A Deadly Brew (38 page)

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I am implying nothing, Oswald. I am merely passing you information. Tulyet says he can arrest offenders only if he finds evidence of smuggled goods in their possession.’

Stanmore stroked his beard and watched the high-spirited apprentices jostling and pushing at each other as they finished their chores. ‘I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I assure you it is unnecessary.’

Bartholomew nodded. He had delivered his message, and if Stanmore chose to ignore it then that was his business.

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Stanmore, reading Bartholomew’s thoughts with the ghost of a smile. ‘I am not trying to tell you I am not guilty: I would have been foolish to pass up a business opportunity such as has been presented this winter – there is barely a merchant in the town who has declined the trade that has come our way, and honesty would have forced a man out of business – but I am not so unwise as to leave evidence of it lying around in my own storerooms.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I can provide legal documentation for every fibre of cloth here and at my premises at Ely. And as for elsewhere, who knows where to look?’

Bartholomew was astounded. He had never entertained any doubts about his brother-in-law’s ruthless efficiency in business, but he had not realised his talents extended to calm and skilful evasion of the King’s taxes. Stanmore made the other merchants, whose apprentices scurried here and there carrying hastily wrapped bundles, look like amateurs.

Edith emerged from the kitchens, wiping her floury hands on her apron. Her eyes were red and Bartholomew knew she had been crying.

‘Matt has been telling me that Sheriff Tulyet is rounding up all those merchants who have been acquiring illicit goods through smuggling this winter,’ said Stanmore.

Edith shook her head. ‘Silly men! If they are so greedy, they deserve to be arrested!’

Behind her back, Stanmore winked at Bartholomew. Edith invited them for some cakes and mulled wine and, anxious to begin to heal the rift that still yawned between them, Bartholomew accepted. They sat for some time in Stanmore’s solar discussing the mild weather, the problems Michael faced in finding appropriate music for his choir, and the poor quality of the wool shipment Stanmore had recently received from Flanders – anything, in fact, except smuggling and the nasty affair of the murderous Rob Thorpe.

‘We should go,’ said Michael, taking the last cake and cramming it in his mouth. ‘It is almost supper time.’

They made their farewells, Bartholomew relieved to escape the somewhat strained conversation. He sensed Edith was ambiguous in her feelings about his role in exposing Thorpe, but supposed she would come to accept it, given time. At least, he hoped so.

In Milne Street the scene was chaotic, with people running here and there in uncontrolled mayhem. Dogs barked, men swore and panted under heavy burdens, and furious arguments took place as merchants squabbled over buying space on the barges moored at the wharves, to secrete their ill-gotten gains away before the Sheriff found them.

The cause of all the panic was at the house of Constantine Mortimer. Indignant gibbering pursued Tulyet as he emerged from Mortimer’s house carrying a box. The baker scuttled after him, his red, bellicose face outraged, while his son Edward and wife Katherine were at his heels. Mortimer saw Bartholomew, and stopped dead in his tracks.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ he hissed, looking around him furtively. ‘Take off those damned gloves or you will have us both in the Sheriff’s prisons!’

‘I am sure Matt will furnish me with a receipt for those – should I feel the need to ask him for one,’ said Tulyet, making Mortimer jump by speaking in his ear. ‘Quite unlike this wine, I imagine.’

‘I had no idea that was there,’ Mortimer insisted angrily. ‘I never use that cellar. It is damp.’

‘Of course,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘Someone must have slipped into your cellars and hidden it carefully behind that pile of old crates for safekeeping. It is odd how so many people seem to have found themselves in the same position today.’

‘You are quite mistaken, father,’ said Edward nervously. ‘You bought that wine last summer. You have been keeping it to allow it to mature.’

‘The King allows his wines to mature before drinking them,’ put in Katherine.

‘Rubbish!’ said Mortimer impatiently. ‘I remember purchasing no wine.’

‘Of course you do, dear,’ said Katherine, favouring him with an indulgent smile. ‘You said we might drink it to celebrate Edward’s coming of age.’

Mortimer looked taken aback, and his certainty began to waver. ‘Did I?’ he said, frowning.

Bartholomew went to the box Tulyet was placing on the back of a cart and looked inside. There were six bottles made of smoked glass, the wine dark red inside them. He started back. The last time he had seen such a bottle it had been smashed on the floor under Isaac’s work-bench. He exchanged a glance with Michael.

‘When did you purchase this wine?’ asked Michael. ‘And where?’

‘Why?’ demanded Edward, uncharacteristically aggressive. ‘Father’s wines are no concern of the University.’

‘Really?’ said Michael, fixing him with a hard stare.

‘It is just good French wine,’ said Katherine, smiling lightly. ‘No more, no less.’

Mortimer looked from one to the other belligerently. ‘All this fuss over half a crate of wine!’ he snapped. ‘If Katherine says I bought it, I did. I will have a receipt somewhere for it. I will hunt it out tomorrow.’

‘You will not find it,’ said Michael. ‘Because you never bought it.’ He turned to Edward and Katherine. ‘Despite the fact that your family is trying to suggest you did.’

‘He did buy it,’ insisted Edward. ‘Just because he does not remember, it does not mean to say it did not happen.’

‘You cheeky whelp!’ said Mortimer, taking a step towards his son threateningly. ‘Do you imply I am losing my wits? The business is not yours yet, Edward; you must wait until I die.’

Edward said nothing, although his expression indicated that Mortimer’s words generated ambiguous emotions within him: while he might long to be rid of his dominating, bellicose father, he certainly did not relish the prospect of inheriting a business in which he had no interest.

