A Deadly Brew

Chapter 3

Even as they cut the body down, Bartholomew could see that help had come too late for Isaac. His hands had been tied behind his back and a gag fastened around his mouth to stop him from crying out. Bartholomew was curious as to why the room did not show signs of a struggle, but an examination of Isaac’s body revealed that he had been dealt a vicious blow to the head. In fact, the blow had been so hard that Bartholomew wondered if that, and not the strangulation, had been what had killed him. His murderer, evidently, was taking no chances.

While Cynric went to fetch Michael – whose duty as Senior Proctor it would be to investigate a murder on University property – Bartholomew sat back on his heels next to the body and considered. Was Isaac a random victim of violence? Had he disturbed a burglar when he entered the storeroom to fetch the wine he had used in the purges at Bartholomew’s request? Or was his death connected somehow to the wine itself? Bartholomew stood, and looked around for the bottle.

Isaac seemed to have used one particular bench for making his purges. Bartholomew inspected it, and then bent to peer underneath. The slender, smoked-glass bottle lay smashed, the wine pooling on the floor. As Bartholomew considered it, a ginger cat reeled out from behind one of the flour bags and swayed towards him unsteadily. Before he could stop it, it had bent to the wine and had lapped several mouthfuls from a small amount that remained cupped in the bottle’s base. He watched curiously as it wove its way from under the bench and rubbed around his legs. He picked it up and inspected it closely. It was certainly drunk, and the few gulps it had swallowed as he had watched were evidently not all it had consumed that night, yet it showed no signs of poisoning. He carried it to the candle Cynric had lit and prised open its mouth. There was no blistering.

He released it and watched it wobble out of the door. He frowned, puzzled, and then leaned forward to retrieve the fragments of bottle. As his fingers groped around for the glass, they touched something warm and furry and he quickly withdrew his hand in disgust. A rat! He looked closer and saw it was lying very still. He reached under the bench and took a cautious hold of the rodent by its long bony tail. A brief inspection showed him that it was quite dead, and a bubble of blood oozing from its mouth suggested that it, unlike the cat, had been poisoned. Now Bartholomew was truly bewildered. He had seen the cat drink the wine with no ill effects other than intoxication, whereas the rat – that obviously had not been drinking while the cat was under the bench and so could only have had time for the merest sip – had been killed in an instant.

As he pondered, an unpleasant thought occurred to him that had him up on his feet and racing towards Philius’s room. If Isaac’s killer had come for the bottle, and if he had not found it because it had been smashed under the bench, he might consider looking for it in Philius’s chamber!

He entered the Franciscan’s quarters at a run, and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Philius move restlessly on the bed. He was about to walk towards him when something struck him heavily on the back, sending him sprawling forwards onto his hands and knees. He tried to scramble to his feet, but a blanket was hurled over his head. He struggled violently, desperately trying to free his hands from the clinging material. Someone’s arms wrapped round him, trying to hold him still. He struggled more frantically than ever, lashing out with his feet, and then threw himself backwards with all his might and heard a heavy grunt as he crushed his attacker against the wall.

There was a loud crash and his attacker’s hold suddenly loosened.

‘Leave him!’

Bartholomew was swung round so that he lost his balance and toppled over, and then heard running footsteps. He fought himself free of the blanket and was about to follow when he saw the fire at the far end of the room. The crash had been the lamp being hurled against the wall: it lay on its side and flames were already licking at the woollen carpets on the floor. There was a crackle as they ignited and fire inched towards the bed. Bartholomew saw two figures race past the window: Isaac’s killers, and one was, perhaps, the man who had sold poisoned wine to young Armel, too. He stood immobile for an instant, itching to give chase. But the edges of Philius’s blankets were beginning to smoulder and the room was filling with a thick, choking smoke.

He swept up the blanket that had been flung over his head and beat the flames away from the bed. Philius shifted slightly, but did not wake. Bartholomew swiped again, but the dry rugs were like tinder and the fire was already touching the tapestries on the walls. With horror, he wondered whether he would be able to douse it before it took a good hold. Fire was something everyone feared in settlements where most buildings were made of timber: if Gonville burned, the flames would spread to the adjoining houses in St Michael’s Lane and the entire town might be engulfed. He redoubled his efforts, yelling at the top of his voice for help. In desperation, he hauled the bedclothes away from Philius, tumbling him to the floor, and hurled them over the burning rugs. He was looking around for something else to use when Cynric arrived with help in the form of a handful of students, Michael and John Colton of Terrington, the Master of Gonville.

Cynric and Bartholomew beat at the now blazing rugs, Michael yelled at the students to fetch water, and it was not long before the fire was under control. Leaving Cynric to ensure it did not ignite again, Bartholomew turned his attention to his misused patient. Philius stared around him in a daze as Bartholomew lifted him back onto the bed. Colton tucked him in, while Michael sent the porter with a message to his beadles to be on the lookout for the three people who had knocked him to the ground as they came hurtling out of Gonville’s main gate.

‘Three?’ queried Bartholomew, looking round at him. ‘I saw only two.’

‘There were three,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric would have been after them had he not heard your shouts for help.’

‘Has Father Philius come to any harm?’ asked Colton anxiously, peering at the Franciscan in the room that was almost pitch black now the flames had been doused. ‘He does not seem to be himself.’

Colton was a small, neat man with a well-trimmed grey beard and a dark complexion, almost like an Arab. He was the first Master the College had ever had, and had been elected at the height of the plague when no one was sure who, if anyone, would survive.

Bartholomew knelt next to the bed. ‘The opiate is making him dazed. We should let him rest.’

He tried to stand, but Philius grabbed his wrist.

‘What happened?’ he croaked.

‘You can speak!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pleased. ‘That is a good sign!’

‘Isaac.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank, thinking of the lifeless body of Philius’s book-bearer in the storeroom, but, before he was forced to lie, Colton intervened.

‘Isaac is resting, Philius. As should you.’

Philius shook his head. ‘Isaac,’ he croaked, his voice little more than a rustle. ‘Isaac steals.’ He swallowed painfully and tried again. ‘He stole wine from Stanmore.’

‘Oswald Stanmore?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘My brother-in-law?’

Philius nodded. ‘His apprentice drank the wine and died.’

His eyes began to close, and Bartholomew knew they would get nothing further from him that night. The dose of laudanum he had used had been a powerful one: Bartholomew had intended that Philius should rest until the morning, so that sleep could allow the body to heal itself.

‘Did that mean anything to you?’ asked Michael, leaning over Bartholomew’s shoulder, and looking down at the sleeping friar. Bartholomew shrugged, his expression troubled, and stood up. He ordered that the shutters be opened to allow the smoke out, and closed again when the room was clear. Meanwhile, the nightporter set about building up the fire in the hearth, and restoring order to Philius’s room. Bartholomew promised to return to visit the ailing physician the following morning, and took his leave. In a few words, he told Michael what had happened as they walked across Gonville’s yard together. Colton hurried after them and waylaid them by the gate.

