morosely under the meagre shelter of a leafless tree and watched a scholar clad in the ceremonial red robes of a University doctor splash his way across the muddy yard. The scholar paused for a moment to glance up at the dull grey sky before disappearing through one of the doorways that led to the rooms where the students and their masters lived.

‘We will be late,’ he warned, looking round the door of Brother Michael’s chamber and seeing that the monk was not yet ready to leave. Michael made no reply and stood in front of a strategically placed silver plate plastering his thin, light brown hair into place with dabs of water. This performed to his satisfaction, he turned his attention to his newly purchased Benedictine habit, brushing away imaginary dust with the head of a teasel.

Matthew Bartholomew sighed impatiently, striding across the room to lean out of the window. ‘The bell has already stopped ringing.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand and continued with his primping. ‘There is no point in attending these festivities if we do not look our best, Matt,’ he said, taking up an ornate cross of gold and hanging it round his neck, careful not to disturb his immaculate hair.

‘It is not you being installed as Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out. He gazed across Michaelhouse’s yard at the undergraduates hurrying from their lectures to the midday meal. ‘In fact, I do not understand why we should be there at all. I still have not finished Galen’s Prognostica with my third-year students, there is an outbreak of sickness among the river people, and I want to work on my treatise on fevers. This installation is a distraction I could do without.’

Michael gave an exasperated shake of his head. ‘You think of nothing but your work these days,’ he chided. ‘This grand installation will be good for you. You can see all the great and powerful of the University gathered together under one roof and watch the games being played.’

‘Over the past five years I have seen enough of the University’s games to last me a lifetime,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I want only to teach my students and attend my patients.’

Michael’s green eyes gleamed. He thrived on the intrigues and plots that were as much a part of University life as teaching, and loved nothing more than to attend an event like the installation of the new Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, where he could watch alliances being formed and plans being hatched to avenge ancient grievances. As well as being a Fellow of Michaelhouse, Michael was Senior Proctor, a position that meant he was well-placed to observe – and meddle in – the murky affairs of the University and its scheming scholars.

‘Besides,’ the monk said briskly, ignoring Bartholomew’s grumbling and turning his head this way and that as he studied his reflection in the plate, ‘all Fellows of Michaelhouse were personally invited by the Master-Elect. It would be ungracious to decline, especially if the reason is that you prefer teaching and seeing patients.’

He took a thick winter cloak from a hook on the wall and draped it over his shoulders, fiddling with it until he was sure the expensive cloth fell in even folds before carefully lifting the hood over his head. Then he stepped over to the plate once more and admired the finished product, adjusting a strand of hair here and a fold of his habit there. He glimpsed his friend’s morose expression as he continued to stare out of the window and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

‘Forget your students, Matt. Forget your patients, too. Enjoy yourself for once!’

‘With a group of men whose idea of fun is an all-night debate on the efficacy of Ockham’s Razor?’ asked Bartholomew gloomily. ‘Or, worse still, with those of our colleagues who will drink the new Master’s free wine until they are sick, violent or insensible?’

‘You are in a miserable mood today,’ said Michael, amused. ‘But you will make us late by keeping me here chattering. Come on, hurry up. We do not want to arrive last.’

Glumly, Bartholomew followed Michael down the wooden stairs and out into the yard, a morass of churned mud from the rain that had fallen almost incessantly since Christmas. The cat, seeing the door had been left open, tried in vain to reach it without getting its feet wet. Despite his ill humour, the physician could not help smiling when he noted a similarity between the cat’s dainty, careful footsteps and those of Michael, who held his habit clear of the ground with thumbs and forefingers. The monk cursed and swore at the brown slime that oozed over his carefully polished sandals in language that belied his contemplative vocation.

‘I have never seen such rain,’ he muttered. ‘We are a cursed race. First came the pestilence that claimed so many lives; then there was the drought of last summer when we baked under a sun that turned the whole country brown; and now we have endless rain. The crops will rot in the fields and there will be an even greater shortage of bread than there is now. You mark my words.’

‘Rain in winter should not be a problem,’ said Bartholomew, splashing along beside Michael, oblivious to the mud. He had dressed in his best scarlet robe when he had finished teaching – around ten o’clock that Saturday morning – but had been called out to tend to a patient with a winter fever. His feet were already wet inside his boots and avoiding puddles would make little difference to him now. ‘It is summer rain that rots the crops in the fields.’

Michael shot him a disbelieving glance and continued with his litany of complaints. ‘This rain is worse than snow. The roof leaks in my room and I can barely sleep for the noise of drips falling into the bucket.’

Bartholomew recalled pulling the bed-covers over his ears the night before in a vain effort to muffle the sound of Michael’s snores thundering from the room above his, and treated the monk’s words with scepticism.

‘And the dampness is unbearable. All my bones ache with it,’ Michael added, looking resentfully up to a lead-grey sky that made the noon light seem like late afternoon.

Bartholomew turned to him in concern. ‘Do they? Do you need a physic? I have a poultice that, if applied daily, can ease soreness in the joints.’

Michael sighed and gave a wry grin. ‘I am not so bad that I need a physic. It is nothing a dry blanket and a doze by a fire would not cure. But this foul weather must be hard on your older patients.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘A number of them are complaining about painful joints. But it is this winter fever that worries me. I have never seen anything quite like it.’

‘It is not like the Death, then?’ asked Michael, picking his way cautiously around a gigantic puddle that shivered and rippled as the rain pattered into it.

Bartholomew shuddered. ‘No, thank God!’ Even after five years, Bartholomew had not forgotten his helplessness in the face of the plague that had defied all treatment and seemed to strike at random, carrying off at least a third of the population of Cambridge and completely annihilating the people who lived in the impoverished little settlement near the castle, where cramped and filthy conditions seemed to hasten the disease’s relentless progress.

They reached Michaelhouse’s great gates and unlatched the wicket door. Michael stepped into the lane and rinsed the mud off his feet in a puddle of cleanish water, wincing at its coldness. They walked up the lane and then along the High Street towards the Hall of Valence Marie. For a while, they were forced to abandon conversation and concentrate on avoiding the deep potholes that lurked unseen under the flooded surface of the road.

