Susanna Gregory - A Deadly Brew

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

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

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

‘Good God! Look at this!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I saw small blisters on Armel’s lips, however,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just like the ones on Grene. I have little doubt that we will also find the same damage to Armel’s mouth and throat, and that the poison that killed one also killed the other.’

Michael heaved a great sigh and leaned heavily against one of the pillars. ‘This is terrible, Matt! Two members of the University have been murdered most vilely by townspeople.’

‘You do not know that is true of Grene,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘Bingham might have killed him. There is no question that Grene would have made ruling Valence Marie very difficult for Bingham. You heard what he said — that the excitement of the day killed his rival. How convenient for him!’

‘Convenient indeed!’ came a soft voice from the darkness of the aisle. Bartholomew and Michael jumped in shock. They had believed themselves to be alone and that Bingham had taken all his scholars with him when he had left. Out of the deep shadows, Father Eligius emerged, his pallid features startlingly white above his black gown.

‘Eligius!’ exclaimed Michael, peering at the Dominican in the gloom. ‘I thought you had returned to Valence Marie with the others.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Eligius coolly, ‘or you would not have been discussing the murder of poor Grene so candidly. So, Matthew, you believe our new Master dispatched his hated rival with poison?’

‘He does not,’ intervened Michael quickly, before Bartholomew could respond. ‘He has no evidence to justify such an accusation. A student seems to have been killed with a similar potion — as you no doubt overheard — and since Master Bingham is unlikely to have a motive for murdering a Franciscan novice, it seems he is also unlikely to have killed Grene. Regardless of what Matt might speculate.’

‘Indeed,’ said Eligius, moving closer to look at the sheeted body. He lifted a corner of the cloth and gazed down at Grene’s face, eyes half open despite Bartholomew’s attempts to force them closed. An expression of remorse flickered over Eligius’s own features so quickly that Bartholomew thought he might have imagined it, before the sheet fell and Grene was covered once more.

‘I do not find Master Bingham’s guilt such an unlikely proposition,’ said the Dominican, looking at Michael.

Michael spread his hands. ‘How could Master Bingham have killed Grene at the feast?’ he reasoned. ‘There were dozens of guests present. The matter of the contest between him and Grene was public knowledge, and I am sure I was not the only person watching Grene closely to see how he was taking his defeat. Grene and Bingham did not so much as utter a word to each other all evening, let alone one give the other poison. And anyway, imagine how difficult Bingham’s position will be if there is so much as a whiff of rumour that he has harmed his rival. He would find making a success of his Mastership impossible.’

Eligius considered, watching Michael with unfathomable eyes, and tapping his pursed lips with a long forefinger. He was one of Cambridge’s leading logicians and had taken part in debates in universities all over Europe. Bartholomew had always thought the Dominican philosopher looked every bit a man of learning: he had a head that was too big for his body, an impression accentuated by the way his dark brown hair was chopped short at the forehead and sides but straggled long at the back. He was a tall man, topping Bartholomew by the length of a hand, but was unnaturally thin.

‘Master Bingham will find his Mastership difficult regardless,’ Eligius said finally. ‘Grene alive would have opposed anything he tried to do; there are still those loyal to the previous Master — Robert Thorpe — who consider his dismissal a grave miscarriage of justice; and now Grene conveniently dead will arouse suspicions regarding whether Bingham had a hand in it or not. Had Bingham used the few brains he was born with, he would have foreseen the impossible situation in which he was placing himself and declined the Mastership. Or, if he was wholly unable to resist the lure of power, he should have devised a more discreet way of dispensing with Grene’s presence.’

Michael eyed him speculatively. ‘And which of the two men did you vote for?’

Eligius’s thin lips curved into a humourless smile. ‘I was an avid supporter of neither candidate because I was impressed with the qualities of neither. But Grene had an edge over Bingham and I declined Bingham’s offer of a rise in salary to shift my allegiance.’

‘He bribed you to vote for him?’ asked Bartholomew with distaste.

‘The word “bribe” implies that he offered me something and that I took it,’ said Eligius reproachfully. ‘He might have offered, but I can assure you I took nothing. But while I was content to watch Bingham struggle to rule with Grene alive, I am certainly not prepared to see him in power with Grene murdered. You see, Grene confided to me only last night that he was in fear of his life from Bingham. Naturally, I dismissed his claim as the bitter rambling of a thwarted man. Now I am not so sure.’