‘What is happening?’ he demanded of Bartholomew. ‘The porter woke me to say Isaac was dead, and then I find someone has tried to ignite Philius in his room.’

‘Some wine made him ill,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly, not wanting to go into details. ‘Isaac was fetching it for me to examine when he seems to have been struck down.’

‘Isaac was struck down for wine?’ asked Colton, confused.

‘I expect he disturbed a burglar,’ said Michael, rubbing his chin. ‘The Sheriff was telling me only yesterday that the wolves-heads, who have been busy on the highways since Christmas, attacked three houses inside the town itself last week. They are growing bolder all the time.’

‘How secure is Gonville?’ asked Bartholomew of Colton. ‘How easy would it be to break in?’

Colton raised his hands, palms upwards, and gestured around him. Bartholomew saw he was shaking. ‘There is a porter on the front door, but if he is called away, I suppose it would be easy enough for a determined person to gain access. Do you think that is what happened?’

‘The alternative is that Isaac was killed by someone already inside,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Colton shook his head. ‘No one in Gonville would attack Isaac. And certainly no one would harm Philius. How was Isaac killed? Come with me to see. He is in the storeroom, you say?’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed him across the courtyard, Michael in tow, and into Philius’s medicine room. Colton bent to look at Isaac’s corpse. ‘Poor man. He has been Philius’s book-bearer for many years.’

‘Where is this bottle?’ asked Michael in a low voice, as Colton began to pray over Isaac’s body. ‘We should retrieve it before anyone else comes to harm.’

‘It is broken, under the bench,’ said Bartholomew, pointing. While Michael went to look, Bartholomew sank down onto a stool, and rested his head in his hands. He wondered what time it was. It must be almost time for lauds. He looked up as Michael began to sigh in agitation.

‘Where is it exactly?’ he hissed irritably. ‘I cannot find it.’

Wearily, Bartholomew hauled himself up from the stool, and crouched to point out the bottle. His jaw dropped in astonishment. A dark stain on the wooden floor indicated where the wine had spilled, but every shard of the broken bottle itself had gone. He exchanged a mystified glance with Michael, and looked again to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him.

He stood slowly and rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘It was there,’ was all he could think to say. He saw a furry body nearby and pushed it with his foot. ‘And there is the rat that drank it.’

Michael knelt to examine the rodent. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked doubtfully.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I did not see it drink the wine, but the cat …’ He looked around him. ‘Is there a cat in the College?’ he called to Colton. ‘A big ginger one?’

Colton paused in his prayers, and treated him to a suspicious look. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Have you seen it recently?’

Colton looked angry. ‘Isaac is murdered, Philius’s room set alight and there are robbers at large, and you enquire after the cat?’

As if on cue, the cat entered, still staggering uneasily on its feet.

Colton gave it an unfriendly look. ‘It drinks. It haunts the storerooms and kitchens in search of ale and wine, and needs to be carefully watched or it smashes things.’

‘We have one or two Fellows who are the same,’ said Michael drolly. Bartholomew picked up the cat, and inspected it a second time. It looked back at him through contentedly half-closed eyes and began to purr loudly. It struggled when he looked inside its mouth, but purred again when he rubbed its fur absently. He had been right the first time: the cat showed no signs of poisoning.

He shrugged at Michael, who sighed, and gestured to Isaac’s body.

‘What can you tell us about his death?’

Bartholomew put the cat down, and knelt to re-examine Isaac. ‘He was hit on the head first, and I think the blow was sufficient to kill him. Can you see how I am able to move the bones of his skull in my hands? The brain underneath must have been seriously damaged.’

The small room filled with unpleasant grating sounds. Colton turned white and Michael looked away in revulsion. ‘Please, Matt!’ he said. ‘We do not need to know every gruesome detail.’

Bartholomew grinned at him behind Colton’s back. ‘I think his hands were bound behind him and he was hauled up to the rafters by the neck after he was struck. There are no marks on his wrists, so he did not struggle as he would have done had he been alive and conscious. Whoever did this wanted to make certain he was dead.’

‘They did a good job,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Could they not tell the blow to the head had killed him? Was it really necessary to hang him too?’

Bartholomew looked at Isaac’s head. ‘It was probably dark, and, although the bones of the skull are smashed, the skin is barely broken. Perhaps they thought they had only stunned him. Leaving someone to hang is a reliable way of ensuring death if you are in a hurry and cannot afford to wait.’

‘But so is stabbing,’ pointed out Colton. ‘And a quick thrust with a knife would be considerably easier than heaving an inert body up by its neck.’

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But perhaps they had no weapons. They might have stabbed Matt, rather than engage in all that pointless struggling if they had.’ He gestured around the room. ‘And there are no knives here that could have been used, although there is plenty of rope.’

Bartholomew looked into the corner where Michael pointed and saw several lengths of rope discarded there that had been used to tie the sacks of flour. He was about to stand when a patch on one of Isaac’s hands caught his eye. He looked more closely, and saw the left palm was blistered and the surrounding skin was inflamed. Bartholomew racked his brains, trying to recall whether the injury had been present before Isaac had gone to the storeroom, but the memory eluded him. The porter at Valence Marie had complained of a burned hand after he had touched the bottles from St Bernard’s Hostel that Bartholomew had left in his care, and now it seemed as though Isaac might have sustained a similar wound after using the wine to prepare Philius’s purge.

Bartholomew and Michael took their leave of Colton, collected Cynric and walked the short distance back to Michaelhouse.

‘I was wrong about the outlaws,’ said Michael. ‘A band of thieves intent on robbery would not come without knives or swords with which to protect themselves. It must all relate to this vile wine. I will talk to Harling at first light, but I am sure he will want us to keep it quiet. There will be all manner of trouble if the scholars believe the town is trying to kill them with poisoned goods.’

‘There will be all manner of trouble if they succeed because we have not issued a warning,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Our priority must be to save lives. We will not do that by staying silent.’

‘Oh, but we will, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘If we allow rumours to escape that three members of the University – Armel, Grene and now Isaac – have been murdered with or because of poisoned wine, the scholars will riot for certain. And then who knows what the death toll will be? We will talk with Harling and the Sheriff tomorrow, and decide what to do then.’

‘You talk to them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will test the wine from Valence Marie and Bernard’s. You need to be absolutely certain that the poison is the same before you start your inquiries. Then I will check Armel’s body and tell you whether the blisters are the same as the ones on Grene.’

‘What do you mean by my inquiries?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Will you not help me solve this foul business? These are your colleagues who are being so callously dispatched.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Not this time, Brother. I have my teaching, my patients and my treatise on fevers, and I cannot spare the time to help you delve into the sordid world of murder. I have told you what I will do to help. The rest is for you and your beadles to investigate.’

Michael said nothing and Bartholomew suspected his clever mind was already devising some plot to ensure his co-operation. But it was late, he had had a long day and he was disinclined to discuss the matter any further that night. He waited in silence while Cynric rapped on the great gate for Walter to let them in.