They passed St Michael’s Church, short, squat and an even darker grey than usual with the rain blackening its walls, and then St Mary’s with its creamy yellow stone and delicate traceried windows. The houses between them looked shabby in the wet, and the resin from their timbers leeched out to ooze in dirty brown trails down their whitewashed walls.

The Hall of Valence Marie, where Bartholomew and Michael were to attend the ceremonies for the installation of its new Master, stood just outside the town boundary near the Trumpington Gate. They were about to pass through it when a young man tore up to them, gasping for breath, his eyes wild and his clothes dishevelled.

‘Brother Armel is dying! It was not what we intended! You must believe me!’ He took a handful of Michael’s best cloak and tried to haul him back towards the town. Michael disengaged himself firmly, resentful at being manhandled after he had taken so much trouble with his appearance.

‘What are you shouting about?’ he demanded crossly, trying to brush the creases out of his sleeve. ‘Who is Brother Armel and what must I believe?’

The boy gulped for breath, clenching and unclenching his hands and clearly forcing himself to resist the urge to grab at Michael again in his agitation.

‘It will be quicker if you speak rationally,’ said Bartholomew gently, taking pity on the frantic student. ‘Tell us what has happened. Is someone ill? Do you need a physician?’

The young man nodded and then shook his head. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes tightly shut and fought to gain control of himself. ‘We – I and the other students – were drinking in the Brazen George,’ he began, referring to a tavern near St Mary’s Church. Michael gave him an admonishing stare. Students were not allowed in the town’s taverns, chiefly because the University did not want bands of drunken undergraduates meeting gangs of equally intoxicated townspeople: the relationship between University and town was uneasy at best, violent at worst, and it took very little to spark off fights that resulted in bloodshed on both sides.

The young man continued. ‘A man sold us wine. We took it home and Armel drank from the bottle. Then he fell into a swoon. He was poisoned! You must come!’

The lad’s story was still far from clear, but Bartholomew guessed they would prise no more sense from him until one of them went to see Brother Armel. It occurred to him that not even the sensibilities of the Master-Elect of the Hall of Valence Marie could be offended if his excuse for being absent was that he was dealing with a medical emergency. He seized the opportunity with sudden enthusiasm.

‘You go to the ceremony,’ he said to Michael. ‘I will see Brother Armel.’

‘But he needs you both,’ pleaded the student, his hands furiously twisting the buckle on his belt to avoid laying hands on the august personage of the University’s Senior Proctor a second time. ‘He needs last rites and a physician.’ His self-control finally broke and he grasped Bartholomew’s cloak to haul him back up the High Street, evidently assuming Michael would follow.

‘Then you need a priest, not a monk,’ called Michael, standing firm. ‘One of the Gilbertines will oblige, or the Carmelites just across the road. I have pressing business to attend.’

‘You can give last rites!’ said the student accusingly, turning back to him without relinquishing his hold on Bartholomew. ‘You did so during the Death – Father Yvo told us how you gave last rites to his predecessor. And you have heard my confessions before now!’

The student was right. While friars lived and worked among the people, monks led contemplative lives in the cloister and were not authorised to hear confessions or give last rites. But Michael had been granted special dispensation by his Bishop so that he might attend the needs of the small number of Benedictines enrolled at the University. During the plague, he had been tireless in his spiritual duties and had trudged around the town with Bartholomew tending the hopeless cases. These days, however, he seldom drew on his authority, preferring to advance the Benedictines’ earthly interests rather than their spiritual ones.

‘Please!’ cried the student, desperation making his voice crack. ‘We need the Senior Proctor and a physician. Armel has been murdered!’

How poor Armel had gone so suddenly from a swoon to being a murder victim was unclear, but Bartholomew allowed himself to be led back along the High Street by the frightened student. Michael followed reluctantly, muttering bitterly about missing the installation ceremony to which he had been so looking forward. Bartholomew did not for an instant imagine they would find Brother Armel murdered, nor even poisoned. The student who tugged and heaved at his cloak to make him hurry was very young – no more than fifteen years old at the most – and Bartholomew was sure he would not be able to tell a drunken stupor from an unconsciousness brought on by poison. He wondered how much of the installation he might legitimately escape, although a backward glance at Michael’s black scowl suggested the answer would be very little if the monk had any say in the matter.

‘Which hostel do you live in?’ Bartholomew asked, more to soothe the student’s increasing agitation than to solicit information.

‘Bernard’s,’ said the student, hauling harder still as they drew closer to the dirty brown façade of St Bernard’s Hostel. ‘My name is Xavier.’

‘Bernard’s is a Franciscan institution,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled, ‘so why are you not wearing your friar’s habit?’

Xavier gave him a look of disbelief. ‘We could not go to the Brazen George wearing our habits! The landlord would know we were students and would refuse to serve us.’

Before Bartholomew could comment further, he was propelled into the building. A large room that opened directly off the street was occupied by six students, all arguing among themselves in apprehensive whispers. None of them wore either scholars’ tabards or the robes of Franciscan novices, and Bartholomew imagined the entire hostel must have been involved in the illicit trip to the tavern.

As they entered, the students parted to reveal someone lying on the floor with his eyes closed. Bartholomew knelt to examine him while Michael snapped questions at the others.

‘Where is Father Yvo? He is Principal here, is he not?’

Miserably the students nodded, some hanging their heads and none able to meet the stern visage Michael reserved for dealing with recalcitrant undergraduates.

‘He is at the installation, but Brother Henry has gone to fetch him home,’ said Xavier. ‘I came to find you. I was lucky to catch you before you reached Valence Marie.’

Michael’s grimace suggested he did not consider the encounter to be a fortuitous one. ‘I suppose you took advantage of Father Yvo’s absence to go visiting taverns?’ he surmised, eyeing the students’ odd assortment of secular clothes with proctorly disapproval.

They nodded again, exchanging guilty glances and shuffling their feet uncomfortably.

‘Well, Brother Xavier,’ said Michael, eyeing the sheepish undergraduates with weary reproach. ‘Now you have me here, tell me what happened properly.’

Xavier took a deep breath, less anxious now that Michael had assumed control of the situation. ‘We have all worked really hard this term and yesterday the last of us passed our disputations. It seemed as though we were being given a perfect opportunity to celebrate – with Father Yvo at the installation along with all the other Masters, Principals, and Fellows. And Proctors,’ he added, giving Michael a sidelong glance. ‘We meant no harm – just a tankard or two of ale and we would have been home. None of us intended to become drunk.’ This statement was confirmed vehemently by a chorus of agreement from the others. ‘Then a man offered to sell us some wine. He was asking a very reasonable price for claret from France and we thought we could bring it here and continue our celebrations more discreetly. We bought three bottles and came home.’

