Susanna Gregory: A Deadly Brew

‘Fifty!’ gasped Michael. ‘My God! His operation is vast.’

Langelee nodded. ‘And so are his profits, believe me. In fact, the whole organisation is remarkable. He only started this after you lot failed to elect him as Chancellor last year, and he has been extraordinarily successful. You scholars made a grave mistake by not using his talents to further the interests of the University. By now, Cambridge might have been rich beyond its wildest dreams — and even been in a position to take steps to suppress your rival University at Oxford!’

‘Most of us would rather not have a contrabander as Chancellor,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘We generally prefer academics.’

‘Then you are bigger fools that I thought,’ said Langelee earnestly. ‘Harling is a brilliant man. Not only did he have this huge operation up and running within a few weeks, but he knew when to stop. Had I not wormed my way into his confidences, he would never have been caught.’

‘And I suppose our little roles in all this count for nothing?’ asked Michael scathingly.

‘Precisely!’ said Langelee, with a superior grin. ‘And you would not even be alive now, if it were not for me.’ He beamed at them, oblivious of Michael’s indignation.

The air was still, damp and cold, and Bartholomew was painfully reminded of the last time they had ventured into the secret, mysterious world of the Fens. Somewhere a bird pipped and hooted and was answered by another in the distance, but otherwise the only sounds were their feet trampling through the undergrowth. A low mist was rising in the early dawn, sending ghostly fingers of white to ooze across brackish water and around the squat trunks of stunted alder trees.

Bartholomew shivered, realising for the first time that he had left his cloak wrapped around the branch of the tree where Cynric had been caught in the mud. Within the space of a day, he had managed to lose his new cloak and new gloves, and facing the rest of the winter without them was a bleak prospect. He felt drained, cold and miserable, acutely aware that Harling had bested him at every turn. His boots were full of icy water, his tabard was filthy with black mud and he was so tired he could barely walk. No such discomfort seemed to assail Langelee, who strode along buoyantly, as though he were on some pleasant countryside jaunt, thoroughly enjoying relating his tale to the dejected scholars who trailed beside him.

‘So, after Harling recruited me into his service, I made myself indispensable to him. Then, when you two started investigating the poisoned wine, Harling realised he needed to prevent you from looking into it any further, and so he arranged for you to be ambushed in the Fens. When that failed, he decided he had made enough money and that it was time to stop before he was caught. Obviously, I wanted to get all of Harling’s accomplices before he sent them to all four corners of the country, so I decided it was time to reveal my part in the affair and acquire Tulyet’s help.’

‘Did Tulyet know of your role in all this from the beginning?’ asked Bartholomew faintly, hoping that the Sheriff could not be numbered in the list of people who had lied to him or deceived him over the past few weeks.

‘No one knew except Master Kenyngham,’ said Langelee airily. ‘And he had been sworn to secrecy by the King himself. What I was doing was potentially very dangerous, and I did not want anyone to be aware of my real business at the University except the Master of my College.’

So Kenyngham had been instructed to hire Langelee as Master of Philosophy by no less than the King himself, thought Bartholomew. Michael had been right in his supposition that Langelee had a powerful sponsor. Smiling complacently at their surprise, Langelee continued.

‘I was on the brink of telling Tulyet all I knew, when events started to take on a momentum all of their own. I was in my room, in the very process of writing a report on my findings to present to him, when Harling himself paid me a visit. He said he needed my help to round up his men and to load the last of the smuggled treasure onto a cart.’

He swore as, not paying attention to where he was going, he trod in a puddle that was deeper than he anticipated and black mud bubbled up around his knees. He held out his hand to Michael to be helped out. Hands on hips, Bartholomew watched the fat monk haul and tug, while Langelee became muddier, wetter and increasingly frustrated at Michael’s incompetence. It did not cross the philosopher’s mind that Michael might well be pulling so inefficiently on purpose — although it was perfectly apparent to Bartholomew. Eventually, and entirely as a result of his own struggles and not Michael’s assistance, Langelee was free. He brushed himself down and continued with his story, unaware of Michael’s spiteful smile of gratification.

‘Before I left Michaelhouse to do Harling’s bidding, I charged Bartholomew’s student — that stupid Rob Deynman — with handing my report to Master Kenyngham. He tried to refuse, claiming he was off on some errand of mercy to save a patient’s life. I impressed on him the importance of my report and the dire consequences that would occur should it fall into the wrong hands. I must have impressed a little too firmly, because finding Kenyngham out, Deynman was too afraid to go to look for him. He simply settled himself in Kenyngham’s room to await his return. He was there most of yesterday.’

‘So he was not kidnapped by Harling at all?’ asked Bartholomew.

Langelee shook his head. ‘Gray told me you thought Deynman might be in some danger and, knowing Harling, I guessed he had told you he had the lad secreted away somewhere. Deynman spent most of yesterday asleep on Kenyngham’s bed, but had handed him my report with all solemnity when Kenyngham returned. Deynman never left the College, and your patient with winter fever was never tended.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, uncertain whether to be relieved that Deynman was unharmed or angry that he had been so single-minded. He could at least have told his friends what he was doing.

‘So why have you been so antagonistic to your Michaelhouse colleagues?’ he asked Langelee. ‘Why did you try to start a fight with me the other day? Surely that was not necessary?’

‘Sorry,’ said Langelee, with an unrepentant smile. ‘You see, Harling was becoming paranoid about the poisoned wine, and ordered me to search your rooms to see if you were withholding information from him. I had just finished searching Michael’s chamber, and was about to look in yours, when you returned to College clearly ready to go to sleep.’

Bartholomew recalled Langelee perched on his table, going through his scrolls and looking around at his few belongings with interest.

‘Surely there were easier ways of getting what you wanted than picking a fight?’

‘I needed the information quickly and you were about to go to bed. I did a preliminary search with you there, but I needed a closer look. It would have appeared suspicious had I knocked you senseless for no reason, and so I tried to goad you into a brawl. You showed admirable restraint, but then Kenyngham caught us.’

They walked in silence for a while, their feet squelching in the wet grass. The day was growing much lighter, a sensation enhanced by the pale mist that rose all around them. It was like walking in a great white bubble, the fog seeming to accentuate even more the deathly silence of the Fens. Cynric moved from side to side, absorbed in broken twigs and crushed blades of grass that no one else noticed. The soldier led them deeper and deeper into the marshes and Bartholomew found himself walking ever more slowly, alert to the possibility that they were being drawn into yet another of Harling’s complicated traps.