‘You said you heard one of your attackers speak,’ said Michael, after a while. ‘Did you recognise the voice?’

Bartholomew considered and then shook his head. ‘It could have been anyone. It might even have been Colton.’

‘Really?’ said Michael, startled. ‘You think he might have set the fire in Philius’s room?’

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Bartholomew wearily, closing his eyes and rubbing them hard. Cynric banged on the door again. ‘I meant only that I did not hear the attacker speak long enough to be able to identify his voice.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘Damn! I have a feeling this will not be easy to resolve. Especially if you refuse to help me.’ He shot the physician a resentful glance. ‘These killers have left little behind in the way of clues.’

‘You will not keep this wine affair quiet for long, you know,’ said Bartholomew, stepping forward to pound on the gate himself. Where was Walter? ‘The students at Bernard’s will talk and Grene died in front of a large audience.’

‘But they do not know Grene and Armel drank from similar bottles,’ said Michael. ‘And only you and I have surmised that there may be a plot afoot more damaging than the deaths of a couple of dispensable scholars – that someone is masterminding an attack on the University itself.’

‘I doubt Grene and Armel would regard themselves as dispensable,’ said Bartholomew drily. He hammered again, but the gates remained firmly closed.

Michael shuffled and tutted impatiently. ‘Wretched Walter!’ he grumbled. ‘It is one thing dozing all night, but it is another being so soundly asleep that he cannot hear us knocking.’

‘Perhaps he is out on his rounds,’ said Bartholomew, leaning back against the wicket-gate.

He staggered as it gave way beneath him; it swung open under his weight and almost deposited him in the mud of the yard.

‘So now, as well as sleeping, the lazy tyke cannot even ensure the College is secure!’ said Michael indignantly, elbowing past Bartholomew and heading for the porter’s lodge. ‘I will have words with Master Kenyngham about this!’

Bartholomew exchanged an uneasy glance with Cynric, and a chilling sense that all was not as it should be gripped at him as he followed Michael inside.

The porter’s lodge was in darkness, and Michael’s mutterings and irritable sighs as he fumbled with a tinder were loud in the still room. As Michael’s candle finally flared into light, Bartholomew braced himself for the unpleasant sight he was sure would greet them.

Walter lay on the floor, swathed in a blanket and bound with ropes at the feet, waist and elbows. The porter’s own hood had been rolled lengthways and tied firmly around his head to prevent him from raising the alarm. Michael stared in horror and Bartholomew had to push him out of the way so that he could begin sawing through the ropes to set Walter free.

He was relieved when the porter started to whimper. At least he was alive. The ropes had been tied securely, and it was some time before Bartholomew was able to loosen them all sufficiently to pull the blanket away.

Terrified eyes greeted him. Walter gazed at Bartholomew for a moment and then began to look about him wildly.

‘Are they still here? They said they would kill me if I moved before dawn!’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, helping Walter to a stool. He went into the small adjoining chamber in search of the jug of stolen ale he knew he would find there. He poured some into a grimy clay goblet and handed it to Walter. The porter gulped it noisily and held out the cup for more.

‘The men who came,’ he said. ‘They asked me which was your room and which was Brother Michael’s, and then they trussed me up like a Michaelmas goose! They said if I tried to go for help or made a sound before dawn, they would kill me!’

‘Who were these men? Did you recognise them?’ asked Michael.

Predictably, Walter shook his head. ‘I was asleep …’ he faltered, and gazed up at the scholars, aghast at his unintentional admission of guilt.

Michael gave a snort of disgust. ‘Tell us what we do not know, not what we do.’

‘I was resting my eyes in the dark, and the next thing I knew was that there was a blanket over my head. I started to yell and struggle, but a man’s voice said that if I did not shut up, he would strangle me. He asked which rooms were yours and then tied me up.’ He took another hearty gulp of ale and looked about him fearfully. ‘This town is becoming too dangerous for law-abiding folk.’

‘And I suppose you told him where our rooms were,’ said Michael, looking down at him disdainfully, his large arms folded across his chest.

‘Too right I did!’ exploded Walter, puffing himself up with righteous indignation. ‘They would have killed me if I had been difficult with them. And what does it matter, anyway? Neither of you owns anything worth stealing.’

‘But there are potent medicines in my storeroom,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘They might be used to injure or even kill.’

‘And I have a great many belongings that are of considerable value,’ said Michael, offended. ‘Besides my priceless illustrated books, I have a fine collection of gold crucifixes and a pair of silver candlesticks from the Holy City.’

‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘You have never shown them to me.’

‘You are not supposed to own that kind of thing!’ retorted Walter belligerently. ‘You are a monk who has taken a vow of poverty.’

‘You are confusing Benedictines with Franciscans,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘I have taken no such vow. And anyway, what I own is none of your affair. What is, however, is that you have failed miserably in your duty–’

He was interrupted by Cynric, who appeared breathlessly in the doorway. ‘When Walter said the robbers asked about your rooms, I slipped off to see if they were still there,’ he began.

‘And were they?’ demanded Michael, angry at himself that time had been wasted with Walter when he might have caught the thieves.

Cynric shook his head. ‘Your room is untouched,’ he said to Michael. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But the chest in your room has been turned inside out and the lock on the medicine room forced. As far as a glance can tell, nothing has been stolen. Except the poisoned wine.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘All of it?’ he asked. ‘All four bottles?’

Cynric nodded. ‘Every last one of them. They must have searched his bedchamber first and then forced the lock on the medicine store. The bottles were not hidden and so they would have been easy to steal once the thieves had gained access to it.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Now we cannot prove that Armel and Grene were killed with the same substance.’

‘You can always compare the lesions on the corpses,’ said Michael. ‘Those little blisters you were inspecting so keenly should be proof enough. Anyway, we both had a good look at all four bottles, and they appeared to be the same. I would say that is evidence enough – our testimonies should stand in a court of law.’

‘This is the second time I have been attacked because of you,’ said Walter in an accusatory tone. ‘It was only a couple of years back that some other villain almost killed me in order to get to one of you two.’

‘And this is the second time you have failed me,’ retorted Michael, unmoved. ‘You did not protect me from the scoundrel who wanted to break into my chamber to deliver that satanic regalia two years ago, and tonight you have allowed intruders to make off with vital evidence that might help me unmask a murderer.’

‘But you just told Bartholomew that your spoken testimony would do, since the bottles have been stolen,’ objected Walter. ‘Do not try to browbeat me into feeling guilty!’

‘He is Doctor Bartholomew to you!’ barked Michael. ‘And how did these intruders enter the College anyway? The gate should have been barred from the inside.’

Walter opened his mouth to answer, exchanged a glance with Cynric, and snapped it shut again.

‘It is better to be honest, Walter,’ said Cynric unsympathetically. ‘You will be found out eventually anyway.’