‘What did this man look like?’ asked Michael, reflecting with a distinct lack of enthusiasm on all the petty thieves he knew who might approach a gaggle of gullible undergraduates and sell them inferior wine under the pretence that it was fine quality stuff from abroad. He supposed the culprit would be well away by now, doubtless enjoying the congratulations of his cronies for having so easily cheated members of the University the townspeople so despised.

Xavier looked to his friends for help. ‘Not tall. He had a brown beard.’

‘He wore a blue tunic,’ put in a student with freckles and red hair, who looked about fourteen.

‘And his hose were undyed homespun,’ put in another. ‘Like these.’ He plucked at the rough material of his leggings and looked expectantly at Michael, as if the monk should immediately know the identity of the wine-seller from his meagre scrap of information.

‘He had brown eyes …’ added the red-haired student uncertainly.

‘No, he had blue eyes,’ said Xavier, frowning as he tried to remember. ‘Well, a sort of blue-grey. And there was something wrong with the skin on his hands.’

‘And what happened after you brought your ill-gotten gains back here?’ the monk asked, looking from one to the other with eyebrows raised in disapprobation.

‘Brother Armel was carrying one of the bottles. When we arrived …’

Xavier faltered, gazing down at his feet, and the red-haired student took up the story. ‘Brother Armel opened his bottle, took a great swig and…’

‘And what?’ prompted Michael.

As one, the novice Franciscans looked to where Armel lay on the floor. Xavier gave a sudden sob, loud in the otherwise silent room.

‘He staggered for a moment,’ continued the red-haired student unsteadily. ‘Then he grabbed at his throat and fell to the floor. We thought he was playing the fool, so we ignored him at first. Then we tried to rouse him, but it did no good.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Brother Henry said he would fetch Father Yvo, but Xavier said we needed the Proctors because Armel had been…’

‘Poisoned,’ finished Xavier in a whisper, as the red-haired student failed to utter the dreaded word. One or two of the novices crossed themselves and all eyes were, once again, fixed on the prone figure on the floor. Xavier choked back another sob and continued with his tale. ‘I ran to fetch Father Philius, the Master of Medicine at Gonville Hall, but he is sick himself and could not come. Then I went to look for you.’

Michael pursed his lips at the sorry tale and looked down to where Bartholomew still knelt next to Armel. ‘Well? Is Armel’s sudden fainting a case of too much ale and too few wits, like the rest of these silly boys?’

Bartholomew shook his head, and met his friend’s gaze sombrely. ‘Not at all, Brother. Xavier’s suspicions seem to have been correct: Armel has been poisoned.’

Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean he is dead?’ he asked in a whisper. The students hurriedly crossed themselves again and one or two dropped to their knees to begin intoning prayers for the dying in uncertain voices.

Bartholomew nodded helplessly and stood. There was nothing more he could do for Armel. The young man needed a priest to give him last rites to ensure the safety of his soul for whatever journey it was about to take.

Michael pulled himself together, dispatched Xavier to fetch the chrism he was sure Father Yvo would have and began to recite the office for the dead. Bartholomew withdrew to the far side of the room and watched. When Xavier returned with the little bottle of holy oil, Michael used it to trace a cross on Armel’s forehead, mouth, hands and feet. Bartholomew had seen Michael perform last rites many times when the plague had ravaged the town, and the monk’s ministrations had been of far more comfort to the victims than Bartholomew’s desperate, hopeless treatments. Watching Michael kneeling next to a dead youngster brought back memories that made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. He looked away.

As Michael finished and clambered inelegantly to his feet, Father Yvo, dragged from the celebrations at Valence Marie, entered the room at a run. He gazed at Armel in horror and his eyes widened in shock as he heard Michael’s brief summary of what had happened.

He swung round to Bartholomew. ‘You are a physician! Can you do nothing to help him? Perhaps we can make him drink water to wash the poisons out. Perhaps if we stood him up and made him walk–’

Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. ‘He was beyond all earthly help when I arrived, Father. The poison had settled too far into his body for me to do anything to save him. I am sorry.’

‘Where is this wine he drank?’ asked Michael of the watching novices. Xavier presented a slender, smoked-glass bottle, which the monk took from him warily. He inspected it minutely, lifting it to the light to see if he could detect any residues, and then sniffed cautiously at it. Bartholomew moved towards him quickly, afraid that he might inhale noxious fumes, but Michael shook his head to indicate that he could detect nothing. Meanwhile, Yvo had gathered his novices around him and had them kneeling in a circle around the dead Armel.

‘There is nothing more we can do here,’ Michael whispered to Bartholomew, watching them pray. ‘I will return tomorrow when they are less shocked and try to gain a better description of this wine-seller. Meanwhile, I am sure my beadles will be delighted with the task of visiting the taverns to see if they can find a man hawking illicit claret.’

Bartholomew took the bottle from him and wrapped it in his hat. ‘From what the students say, Armel took only a single mouthful of this and yet it affected him immediately. The poison must be very strong.’ He beckoned Xavier away from his prayers, collected the two unopened bottles and instructed the tearful student to tell everyone to wash their hands lest some dangerous residue remain. This done, Bartholomew and Michael took their leave.

Michael stepped outside with evident relief and began to head back along the High Street towards the Hall of Valence Marie. The rain still fell and the day seemed more dismal than ever. ‘What a ghastly business,’ he said with a shudder. ‘Poor Father Yvo! He runs a respectable hostel – unlike some of the establishments I could mention around here – and he is still not immune to foul play.’

‘Foul play,’ echoed Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I hope this does not herald the beginning of another sour period between University and town. There are still ill-feelings over those riots of last summer and I would not like to see all that started again.’

‘Lord, Matt!’ sighed Michael, his baggy, green eyes anxious. ‘This could have a devastating impact on town and gown relations. The University will be suspicious of trading with the merchants, and the townspeople will be anticipating a revenge attack at every turn.’ He stopped walking and stood still, his mind working quickly. ‘You are right in that the atmosphere is still uneasy between the students and the townspeople. It would take very little before we are back to the riots and lootings of August.’

