Susanna Gregory - A Deadly Brew

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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