‘Thank you, Cynric,’ said Walter heavily, favouring the Welshman with a venomous glare. ‘Do I look like I need your advice?’

‘You did not bar the wicket-gate after we left earlier,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as he tried to remember. ‘I think I would have heard you. You left it undone, so that you would not have to get up to unlock it again when we returned.’

Walter refused to look at him, and sat stiffly, chin jutting out and arms folded.

‘Well?’ demanded Michael of Cynric. ‘Was the door barred when you came back to fetch me after you found Isaac dead?’

Cynric shook his head.

‘The intruders left it open after they escaped with your wine,’ said Walter with sudden inspiration. ‘You three are out to get me into trouble with the Master. It was not me who left the gate open when Cynric found it; it was the men who stole your wine!’

‘Lies!’ snapped Michael. ‘The intruders must have arrived after Cynric summoned me to Gonville. I am a light sleeper and would have heard someone ransacking Matt’s room – or mine. You left the wicket door open all night – from the time Matt was summoned to attend Philius, in fact!’

‘Oh, Walter!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, disgusted at the porter’s feeble attempts to vindicate himself. ‘You know these are dangerous times. How could you jeopardise the College and the scholars you are paid to protect when you know very well there are outlaws at large, just to avoid a few moments out in the rain.’

‘I do not even have a decent cloak,’ whined Walter, trying to shift the blame. ‘How can I be expected to go out on so foul a night with no proper clothing?’

‘Would you care to exchange yours for mine?’ asked Bartholomew sweetly, knowing that Walter had recently bought a very fine cloak that was far better than anything Bartholomew had ever owned.

Walter leaned forward acquisitively and felt the material of Bartholomew’s cloak between thumb and forefinger. ‘No,’ he said firmly, after the most superficial of examinations. ‘I will keep mine, thank you very much.’

‘All this is totally unacceptable,’ said Michael, watching the exchange in disdain. ‘You are a coward and a lazy, good-for-nothing wastrel! However, in view of your unpleasant experience, I will not recommend that the Master dismiss you. But this is your last chance, Walter. One more incident like this and I will ensure you never set foot in another College for the rest of your life. Not even in Oxford!’

Walter glowered and did not appear in the least bit grateful for Michael’s leniency. Michael favoured him with a scowl of his own and swept out, Bartholomew and Cynric at his heels.

‘Lord, Matt,’ said the monk, raising his face to let the rain patter down on it. ‘What a mess! Where in heaven’s name do we go from here?’

Michael wanted to discuss the case there and then, but Bartholomew was too tired. Ignoring the fact that his few possessions were strewn across his room, he took off his sodden cloak and best gown – now sadly stained and crumpled – and climbed wearily under the blankets clad in shirt and hose. The stone-built rooms in Michaelhouse could be miserable in winter: the constant rain had caused the roof to leak and great patches of moisture blotched the walls. Bartholomew had mould growing on some of his clothes and, worse still, he had noticed the College’s few and highly treasured books had developed water stains from the damp. Even the blankets on his bed had a chill, wet feel to them. He pulled them over his head and lay shivering until he fell into an uneasy doze.

What seemed like moments later, he was awoken by Michael vigorously shaking his shoulder and looming over him in the darkness like a great bird of prey.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He glanced to the ill-fitting window shutters, through which he could see the night sky was beginning to lighten, although dawn was still some way off.

‘It is Sunday, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘It is our turn to prepare the church for mass.’

Bartholomew groaned and flopped back onto the bed. ‘It is still the middle of the night!’

‘It is almost dawn and well after the time we usually rise. You know Sunday services are later than in the rest of the week.’ He gave Bartholomew an unsympathetic prod. ‘Hurry up, or we will be fined again for failing to carry out our duties.’

Most scholars in the University – Bartholomew among them – had taken minor orders with the Church. This meant that they came under the lenient jurisdiction of Canon, rather than secular, law. Others, like Brother Michael, had taken major orders with their accompanying vow of chastity. In return, the scholars were obliged to perform a certain number of religious duties, which included officiating at masses and giving the occasional sermon. Before the plague, these duties had been light, but the Death had had a devastating impact on the friars and monks of England and it was said that almost half their number had perished. Clergy were thus in short supply and each Fellow of Michaelhouse was obliged to take services at least twice a week.

By the time Bartholomew had dragged himself out of bed, Michael had slipped away to the kitchen for an illicit breakfast. Bartholomew washed and shaved – unevenly and inadequately, but so did most scholars whose Colleges declined to provide them with candles, but still expected them to appear neat and tidy before dawn in church – in the cold water that always stood in a jug on the floor and pulled on some clean leggings with hands that shook from the cold. He groped around in the dark until he found his best shirt and hunted down a woollen jerkin that his sister had given him for Christmas. Finally, he pulled his black scholar’s tabard over his head, ran his fingers through his hair to pull it into some kind of order, grabbed his cloak, gloves and medicine bag, and left.

Michael was waiting for him at the gate, his mouth still full of the oatcakes he had stolen from the kitchen. They usually had to wait for Walter to wake up and open the gate for them, but the porter had apparently not slept again after Michael’s threat, because he appeared in an instant to let them out. Bartholomew asked him how he was feeling, but received only a sullen sneer for his concern.

Clean air wafted in from the Fens, smelling of the salt sea that lapped a few miles to the north. Bartholomew inhaled deeply. Despite his reluctance to rise, he liked early mornings when the streets were quiet and the breeze was fresh. The rain had stopped too, although the lane was still a treacherous snare of potholes, patches of slick mud and ankle-wrenching irregularities concealed under a brown film of water. He walked next to Michael in companionable silence, content to save any discussion of the events of the previous day until later.

St Michael’s Church was a square, black mass against the dark sky, its low tower dwarfed by the more elegant St Mary’s further down the High Street. Michael unlocked the doors and waited while Bartholomew began the delicate operation of kindling the church’s single, temperamental lamp.

‘Hurry up!’ said Michael impatiently, after a while. ‘The others will think we overslept if the church is not ready when they arrive.’

‘The wick is damp,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should have brought a new one. Ah – there we are!’

He stood back in satisfaction as the lamp spluttered into life, shedding a golden light around the porch. Michael picked it up and walked to the sanctuary, his sandalled feet slapping on the newly laid tiles. Bartholomew followed, checking the level of holy water in the stoop and emptying the buckets strategically placed to catch the drips from the leaking roof. While Michael muttered lauds, Bartholomew trimmed the altar candles and found the appropriate reading for the day in the great Bible that sat on the lectern.

As Michael finished his prayers and laid out the sacred vessels for mass, Bartholomew scraped some of the spilled candle wax from the altar with a knife and hummed to himself.

‘There is a dreadful stench in here,’ said Michael, wrinkling his nose in distaste and looking around him. ‘It is worse than the King’s Ditch.’

‘It is Master Wilson’s tomb again,’ said Bartholomew, sweeping the pared wax off the altar and onto the floor with his hand. ‘Or rather the flowers John Runham insists on leaving on it every week. He just jams the fresh ones into the vase without bothering to change the water or throw the dead ones away.’