‘But we might be jumping to the wrong conclusion,’ said Bartholomew, taking Michael’s arm to make him continue walking. The rain was blowing straight into the physician’s face and he felt chilled to the bone. ‘There is always the possibility that this wine-seller did not know his wares were poisoned, or even that he was unaware Xavier and his friends were students – they were not wearing their habits, after all.’

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Of course he knew! You recognised Xavier immediately as a student, even in secular clothes, and so would any intelligent person. And what kind of man does not know that the wine he sold to a handful of credulous lads – in a tavern, mind you, under the very nose of the man whose trade he is stealing – is poisoned?’

‘One who perhaps bought the wine from someone else?’ mused Bartholomew.

Michael considered for a moment and then dismissed the idea. ‘No, that is too contrived. Why would someone provide an innocent man with poisoned wine to sell? No, Matt. You were right with your first guess – that someone is aiming to foul the relationship between University and town. But what about this poison in the wine? Can you tell me anything about it, other than that it was horribly powerful?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘All I can say is that it did not kill Armel instantly, but rendered him unconscious and blistered his lips.’

They walked towards the Hall of Valence Marie, each lost in his own thoughts. Michael fretted over the possibility that his beloved University was once more to be the victim of the townspeople’s ire, while Bartholomew tried to fight away the feelings of helpless inadequacy he always experienced when he lost a patient.

Despite the rain, the High Street thronged with people. Liveried apprentices scampered this way and that as they ran their masters’ errands, while carts with heavy wooden wheels ferried goods to and from the Market Square and the river barges moored at the wharves. Here and there, strangers to the town gawked at the sumptuous buildings that lined the town’s main thoroughfare – such as the wealthy new College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin, founded just the previous year, with its mullioned windows and carved pediments; the sumptuous guildhouses with their coats of arms emblazoned over their doors; and the homes of the merchants with their stained-glass windows and decorative plaster. Few of them paid much attention to the untidy houses of Cambridge’s less wealthy inhabitants that were crammed in the spaces between them, noticeable only because their badly built walls and sagging roofs seemed to defy gravity.

Street vendors proclaimed the virtues of their wares in ringing voices, vying with each other and with the constant clatter of horses’ hooves and the thunder of wagons rumbling past. A small white dog, showing patches of black and pink skin through its filthy coat, yapped and worried at a small herd of sheep that was being driven to the slaughterhouse, so that frightened bleats added another tenor to the general cacophony.

They reached the Trumpington Gate, and elbowed their way through the crowd, squeezing past an indignant pardoner who was being denied access to the town for some spurious reason known only to the sergeant in charge of the guards. The sergeant waved cheerfully at Bartholomew, who had once set his broken leg, and then rearranged his face into a black scowl as he turned his attention back to the trader who was being refused admittance. Michael nodded approvingly as the sergeant sent the man packing: he did not like pardoners.

Once outside the gate, it grew quieter. The buildings gradually petered out to give way to narrow strips of fields tilled by the villagers who lived on the manor of Sir Roger de Panton. Opposite, water meadows rolled down to the River Cam, a peaceful swath of grass lined with trees, where people grazed their cattle – or did before it had become swamped and boggy from the rain.

Bartholomew stopped walking and looked up at the Hall of Valence Marie looming in front of him. ‘The last thing I feel like doing now is celebrating an installation.’

‘Me too,’ said Michael, pulling the hood of his black cloak further over his head against the chill. ‘I was looking forward to this, but giving last rites to a child has blunted my desire to enjoy myself.’

They stood in silence for a moment as they looked up at the powerful walls of the young College. It was a splendid building, comprising four ranges around a central courtyard, protected by powerful walls and a squat gatehouse tower. Founded only six years before, it enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, who ensured her College had the best architects and building materials money could buy.

‘So why did you decide not to accept the position of Master of Valence Marie when it was offered to you last year?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject from the poisoned wine but still making no move to enter. ‘You would have made them a fine Master.’

Michael looked sly. ‘I felt I was too young for such a position,’ he replied, bending down to brush at the mud on his habit.

‘Nonsense, Brother,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘What was your real reason?’

Michael gave a short bark of laughter and slapped his friend on the back. ‘You know me too well. Perhaps far too well for a man destined for great things.’

‘I assume you mean you, not me?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling an absent greeting to one of his patients, who waved before disappearing down one of the alleyways that led to the huddle of shacks near the King’s Mill.

Michael drew himself up to his full height. He had grown fatter during the last few months, despite his endless complaints about the paucity and poor quality of food since the plague, and his bulk and height made him a formidable size. ‘I spoke at length with my Lord the Bishop about that,’ he said, referring to Thomas de Lisle, the churchman who had jurisdiction over the See of Ely and the University of Cambridge within it. ‘He intimated my career would be better served by my remaining Senior Proctor.’

‘And how might chasing errant students in taverns in the dead of night help your career, rather than being Master of a new and wealthy College?’ asked Bartholomew with raised eyebrows. He was being unfair, he knew. There was more to Michael’s duties than policing the undergraduates, although keeping the rowdy, undisciplined students out of fights with the townspeople was vital to the smooth running of the town. Michael had amassed considerable power as the University’s Senior Proctor, and recently had started to undertake duties usually performed by the Chancellor himself – much to the offended disapproval of the Vice-Chancellor, who considered such duties should have been delegated to him.

‘I will be of more use to the Bishop while my attentions are not divided between his interests and those of a College,’ said Michael, favouring Bartholomew with a superior look. ‘He promised to look to my advancement when the time is right.’

‘And you trust him?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously. Bartholomew’s own experiences with the Bishop had taught him that although the Bishop was the spiritual leader of a large part of East Anglia, he had not attained his exalted position by being pleasant, honest and reliable. Bartholomew would not have trusted any promise made by the Bishop any more than he would one made by the Chancellor.

‘I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He needs me every bit as much as I need him. Since the Death, when he lost half his monks, he has been desperately short of intelligent, able men he can trust with his business. He cannot afford to lose someone like me.’

‘Modestly put, Brother,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘Has he promised to make you Chancellor one day? Or is it his own position you crave?’