Michael strolled to the side of the chancel that housed the late Master Wilson’s neat black tomb, laid a hand on it and grinned. ‘Runham was complaining yet again about this at the installation feast. He said you have done his noble cousin a terrible dishonour by providing him with such a plain grave, and claims Master Wilson was a great man who deserves a finer memorial than a crude slab of marble devoid of all decoration.’

‘It is decorated!’ protested Bartholomew, who had been responsible for having Wilson’s tomb built, and for transferring the mouldering bones from their temporary home in the graveyard to their final resting place near St Michael’s altar. He came to stand next to Michael, and leaned against the black stone as he trimmed the wick of a candle with his knife. ‘It has knots carved on it. And Wilson was not a great man! He was a smug and arrogant–’

‘At least have the decency not to sit on his grave while you malign him!’ admonished Michael, amused. ‘But last night, Runham announced his intention to rectify your insult to the saintly Wilson: he plans to mount your inadequate efforts with a gilded life-sized effigy.’

‘A gold statue of Wilson in our chancel?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast. He gazed at the simple, but beautiful lines of the arches and windows, and tried to imagine the dead Master’s smug features presiding over them through a mask of precious metal. It was not a pleasant vision. ‘How could he inflict such a vile thing on this lovely building!’

‘With a good deal of money and a total lack of taste,’ said Michael. He patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Matt. I will do all in my power to prevent this crime against architecture – even if it means buying all the gold leaf in Cambridge myself to thwart him. We must protect our town from men like him, or before we know it, some Colleges will take advantage of our tolerance, and will do something totally dreadful – like raising imitation Greek temples all along the river.’

Bartholomew laughed, and went to empty the stinking water from the heavy pewter vase that always sat on Wilson’s grave. He tossed the rotting flowers out of the door, and scrubbed the green slime from the vessel with a handful of wet grass.

‘At least the rain has stopped,’ said Michael conversationally when he walked back inside, carefully laying a tiny piece of bread on the silver paten. ‘All this wet must be the cause of the winter fever among your patients who live near the river. Living near the Cam and being deluged with constant rain must have over-saturated them, and destroyed the balance of their humours.’

Bartholomew leaned his elbows on the altar, his duties forgotten at the prospect of a discussion about medicine. ‘I think the swollen river has somehow invaded their drinking water. The people using the well in the Market Square seem unaffected, but those using the one in Water Lane are falling victim to this intestinal sickness.

‘Then tell them to use the market well instead,’ said Michael with a shrug.

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘I have, Brother. But they do not see why something as simple as water should make them so ill. They show me a cup of clear river, and ask me to show them the contagion in it. When I tell them the contagion might be too small for us to see, they cross themselves like a gaggle of frightened nuns and call me a heretic.’

‘I do not understand why you waste your time with ingrates,’ said Michael, pouring wine into the chalice, downing it in a gulp and pouring a second measure. ‘You could be making a fortune with the wealthy merchants in the town and, instead, you choose to frequent the hovels.’

It was not the first time he had been told this. But Bartholomew did not want to spend his days examining the urine of healthy people or working out complex astrological charts for treatments they did not need. He wanted to cure genuine diseases and treat victims with wounds who might otherwise die. He had learned his medicine from an Arab physician at the University of Paris, an unusual choice of master, which was reflected in his unorthodox treatments and diagnoses.

The present Master of Michaelhouse had been quick to see the advantage of having a physician in his College who was prepared to treat the poor. The University was unpopular in the town, and Bartholomew’s services to the sick went a long way in improving the uneasy relationship between Michaelhouse and its neighbours. His rate of success was unquestionably better than the other physicians in the town, a fact made even more remarkable because he dealt mainly with people who were unable to afford expensive medicines and palliatives. So Bartholomew was allowed to attend his patients without interference from the University – with the exception of occasional queries from scholars curious as to why he was contented with his small salary as a Fellow of Michaelhouse when he could have supplemented his income by treating the wealthy.

The door creaked as the first of the scholars arrived for the morning service. Bartholomew hastily brushed the remaining wax onto the floor and joined Michael at the altar rail. Master Kenyngham knelt next to him, followed as ever by the fawning Alcote. Singly, and in pairs, the other scholars joined them, the Fellows in a row to the right and the students ranged behind them.

‘I hope you were pleasantly warm last night,’ whispered Alcote to Bartholomew. ‘Walter tells me you stole three of my logs to make a fire.’

‘Not here, gentlemen,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘There is a time and a place for a discussion of logs, and at the altar during mass is not one of them.’

‘Theft is theft, Master,’ said Alcote sulkily. ‘I would not wish Matthew to begin the day with a crime on his conscience.’

‘Then I absolve him,’ whispered Kenyngham, waving a vague benediction in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘And now we will never mention the matter again.’

Alcote’s bitter indignation was lost on the other-worldly Kenyngham, whose head was already bowed as he began to pray. Next to Bartholomew, Michael’s shoulders quaked with mirth and even the dour Franciscan Father William seemed amused at Alcote’s discomfiture.

Another clatter of the door heralded the arrival of the scholars of Physwick Hostel, who were obliged to use St Michael’s Church for their offices – and to pay Michaelhouse handsomely for the privilege. At their head was Harling, who was their Principal as well as the University’s Vice-Chancellor. He was immaculately dressed and his greased hair shone in the candlelight. As a physician, however, Bartholomew detected a darkness under Harling’s eyes and noted that he looked grey and tired. He wondered whether the weight of responsibility thrust on him in the Chancellor’s prolonged absence at Ely was too much for him when combined with running his hostel.

While Bartholomew intoned the reading of the day in his precise Latin, Michael rounded up his choir. The choir was something Michael regarded with a good deal of ambiguity. It was by far the largest in Cambridge, comprising men and children from the parish as well as scholars from the College, and was considered, by gentle souls such as Kenyngham, as proof that not all townsfolk wanted to kill scholars and vice versa – although the fact that choir practices usually ended with bread and ale explained why the parishioners were prepared to overlook a good many insults hurled at them by the student-choristers. However, Michael’s choir was also one of the least musically inclined, making up in volume for what it lacked in tone.

Among the membership were several small children, and it was Michael’s hope that one or two of them might have some hitherto undiscovered talent that he could hone and encourage. Bartholomew was always surprised that the fat monk had the patience to deal with children, but he was remarkably good with them, and they certainly did not hold him in fear, as did the unfortunate undergraduates who came within reach of his proctorial arm.

The anthem for the day was a difficult Gloria by Gherardello da Firenze, which, sung by them, bore more resemblance to the bawdy songs bellowed by students on illicit visits to taverns than a religious piece. It gradually increased in speed, too, despite Michael’s frantic arm-waving to slow it down. The piece ended somewhat abruptly, although two elderly tenors in the back row had been left behind and found themselves singing a duet after everyone else had finished. As always, their Sunday morning efforts were greeted by a stunned silence, and it took several moments for Kenyngham to collect himself sufficiently to continue.

Eventually, the long service was over and the scholars lined up to process back to Michaelhouse for breakfast. Bartholomew saw Vice-Chancellor Harling reach out and grab Michael’s arm, whispering something in his ear to which Michael nodded. Then both men turned and regarded Bartholomew speculatively. The physician felt his heart sink. He could decline Michael’s request for help – the monk understood his reluctance to become involved, even if he did not approve – but if the demand came from the Vice-Chancellor he would have no alternative but to comply. As Harling nodded coolly in his direction, Bartholomew knew he was going to be dragged into the affair of the poisoned wine whether he liked it or not.

Kenyngham led the way down St Michael’s Lane – at a healthy pace, for the rain had started again – and the scholars hurried across the yard, eager for their breakfast. Bartholomew took his place at the high table, with Michael on one side and Father Paul on the other. As usual, he reached out to grab some of the best bread for Paul, who could not see, before Michael could take it all.

‘What did Harling want?’ said Bartholomew in a low voice, scraping egg-mash onto Paul’s trencher before taking some himself. Sunday’s breakfast, being later than during the week, was always better and Agatha’s egg-mash flavoured with bacon fat was the highlight of a day in which much was forbidden. To escape the College and its dull restrictions, Bartholomew often walked to the nearby village of Trumpington on Sundays to visit his sister.

‘He wants me to appraise him of Grene’s death,’ muttered Michael, smiling sweetly at Alcote, who was glowering at him for breaking the rule of silence at mealtimes.

‘Is he enjoying all this unexpected power?’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I thought he looked ill this morning. When is Chancellor Tynkell back from Ely?’

‘He was due back yesterday for the installation, apparently,’ Michael replied, holding a lump of bread near his mouth in a vain attempt to fool Alcote into believing he was not talking. ‘Harling thinks he decided not to make the journey because of the bad weather.’

‘Then Harling might enjoy his power for a good while yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This rain shows no sign of relenting.’

‘You do Harling an injustice,’ remonstrated Michael. ‘Any other man who lost the post that should have been his would have been bitter. Harling accepted his defeat with a graciousness I find honourable, and he has continued to serve the University with the utmost integrity. Anyway, he clearly thinks highly of you, because he said your duties in treating the poor are more important than helping me solve the affair of the poisoned wine.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, startled into speaking loudly. Several heads turned towards him, and Michael pretended to be absorbed in eating his eggs.

Master Kenyngham looked at them with raised eyebrows. ‘Since you two clearly have something to discuss, perhaps I should allow conversation at meals today,’ he said wryly. ‘Then you will not set a poor example to the students.’

‘That would be a mistake, Master,’ said the dour Father William promptly. ‘It is only a small step from ill-discipline to heresy.’

‘I hardly think erudite disputation at breakfast will lead to heresy, William,’ said gentle Father Paul with a smile. ‘And the students are restless because the rain is keeping them in. I think the time has come to make concessions before we really do have a discipline problem.’

‘Nonsense!’ said William. ‘You are far too soft with them. If anything, they need a reduction of concessions, not an easier life. If I were appointed Junior Proctor, I would show the University how to keep order among the students.’

He shot Michael a baleful look that Michael pretended not to notice. Father William had put himself forward for the post of Junior Proctor when the previous incumbent had left to serve the King. Not surprisingly, given the Franciscan friar’s uncompromising and inflexible views of the world and everyone in it, his application had not been successful. Bartholomew did not know whether Michael had played a role in William’s rejection or whether the friar’s reputation had spoken for itself, but Michael was, nevertheless, invariably uncomfortable when the issue was raised.

‘Have some eggs,’ said Bartholomew, before William could begin a tirade on how he would personally reform the University by burning half its scholars in the Market Square for heresy.

‘Eggs!’ said William in disgust, gesturing at the bowl Bartholomew held out to him. ‘I was never so coddled when I was an undergraduate!’

‘But you have eaten them, nevertheless,’ Alcote observed, eyeing William’s empty trencher. ‘Anyway,’ he continued hastily when he saw William preparing himself for a row, ‘I see no harm in conversation, so long as it is kept to religious matters and is in Latin.’

While Father William shook his head in fervent disapproval, Kenyngham announced that conversation would be permitted during meals that day, provided the topic were theological and the language Latin. There was an immediate buzz of chatter from the students, although the little core of Franciscans followed William’s example and maintained their silence.

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Now we can discuss last night’s events before I meet Harling.’

‘Hardly a religious matter, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to his breakfast.

‘But we are speaking Latin,’ said Michael comfortably, ‘so we are half-way there.’

‘I do not want to become involved in this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sick of murder.’

‘So are we all, Matt,’ replied Michael. ‘I told Harling as much this morning, and that was when he said you need not assist me in this if you feel you do not want to, and that your work among the people with winter fever was more valuable to the University than assisting me.’

‘Harling said that?’

Michael nodded, genuinely puzzled. ‘I admit I was surprised. I thought he would have commandeered anyone’s assistance in order to solve this as quickly as possible. He said you should not be forced to do anything that would interfere with your other duties.’

Bartholomew’s opinion of Harling rose several degrees. It was certainly unexpected – the University’s officials seldom considered people’s preferences when their beloved institution was at risk – and Harling’s sympathetic response came as a pleasant change from orders and demands.

‘There is a curious thing about Tynkell’s election as Chancellor,’ mused Bartholomew, his mind wandering back to the ballot that Harling lost. ‘I have never met anyone who voted for him. Everyone I know says they voted for Harling, but Harling still did not win.’

Michael shrugged. ‘That is because Tynkell is an unknown quantity. No one would be foolish enough to admit voting for him when he might prove … inappropriate.’

‘Not everyone I know is so dishonest,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I voted for Harling myself.’

‘So did I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Although you know that – you took my voting slip to St Mary’s Church because I was ill.’

‘You had indigestion because you ate three apple pies one after the other and shared them with no one,’ corrected Bartholomew.

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Indigestion is being ill. I was confined to my bed, was I not? Anyway, by eating those pies myself, I saved you from a similar fate.’

‘Most thoughtful of you, Brother.’

‘But let us go back to Harling. He has his faults, but better the Devil you know. He works well with the Proctors, has the respect of the beadles and is a cunning negotiator.’

‘I had never heard William Tynkell’s name before the election,’ reflected Bartholomew. ‘Yet everyone knew Harling, and he is not unpopular. I do not understand why so many masters voted for such a nonentity as Tynkell.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting the election was falsified?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I confess the notion has crossed my mind. Who counted the votes?’

Michael grabbed the egg bowl and began to dig out the bits left at the bottom with his knife. ‘Each master signs his own name and that of his favoured candidate on a slip of parchment, and hands it to the Senior Proctor. The Senior Proctor and the Vice-Chancellor then count the votes.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I know what is supposed to happen. But when Tynkell was elected that procedure was not followed: Harling, as Vice-Chancellor, could not count the votes of an election in which he was a candidate; and you did not count them, as Senior Proctor, because you were brought low by three apple pies.’