‘Either would do nicely, Matt,’ said Michael comfortably. He looked again at the clean yellow-white stone of Valence Marie. ‘This is a fine building,’ he said, almost wistfully.

Bartholomew agreed. ‘I heard that the election of Thomas Bingham as its new Master – after you declined the honour – was hotly contested,’ he said. ‘It all but tore the College in half.’

Michael’s eyes glittered as he recalled the intrigues and rumours that had abounded during the race to elect Valence Marie’s new Master. The previous incumbent had been sent to York in disgrace after some unsavoury business involving a fraudulent relic the previous year, and his unexpected departure – as much a shock to him as to his College – had thrown the Fellowship into disarray.

‘I heard that considerable sums of money changed hands before Bingham finally secured the majority of votes,’ said Michael somewhat gleefully. ‘Rumour has it that James Grene, his rival, is bitterly resentful.’

‘It will not be easy for Bingham to rule Valence Marie if it is so divided,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether such a feat would be even remotely possible given the plotting and intrigues that festered and bubbled, even when a College or hostel was in a state of relative harmony, let alone when there was a serious division among members.

‘Quite,’ said Michael smugly. ‘Another reason for declining the Chancellor’s generous offer to have Valence Marie handed to me on a plate – neither Grene nor Bingham would have allowed me to run the College without fighting me at every turn, because they would have deeply resented my appointment. And on top of their ambitions, Valence Marie remains in turmoil over the bones Thorpe found last year. Some of the Fellows still think that the hand he dredged from the King’s Ditch was that of a saint.’

‘Thorpe is in no position to benefit from their loyalty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of how the aloof Master had been transferred to a post at an obscure grammar school to punish him for his foolish belief in the bones’ authenticity. The new post had been ‘offered’ by the King himself, leaving Thorpe no choice but to pack up his belongings and go.

They stood for a moment longer, thinking about Thorpe and his relic, and then entered Valence Marie through its handsome front gate – Bartholomew with reluctance, Michael with a growing enthusiasm, fired by the discussion of the uncertain, insalubrious world of University politics.

The physician had just handed his soggy cloak and the three bottles of poisoned wine – he could hardly take them with him to the festivities in the hall and then the church, and there was no time to take them to Michaelhouse first – to a curious porter, when a messenger arrived, leaning breathlessly against the doorjamb. He was one of a family of tinkers who lived near the river and whose family Bartholomew had recently treated for winter fever. The tinker’s sharp eyes darted everywhere, taking in the elegant tapestries that hung on the walls in the entrance hall and the highly polished brass handles on the doors. Bartholomew wondered if he were sizing it up for a future burglary. Apparently, the porter thought the same, for he bundled the tinker out of the door and demanded to know his business.

‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said the tinker, ignoring the porter and addressing the physician. ‘You are needed urgently at Master Constantine Mortimer’s house. He has been struck down with pains in the stomach and asks that you attend him immediately.’

‘But he is not my patient,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is in the care of Father Philius. Do you know Philius? He is Master of Medicine at Gonville Hall. You need to contact him, not me.’

‘You are far too honest,’ said Michael reprovingly. ‘Go to Mortimer, man! He is one of the wealthiest merchants in the town and a burgess, too. He will pay you handsomely for making you miss the installation. To the Devil with Philius!’

‘I know Philius,’ said the tinker. ‘But he is unwell himself, and Mistress Mortimer told me to fetch you instead. You had better hurry, because she told me she thought he might be dying.’

‘It seems you are destined not to see Master Bingham take his oath of allegiance to Valence Marie, Matt,’ said Michael, trying to rub away the spatters of mud that clung around the hem of his fine new habit. He straightened and gave Bartholomew a wink, leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially. ‘You can always just come for the food later. That will be the best part anyway. I have been told there will be roast boar!’

Bartholomew did not much mind the summons that took him from the tedious Latin investiture ceremony to attend a patient, grateful for the excuse to escape yet more of what was going to be a lengthy occasion. He retrieved his cloak from the porter, and followed the tinker to Milne Street, where many of the wealthy town burgesses had their homes. Most of them would have been invited to the installation, and Bartholomew was sure that Master Mortimer must be ill indeed to pass up the opportunity of rubbing shoulders with some of the most influential men in the town.

Activity in Milne Street was, as usual, frenetic. Raised voices yelled the prices of this and that, and goods were being carried from the barges moored at the wharves on the river to the great storerooms in the merchants’ yards. Bartholomew saw wooden crates filled with clanking bottles from France, while Mortimer’s own cellars were being loaded with bulging sacks of flour brought from the arable lands around Lincoln to the north. Among it all, gulls screamed and squabbled for the rubbish along the river banks, and a dog barked furiously at a teetering pile of cloth bales behind which a rat had fled. The rain seemed to have had little effect on trade, and bargemen and apprentices alike seemed oblivious to their dripping hoods and sodden clothes.

When Bartholomew looked behind him for the tinker, he had disappeared, and the physician wondered with irritation whether one of his students was playing some kind of practical joke – Master Mortimer the baker was a far cry from the town’s poor that Bartholomew usually treated. But as he pondered, glancing around to see if he could detect any watching undergraduates, a woman darted out of Mortimer’s house and seized his arm.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘My husband says he is dying and Father Philius cannot attend because he has an ague. If you had not come, we might have had to ask Robin of Grantchester!’

Her horrified expression, and the hush in her voice as she uttered the name, bespoke the trepidation many people felt for Cambridge’s only surgeon. Unlike physicians, who were University educated, surgeons were mere craftsmen. Robin of Grantchester was an insanitary individual, whose habit of demanding payment before treatment, to avoid the trouble of suing bereaved next of kin in the event of sudden death, did little to inspire confidence in his skills. While the duties of physicians and surgeons overlapped, their techniques and expertise seldom did. Unusually for a physician, Bartholomew regularly performed a number of basic surgical operations, which led him into bitter confrontations, both with his fellow physicians who deplored the use of surgery and with Robin who felt his trade was being poached.

Katherine Mortimer gabbled at him as she led the way through the bakery and up a wide flight of stairs to the living quarters on the upper floor. She was a pleasant woman with a kindly face and sad blue eyes, whom Bartholomew had known for years and liked. In fact, he liked her a good deal more than her husband, whose short temper and brutish behaviour made him generally unpopular with townsfolk and scholars alike.