Michael crammed a loaded knife of egg scraps into his mouth. ‘In our absence, two men were selected whose integrity was beyond question.’ He ignored Bartholomew’s snort of derision and continued. ‘Namely Father Eligius from Valence Marie and our own Master Kenyngham.’

Bartholomew reconsidered. He did not know Eligius particularly well, but Kenyngham’s honesty was beyond question. He watched Michael’s face grow sweaty with the exertion of reclaiming the last of the egg from the bowl and tried to put the matter from his mind. Michael was doubtless right, and most scholars would be waiting to see what kind of chancellor Tynkell made before admitting that they had helped him into power.

‘We digress,’ said Michael, pushing the empty bowl away from him and leaning back in his seat. ‘I know you do not want to become involved – and that you have Harling’s sanction to let me struggle against evil killers alone – but you will not refuse me a discussion of the facts, will you?’

Bartholomew shook his head, although his instinct was to decline. Michael steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the table.

‘Then let us review the events leading to these deaths. Yesterday morning, a man in the Brazen George sells three bottles of poisoned wine to a group of students, one of whom later dies. At some point, a similar bottle of wine found its way to James Grene, who perished horribly, but highly conveniently, before a goodly part of the town. Valence Marie’s most eminent scholar, Father Eligius, believes Grene’s rival, the newly installed Master Bingham, murdered him.’

‘And Bingham’s motive is either that Grene was proving to be a bad loser, or Grene’s misguided, but fanatical, belief that a handful of boiled bones was a sacred relic was proving awkward,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Meanwhile,’ continued Michael, ‘we can surmise, from what Philius told us, that a fifth bottle came into the possession of your brother-in-law a month ago and killed one of his apprentices, after which it was appropriated by the light-fingered Isaac. Isaac eventually used the stolen wine to make Philius’s weekly purge – obviously not knowing it was poisoned – whereby he brought Philius to death’s door and burned his own hand in the process. Isaac was murdered as he went to fetch the bottle for you to inspect, probably by the three people who knocked me over in their haste to leave Gonville Hall. We have already established that they were unarmed – they hanged, not stabbed, Isaac and did no real harm to you or Philius – and I conclude that they came only to steal the bottle before we could inspect it properly.’

‘No, not steal,’ said Bartholomew, thinking. ‘Retrieve.’

Michael looked blankly at him and waited for an explanation.

‘This is a strange poison – I have never seen anything quite like it before. Isaac’s killers seem to be going to some lengths to find the bottles, which suggests to me that they know exactly what is in them, and that, in turn, means that they must have had them in their possession at some point – so they came to retrieve, not steal them.

‘I see,’ said Michael, nodding.

Bartholomew continued. ‘At some point between the time Isaac used the wine to make Philius’s purge and Isaac’s death, the bottle rolled under the bench and was smashed: Isaac’s killer could not find it. When Cynric called me to look at Isaac’s body, the killers then slipped across the yard into Philius’s room to look for the bottle there. I came back sooner than they anticipated and we struggled in the dark. They threw the lamp against the wall to start a fire to distract me long enough to allow them to return to the storeroom for a second search.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Too risky. I agree that they started the fire to distract you, but it was to prevent you from chasing them not to give them time to search again.’ He pulled at the straggling whiskers on his chin. ‘You said you saw two people running away from Philius’s room, whereas Cynric and I encountered three. I suspect one person was left in the storeroom to continue the search there, while the other two went to Philius’s room. There were enough sacks and barrels in the room to make hiding easy.’

‘You mean one of the people who killed Isaac watched me while I examined his body?’ said Bartholomew in horror.

Michael nodded. ‘There is no other rational explanation. You said you saw the bottle under the bench – thus revealing its whereabouts to the watching person who later removed all traces of it. But I think you were in no danger.’

‘Isaac was!’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced.

‘I have no explanation for Isaac’s demise,’ said Michael pompously, ‘but that third person could have killed you in the storeroom when you found the bottle: he did not. The other two might have killed you when you struggled with them in Philius’s room: again, they did not. And they could have killed Walter when they came to “retrieve” the bottles from your room: but they did not. I think your theory is correct, and that the sole intention of these people was to regain possession of the bottles. We had five of them – three from Bernard’s, one from Valence Marie and the smashed one from Gonville – and now we have none. In the bottles, and thus in the nature of this strange poison, lies the answer to this mystery.’

‘So, have you abandoned the notion that this is a dire plot by the town to kill scholars?’ asked Bartholomew, putting a wizened apple into Paul’s hand before passing the bowl to Michael, who took three.

‘Not at all,’ said Michael, his mouth full. ‘Such a plot is still the most plausible explanation for all this.’

‘I suppose you think these bottles have been retrieved so that they can be used again?’ asked Bartholomew flippantly. ‘So all we need to do next time is to lay a trap for whoever comes to get them back.’

Michael gave him a withering glance. ‘At least I have a theory,’ he said irritably. ‘You have nothing more than a collection of conflicting ideas – you think Grene’s death is too convenient to be coincidence and suspect Bingham in playing a role, yet at the same time, you do not believe Bingham is competent to carry out such an attack. You say the wine in the bottle at Gonville brought Philius to the brink of death, burned Isaac’s hand and killed a rat, yet you say you saw that sot of a cat drink its fill with no ill effects at all.’

‘The cat!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s peevishness. ‘Colton said it prowls the College looking for wine and ale and smashes things. The cat must have smashed the bottle! It can scarcely uncork them for itself, and has probably learned that the best way into a bottle is to break it.’

‘That would explain why the killers could not find it,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘It lay smashed under the bench. Perhaps they asked Isaac for it, and killed him when he could not tell them. Since in talking to them they had revealed their identities, Isaac was murdered to ensure he could not tell us who was so interested in obtaining poisoned wine.’

It was possible, Bartholomew supposed. They had certainly threatened Walter with death if he tried to escape from his bonds before dawn, even if they had not harmed Bartholomew when the opportunity presented itself.

The discussion was cut short when Ralph de Langelee slammed his goblet down on the table in a sudden display of temper. Bartholomew almost jumped out of his skin, and the babble of conversation in the hall died away abruptly.

‘That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!’ Langelee exclaimed furiously. ‘Of course the Earth is not irregularly shaped: it is a perfect sphere!’

‘It is not!’ shouted Alcote, equally angry. ‘So there!’ he added, as if that clinched the debate.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ admonished Kenyngham soothingly. ‘There is no need for such rage while debating philosophical questions.’

‘The shape in which God created the Earth is a religious question, not a philosophical one,’ put in William quickly, determined not to lose the opportunity to utter a little dogma.

‘Religion and philosophy reach a point where they become one and the same,’ said Alcote.

There was a brief silence as the others digested this bit of profundity from such an unexpected quarter.

‘Heretic!’ yelled William after a moment, stabbing a finger at Alcote’s puny chest. ‘Theology is the noblest of all subjects and should never be mistaken for any of the lesser disciplines.’

‘You are trying to sidetrack me,’ snapped Langelee accusingly. ‘I was just telling Alcote that the Earth was a perfect sphere and–’

‘One does not “tell” another scholar something like that,’ said Michael pompously. ‘One raises the matter as a question, and there follows a stimulating and mutually beneficial exchange of views, during which each listens to the other, offering evidence for support or refute as appropriate.’

‘Not if the other’s point of view is the intellectual equivalent of horse dung,’ retorted Langelee. ‘I do not have time to listen to drivel!’

‘I would stay out of this, if I were you, Brother,’ cautioned Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘You will not make them accept the validity of your statements, and Langelee looks as if he might resort to physical persuasion to me.’

‘How can the Earth be a perfect sphere?’ asked Runham with affected weariness. ‘There would be nothing to prevent the sea invading the land, and there would be water everywhere.’

‘And what about mountains?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s grin of amusement that he was unable to follow his own advice.

‘And where, pray, do you see mountains?’ demanded Langelee icily. He gestured out of the window. ‘Show me a mountain and I will concede your point.’

‘Obviously there are none in East Anglia,’ said Bartholomew, wondering, not for the first time, how Langelee had inveigled an appointment at Michaelhouse. ‘But there are hills in the north of England and mountains in Italy, France and Spain.’

‘You are lying,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘There are no mountains in York.’

In the body of the hall, the students were enjoying the dissension between the Fellows with unconcealed delight, much of their gleeful amusement directed against the unpopular Langelee.

‘I visited York once,’ said Kenyngham, smiling wistfully. ‘What a charming place! The Minster is a fabulous thing, all delicate tracery and soaring windows.’

‘But did you see mountains?’ asked Alcote, reluctant to allow the Master to change the subject to something less contentious.

‘Castle Hill is a mountain,’ said Runham. ‘Or it is mountain enough to prove Matthew’s point. If the Earth were a perfect sphere, Castle Hill would not exist.’

‘That is a foolish argument!’ spat Langelee. ‘If Castle Hill did not exist, there would be nowhere to put the castle!’

The others regarded him uncertainly, none of them sure how he had arrived at such a conclusion or how to refute it. Before the debate could begin anew, Kenyngham wisely took advantage of the momentary silence to stand to say grace. The others scrambled to their feet and bowed their heads as the Gilbertine’s words echoed around the hall. As soon as he had finished, the students clattered noisily down the stairs and across the courtyard, some to read in their rooms, others to escape the College and indulge in something better than enduring Michaelhouse’s petty restrictions on the one day they were free from their studies.

Michael and Bartholomew made a hasty exit, too, neither wanting to become embroiled in a debate with the others, particularly Langelee. Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief as he overheard the philosopher informing William that the Earth was a perfect sphere because it was created by God, and God could create nothing imperfect. Langelee, however, was preaching to the converted, and William agreed with him that all mountains and hills were therefore an abomination and should be levelled. Raising his eyes heavenwards, Michael went to the kitchens to scavenge leftovers, while Bartholomew escorted Father Paul to the room he shared with William.

‘When a man loses a sense, such as sight, the body compensates,’ announced Paul, somewhat out of the blue.

‘I have heard that,’ said Bartholomew, steering him around a puddle. ‘I knew a deaf man once who was able to tell from shadows and smell when there was someone behind him.’

‘I hear exceptionally well,’ continued Paul, ‘and although you and Michael took care to keep your voices low before that silly debate started, I heard what was said. I also have an excellent sense of smell. Should you recover these bottles, I would be happy to see if I can detect similarities or differences in this poison for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But this substance is foul, and I would not like anyone to smell it, in case they inhale noxious fumes. Presumably, the stuff is odourless anyway, or Armel and Grene would not have drunk it.’

‘True,’ said Paul. ‘Although my offer remains should you need it. But, regardless, take care, Matthew. Brother Michael is an ambitious man, and little will stop him attaining the power and influence he craves. He will not hesitate to enlist your help to gain it.’

Bartholomew stared at him. It was true that Michael, as Senior Proctor, regularly called on his medical knowledge to help him solve mysteries concerning violent deaths. But would Michael involve him in something dangerous to secure his own advancement? Bartholomew would like to believe not, but he knew Paul’s observation held more than a grain of truth. Michael’s ambition must be strong indeed for him to forgo the opportunity to be Master of a wealthy institution like Valence Marie on the strength of some unspecified promise for the future made by a Bishop whose own empire might crumble in the shifting grounds of political alliances at any moment.

Although Bartholomew could attest that Michael really had been unwell on the day of the Chancellor’s election, he had put up little resistance when Bartholomew had advised him to stay in bed. Bartholomew also knew the monk well enough to see that he had not been surprised in the slightest at the suggestion that the voting process might not have been honestly conducted. Was his illness that day a coincidence and, if so, did he know more about it than he was admitting? But it was surely in Michael’s interests to have Harling as Chancellor – rather than the unknown quantity represented by Tynkell – and Bartholomew did not believe that the fat monk would keep silent if he had tangible evidence that the election had been fixed.

He was about to reply in Michael’s defence, when Paul thrust something into his hand. Bartholomew stared down at the gold coins in astonishment.

‘I hear there is fever among the town’s poor,’ said Paul. ‘Perhaps this might go some way to providing medicines they might need.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘It would, indeed. But you cannot give me all this!’

He tried to make Paul take the coins back, but the friar pushed his hand away. ‘I have recently come into a little money,’ he said enigmatically. ‘I would sooner it went to the poor than sat in my room. I plan to give the remainder to the leper hospital.’

‘Then, thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will send Gray this morning to buy medicines, and Bulbeck can arrange for deliveries of eggs and bread to those that need them. The reason why many take so long to regain their strength is because they cannot afford the proper food.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Paul. ‘You believe the well in Water Lane is responsible?’

Bartholomew nodded, forgetting Paul could not see. ‘I have never encountered a fever quite like this – except once in Greece when a brook was fouled because a goat had died in it further upstream. But the Water Lane well is protected by a wall and a cover, and it is impossible for an animal to fall in. The only explanation I can think of is that the raised level of the river has invaded the well – the river became flooded around the same time that the fever claimed its first victim.’

They turned as a messenger was allowed through the gate and came racing across the yard towards them.

‘Brother Michael?’ he asked of Paul, and stopped dead as Paul’s opaque blue eyes turned towards him. ‘Where can I find Brother Michael?’

‘In the kitchens,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you have a message for him from the Bishop?’

The messenger nodded vigorously. ‘And then I must deliver the same message to the Vice-Chancellor. There was an attack yesterday on a party travelling from Ely to Cambridge for the installation. Three clerks lie dead. And among the injured is Chancellor Tynkell.’