‘All the apprentices are busy unloading the flour,’ said Katherine, ‘so I had to pay that tinker to act as messenger when Constantine told me he was dying and that I should summon help. I told the tinker not to go to Michaelhouse, but straight to Valence Marie, since all the Fellows of the University will be there today for the celebrations … well, not you now, I suppose–’

‘How long has your husband been ill?’ asked Bartholomew, as soon as he could slip a few words into her almost continuous nervous babble.

‘Since mid-morning,’ she replied, leading him along an attractive corridor with a floor of polished wood and colourful paintings on the walls. At the end was a large, masculine room containing a massive bed surrounded by curtains of a deep red velvet and several damp, smelly dogs. The room was quiet, yet was filled with people, like that of a dying statesman. Bartholomew looked about him uneasily, uncomfortable at the notion of treating a patient in front of such a large audience. He saw the nursemaid with Mortimer’s younger children gathered about her, all regarding him with frightened faces; the household priest knelt in a corner, his lips moving as he spoke soundless prayers; and a huddle of men, clearly Mortimer’s foremen and chief bakers, stood near the glazed window holding their hats awkwardly in their hands.

Since no one did anything other than gaze at him expectantly, Bartholomew took the initiative and strode across the room to the curtained bed, wondering whether he had already been called too late and the baker was already dead. His footsteps clattered on the wooden floor, sounding even louder in the silent room. He drew the thick material back, and peered inside.

Master Constantine Mortimer lay on the bed in a tangle of covers, his face unhealthily white and his balding pate covered with a sheen of sweat. Both hands were pressed firmly to his stomach. As he heard the curtains open, he looked up and glowered, but his expression softened when he saw Bartholomew. Weakly, he flapped a hand to indicate that the physician should come closer.

Bartholomew fought his way through the hangings, and sat on the edge of the bed. The ailing baker looked at him helplessly, the aggressive demeanour, which filled his family, his apprentices and a good many of his colleagues with fear, absent. Bartholomew leaned over and felt his forehead. It was cold and clammy. Then he felt the lifebeat in Mortimer’s wrist, assessing its strength and speed. It was steady, but rather faster than it should have been for a man of Mortimer’s age and size according to the guidelines established by the great Greek physician Galen. But, even so, Mortimer was not dying as everyone seemed to think.

‘The messenger said you had pains?’ whispered Bartholomew, not liking to speak too loudly in the reverently hushed chamber.

‘Terrible pains, Bartholomew,’ replied Mortimer hoarsely. ‘I am not long for this world.’

He hauled up the front of his expensive linen shirt, revealing a considerable expanse of white, jelly-like flesh for Bartholomew to inspect. Bartholomew rubbed his cold hands together in a vain attempt to warm them, and then gently palpated the baker’s abdomen, assuming his icy fingers rather than discomfort were responsible for the sharp intakes of breath on his patient’s part.

‘What have you eaten over the last day?’ Bartholomew asked, sitting back and replacing the shirt over the vast abdomen.

‘Why?’ whispered Mortimer, his face pale. ‘Was it the last meal I will have on Earth?’

‘You are not dying, Master Mortimer. You have just eaten something that has disagreed with you. What have you had since yesterday?’

In Bartholomew’s experience, patients stricken with stomach aches caused by over-indulgence usually required a moment to recall precisely what they had consumed, and then they often lied about it, embarrassed to admit to their gluttony. But Mortimer answered immediately and with great precision, suggesting that food was something he took very seriously.

‘Dinner last night was light – just a hare pie, venison cooked with cream, a loaf of barley bread and some egg custard to follow. I broke my fast with wine, a bowl of oatmeal, some bacon, a mess of eggs and fresh bread. Then, before I became ill, I had some fruit and a few of the cinnamon cakes my wife makes.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Do you always eat so heartily?’

Mortimer shot him a sharp look. ‘I told you, dinner was light last night. I have been saving myself for the installation feast today.’

Bartholomew sat back and considered. The man was clearly an habitual glutton and so his stomach cramps were unlikely to be caused by simple greed if his constitution was used to such vast quantities of food.

‘Have you eaten anything different over the last day – something you do not usually have?’

‘Only the fruit,’ said Mortimer. ‘And the sugared almonds.’

‘Do you usually avoid fruit?’

‘No,’ replied Mortimer. ‘I will eat most things.’ This Bartholomew could well believe. ‘But these fruits were special. Lemons from Spain.’

‘Lemons?’ queried Bartholomew, surprised. ‘At this time of year? In Cambridge?’

The Master Baker gave a superior smile. ‘They are very expensive so I would not expect a man of your meagre means to know. Thomas Deschalers, the grocer, sold some to me. I ate them quartered and dipped in fine white sugar.’

Bartholomew winced at the mere concept. ‘You ate raw lemons?’

Mortimer nodded, unaware of or indifferent to Bartholomew’s revulsion. ‘With sugar. I am told they are an acquired taste and should not be given to women or children lest they disturb the humours. I bought ten. I gave one to Edward, my eldest son, and I ate the rest myself.’

Bartholomew shuddered, his teeth on edge. ‘I have been to Spain and the people there cook lemons or use the juice for drinking with water. I have never seen anyone eat one raw – sugar or not – and certainly not nine at once. Their juice is sour and has probably upset the balance in your stomach.’

‘But Thomas Deschalers said nothing of this,’ protested Mortimer. ‘He said the King has lemons at his table – and what is good enough for the King is good enough for me. I named my first son after the King, you know.’ He gave Bartholomew an ingratiating smile that vanished as he was racked with a spasm of his gripes. Bartholomew poked his head through the curtains and asked Katherine to fetch warm milk from the kitchen.

She glanced towards the bed, as if trying to see through the thick hangings to where her husband lay like a beached whale. ‘Will he live?’

Bartholomew smiled reassuringly. ‘He is not dying.’

She regarded him uncertainly. ‘Are you sure? He told me he was breathing his last.’

‘It is just indigestion from the lemons. It can be very painful,’ he added when he saw her uncertainty change to anger.

‘Indigestion?’ she repeated in disbelief. ‘He said he was on his deathbed and had me summon all these people. Now you tell me it was his greed with those wretched lemons? I told him to peel them first but he would insist that he knew best!’

With some difficulty, Bartholomew managed to interrupt her tirade and send her for the milk. When it arrived, he added a small amount of finely ground chalk powder and some laudanum. After the potion had been swallowed to the last drop, he untangled the bedclothes and made his patient comfortable for the deep sleep he knew would soon come.

‘I feel better already,’ murmured Mortimer gratefully. ‘The terrible burning has eased. I will have words with Deschalers about those lemons. I wonder how the King’s constitution deals with such sour foods. He must be a strong man indeed.’

‘I am sure his constitution is nothing compared to yours,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously, helping Mortimer to ease further down the bed.

Mortimer closed his eyes drowsily, but then opened them again and fixed the physician with a hard stare. ‘Your reputation belies your abilities, Bartholomew. It is said you indulge in surgery and I was expecting to be sliced open like a pig in order to be cured of my pains, but you have been as gentle with me as a mother with a new-born babe. My only complaint is that your hands are as cold as those of a corpse. Buy some gloves, man!’

Bartholomew nodded vaguely and began to buckle his bag as he prepared to leave. Mortimer reached out and rested a moist, flabby hand on his wrist.

‘I am quite serious, Bartholomew,’ the baker insisted. ‘You will kill someone with shock one day if you continue to place them on bare flesh in so reckless a manner. I have some gloves you can buy. Katherine!’

‘No, please, I–’ began Bartholomew. But it was too late. Katherine was dispatched for the gloves and Bartholomew’s protestations that he did not want any were overridden.

‘Look on them as a tool of your trade,’ preached Mortimer condescendingly. ‘A physician with cold hands is about as desirable as a baker who dribbles in his dough. Ah, here is Katherine with the gloves. Choose a pair, Bartholomew. I will make you a good deal.’

‘Yes, choose,’ said Katherine. She smiled nervously at her husband and then addressed Bartholomew. ‘But you will not pay for them; they will be a gift to compensate you for the fact that you have missed the installation in order to attend Constantine.’

‘What?’ gasped Mortimer in shock, attempting to raise himself from his pillow. Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but Katherine was not interested in interruptions. It was unusual to see the shy, diffident woman cross her husband and Bartholomew wondered whether his claim to have been brushed by death had rendered him suddenly more human and fallible in her eyes.

‘Doctor Bartholomew could have declined to come to you, Constantine,’ she reasoned. ‘You are not his patient and he will be the only Fellow in the University to miss the grand installation that the town has been discussing for weeks.’

‘Except for Father Philius,’ grunted Mortimer. ‘You told me he is ill, too.’

‘And you should remember that Father Philius would not have answered your summons until the festivities were over,’ said Katherine. ‘Now, try these green gloves, Doctor. They are the best ones here and suitably fine for a man of your profession.’

‘They make his hands look leprous,’ said Mortimer, eyeing them critically. ‘Give him the black pair. Black goes with anything and you would not want him to don green gloves with that red robe.’

‘True enough,’ admitted Katherine. ‘And the black ones are harder wearing than the green. Your sister tells me you are careless with clothes and so you should probably take a more durable pair. Do they fit?’

‘They fit perfectly,’ announced Mortimer, as though Bartholomew was incapable of answering, leaning forward to tug at one of the fingers experimentally. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I feel terribly sleepy. Next time you come to me, Bartholomew, I shall expect to be examined with hands as soft and warm as a baby’s, not rough, red and frozen like a peasant’s.’

Bartholomew smiled and made his farewells to the baker. He ushered the assembled people – and dogs – out of the bedchamber, assuring them that their master needed only rest to make a full recovery, although not all of them seemed overjoyed by the news that death had been cheated of its prey.

Katherine saw him to the door and handed him two silver pennies. ‘It was kind of you to come when you should be at the installation.’

‘So should you,’ said Bartholomew, certain that Valence Marie would not risk offending one of the most powerful merchants in the town and his wife by not issuing them an invitation.

Katherine gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I am tempted to go now since it seems the reason I am to be denied is my husband’s greed. But I am sure word has gone out that Constantine is gravely ill, and I do not want to appear uncaring. When he wakes in the morning, he will be telling folk how you snatched him from the jaws of death. My son Edward is the same. While the rest of us suffer simple rheums, he has a terrible fever; a tiny cut is a life-threatening wound with him.’

‘Not everyone bears discomfort stoically,’ said Bartholomew carefully, not wanting to tell her that he considered Mortimer’s summons a complete waste of his time, because the baker would have recovered perfectly well after a good night of sleep and a day of careful eating anyway.

Katherine sighed again, but then became businesslike. She took Bartholomew’s elegantly clad hand and smiled. ‘I am keeping you from the celebrations while I run on. Thank you again, and enjoy the festivities.’

For the third time that day, Bartholomew turned towards the Hall of Valence Marie. He glanced down at his best gown and saw that it was liberally splattered with mud, while water dripped from the hem. His boots were filthy, and kneeling on the rush-strewn floor of St Bernard’s Hostel to tend Armel had caused fragments of the dried plants to adhere to them. In short, he looked scruffy, impoverished and disreputable. He wondered if the Valence Marie porter would even let him in, or whether he should obey his strong inclination to head home, perhaps to sit by the fire in the kitchen and watch the rain teem past the window. He hesitated, seriously considering returning to Michaelhouse.

But, like it or not, he was committed to attending at least part of the installation ceremony, and he could not, in all conscience, use Mortimer’s ailment as an excuse to stay away for much longer. He would be missed, if not by the Fellows and Master-Elect of Valence Marie, then by his own colleagues at Michaelhouse, some of whom would claim that his absence was a dereliction of duty and that he had done disservice to Michaelhouse’s good relations with another College.

Stamping his feet to try to dislodge some of the mud from his boots, he stepped through the sturdy front gates of Valence Marie and prepared to be admonished by the condescending porter for his bedraggled appearance on such an auspicious day. The porter, however, seemed to have gone off duty and a student was performing the role of doorman. He was considerably more polite than the porter had been, and cheerfully helped Bartholomew to brush the worst of the mud from his clothes.

By the time the physician had been conducted to Valence Marie’s splendid hall, the ceremony was virtually over. He stood at the back, leaning against the wall, and remembered the events of the previous summer when, had it not been for the timely intervention of Michael, he would have lost his life in that very room. Since then, the hall had been redecorated on the orders of its incoming Master, and new tapestries in brightly coloured wools adorned the walls. Above his head, the wooden musicians’ gallery had been rebuilt and boasted some of the finest carvings in Cambridge. A group of students was there now, singing to occupy the guests while the Fellows of the Hall of Valence Marie lined up to sign the writ that would make legal the installation of Thomas Bingham as Master.

When the last Fellow had shuffled his way forward and added his name to the official parchment, the singing stopped and Bingham began to make his speech. In Bingham’s position, Bartholomew would have been brief. The election had not been unanimous and ill-feelings might be resurrected if Bingham spoke at too great a length about his victory over his rival and his plans for the College. The new Master, however, had a good deal to say on a wide range of matters and, in the body of the hall, the assembly became restless. The language of the University was Latin, and while Bartholomew and the other scholars were fluent, few of the guests from the town would understand all of Bingham’s words. Despite the chilly weather, the hall, filled to overflowing with people, began to grow stuffy and soon became uncomfortable.

Bartholomew edged nearer the door, where a welcome draught wafted in from outside, and thought about the events of the day. He wondered about the three bottles of wine, still wrapped in his hat and left in the porter’s lodge for safety. Had a townsperson deliberately sold the students poisoned claret? Michael clearly thought so, but Bartholomew had his doubts. He was certain the Franciscan novices would not have been behaving sufficiently rowdily to warrant someone wanting them dead – none of them had been drunk when he and Michael had arrived and they seemed a tame group to him, particularly compared to his own students. The Franciscans seemed the kind of young men whose idea of wild behaviour was three goblets of ale and staying up past midnight – a stark contrast to some Michaelhouse scholars, whose ways of merrymaking sometimes verged on the criminal.

And the business of the lemons was odd, too. Bartholomew could not recall ever having seen lemons in Cambridge in February before. Mortimer must have paid dearly for such a luxury – from his purse as well as his innards. Bartholomew smiled to himself as he imagined the merchant sitting at his table eating the sour fruits one after the other. Regardless of the amount of fine white sugar he had added, it would not have been a pleasant repast. Bartholomew recalled that Mortimer was the son of a ditcher, and had worked hard to haul himself from his lowly beginnings to his present status. Whatever Mortimer had heard, Bartholomew was certain the King did not devour raw lemons on a regular basis, and it was ironic that, even as Mortimer tried to show the world he was wealthy and accomplished, he betrayed his simple origins by revealing he did not know how to prepare the luxury foods he was able to buy.

At the dais to the front of the hall, Bingham looked up from his sheaf of notes and paused for breath. Immediately, someone began to clap. Bartholomew saw it was Thomas Kenyngham, the gentle Master of Michaelhouse, beaming his customary seraphic smile and nodding in a congratulatory manner to Bingham. Seizing the opportunity for an early end to the tedious speech, everyone else hastened to join in the applause, while the Fellows of Valence Marie prepared to lead the procession out to the church. The students began to sing, while the people in the hall stretched stiff limbs in evident relief. Bingham’s mouth dropped open in dismay, but his Fellows clustered about him to offer their felicitations, and then the procession was on the move. Bingham had to scamper to take his place of honour behind them, or run the risk of being left behind.

Amused by Bingham’s discomfiture, Bartholomew waited for the Fellows from his own College as the other guests filed past him. Master Kenyngham led the Michaelhouse deputation, a guileless smile still playing about his lips, his eyes raised heavenward and his lips moving in prayer. Bartholomew had no doubt that Kenyngham’s timely interruption of Bingham’s speech was wholly innocent: of all the scholars in the University, the honest, kindly Gilbertine friar would be the least likely to do something purposely malicious.

Behind Kenyngham scurried Roger Alcote, a small, vindictive man whose ambitious eyes were already on the Mastership currently occupied by Kenyngham. Blind Father Paul leaned on the arm of Father William, both Franciscan friars who taught theology and the Trivium – grammar, logic, and rhetoric. Michael brought up the rear with Michaelhouse’s newest Fellows – John Runham, who taught law, and Ralph de Langelee, who lectured in philosophy.

Runham was the cousin of a previous, highly unpopular Master of Michaelhouse who had died during the plague, and seemed to have inherited some of his detested kinsman’s less loveable traits: he was arrogant, smug and condescending. But he was easily one of the best teachers of law Michaelhouse had ever seen. His lectures were eloquent, precise and logically flawless, and his reputation meant that the College was inundated with applications from students who wanted him to teach them. Because the numbers of new would-be scholars were low following the plague, a popular master like Runham was a valuable commodity, and Bartholomew tried hard to maintain a cordial relationship with him for the College’s sake.

Meanwhile, Runham’s room-mate, Ralph de Langelee, did not look at all like a philosopher: he was a hulking figure with brawny arms so heavily muscled that they jutted from his body at an angle. As he passed, Langelee shot Bartholomew an unpleasant look for being late, which Bartholomew ignored. Although Langelee had only been a Fellow for a few weeks, he had already made himself unpopular with the students and staff. He bullied the servants, belittled his undergraduates, and tried to thwart every attempt Bartholomew made to improve living conditions at Michaelhouse.

Unlike Runham, Langelee was not a good teacher. His lectures were confused and filled with contradictions, and he did not seem to enjoy them any more than did his bewildered students. He compensated for his lack of skills by making it known around the University that he was available for any other kind of work, and was making a fortune by acting as scribe and writing letters for the rich and illiterate in his ugly, laboured roundhand. Bartholomew did not like Langelee, a feeling he was sure was fully reciprocated, and avoided his company whenever possible. The physician worked hard at his teaching and his ever-growing practice of patients, and did not want to waste the little free time he had in the company of an arrogant, opinionated man like Langelee.

Michael dropped behind the two new Fellows so that he could walk with Bartholomew.

‘I have had a complaint from the porter with whom we left that wine,’ he said, speaking in a low voice so that he would not be overheard. ‘According to him, he was moving the bottles to a safer place – although I imagine what really happened was that he was wondering whether they were worth stealing, or perhaps siphoning and diluting.’

‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘I hope to God he did not drink any.’

‘Fortunately for him, no,’ said Michael. ‘But he touched the bottle, as you specifically instructed him not to do. He has a burn on his hand the size of an egg.’ He shuddered. ‘Lord help us, Matt! What is that stuff?’