‘Perhaps you would care to try some,’ said Katherine, leaning into the box to take a bottle and offer it to Michael. ‘We have already sampled the other six bottles and found it most delicious.’

‘But James Grene did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And neither did Brother Armel.’

Mortimer stared at him and then began to laugh. ‘The University’s poisoned wine! You think this is it! How ridiculous! Give it to me. I will prove how wrong you are.’

He snatched the wine from Katherine and raised it to his mouth to draw out the cork with his teeth. Bartholomew slapped his hand down.

‘No,’ he said. He took the bottle carefully from the indignant Mortimer and held it out to Edward. ‘You drink it.’

Edward regarded the bottle in horror and put his hands behind his back.

‘Edward does not drink wine,’ said Katherine quickly. ‘It makes him sick.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Mortimer. ‘He had some last night with no ill effects. Drink the wine, Edward. Prove to these insolent scholars how they slander the name of Mortimer.’

Edward reached out a hand and slowly took the bottle from Bartholomew. Hesitantly, he began to raise it to his lips.

‘No!’ Katherine dashed the bottle from Edward’s hand and it smashed on the ground. Everyone leapt backwards and, for a moment, all eyes were on the dark liquid that pooled in the mud of the street. Then Edward tore towards Tulyet, knocked him off his feet, and had darted up Milne Street before anyone could stop him. Tulyet’s men gaped at him stupidly before the Sheriff’s angry cry set them racing after him.

Mortimer looked about him in confusion. ‘What is going on?’ he demanded of Katherine. ‘What is he doing? Stupid boy! How does he imagine he will become a Master Baker when he is given to this kind of behaviour?’

Tulyet climbed to his feet and took Katherine by the arm. ‘It seems you have some explaining to do, madam. Your husband is not the only one who wants to know what you have been plotting.’

Katherine met his eyes coolly, but said nothing.

‘For God’s sake, Katherine!’ yelled Mortimer in sudden fury. ‘What is happening?’

‘Nothing!’ she said to Tulyet. ‘Edward and I have done nothing. The wine is Constantine’s.’

‘It is over, Katherine,’ said Tulyet quietly. ‘It is clear Master Mortimer knows nothing about this wine. But it is equally clear that you and Edward do.’

‘Not so,’ said Katherine in the same calm voice. ‘Edward is a timid boy, and he has always been frightened of his father. It was from Constantine he fled, not from you as a sign of guilt.’

‘Who was the third person?’ demanded Michael. ‘It was you and Edward who went to Gonville to reclaim the poisoned wine from Isaac once you realised it was there. You knocked me over as you came racing out. But who else was with you? Who helped you kill Isaac?’

‘We have killed no one,’ said Katherine. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘What are you saying?’ said Mortimer, bewildered as he looked from Michael to Katherine. ‘Of what are you accusing my wife?’

‘Of murder,’ said Michael. He pointed a soft white finger at the remaining bottles. ‘Crates of wine from this part of France tend to contain a dozen bottles. So, we can assume that originally there were twelve, but that a little over a month ago six were stolen by an opportunistic thief named Sacks.’

‘Sacks?’ queried one of Tulyet’s sergeants, as he lounged against the wall watching the exchange with interest. ‘Has he been busy again?’

‘Sacks sold the wine he stole from you in the Brazen George – two bottles to Rob Thorpe and three bottles to Brother Armel. One of Thorpe’s bottles killed Will Harper, the boy we pulled from the well, and the other killed James Grene.’ Michael’s eyes never left Katherine’s face. ‘Harper died more than a month ago, but it was not until last Saturday that Sacks tried to sell the remaining bottles.’

‘Sacks has been in the castle prison,’ said Tulyet’s sergeant, eager to join in. ‘We kept him for three weeks for selling stolen goods. It was a petty matter and we did not think to bother you with it, Master Tulyet, knowing how all your time was taken up with hunting down the outlaws. He was released last Saturday – the morning of the installation.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. He turned his attention back to Katherine. ‘You must have thought you were off the hook when no tales of violent death were rumoured around the town. Then last Saturday Grene died horribly and publicly at the installation. Edward was there and must have seen it – although you were absent because of your husband’s illness. It was followed by rumours about the death of Armel, and you knew the wine was finally beginning to surface.’

Katherine shook her head and smiled. ‘I really have no idea what you are talking about. I know nothing of stolen wine. I have already told you we drank the six bottles you see missing from the crate.’

Michael continued relentlessly. ‘In desperation, knowing that it might be traced back to you via Sacks, you took steps to remove the evidence – you stole four of the bottles from Michaelhouse, first terrifying poor Walter, our porter, out of his wits, and then went to Gonville to see whether Matt had been called to physic another case of poisoning. Cynric saw you – three of you – in the shadows in St Michael’s Lane, waiting to slip unnoticed into Michaelhouse as soon as the coast was clear. After you searched his room and found what you wanted, you went to Gonville, where you had heard the messenger tell Walter that Philius had been struck down with a strange illness. You followed Isaac from Philius’s room when he went to fetch the wine he had used in the purge, and you stunned him with a savage blow to the head in the ensuing struggle. You could not risk leaving him alive to identify you, so you hanged him to make certain he would die.’

Katherine gave a short laugh of bemusement. ‘How can you think such a thing of me? How could I hang a man from the rafters? I am only a woman, not a great brawny ox, like you.’

‘From the rafters, was it?’ pounced Michael. ‘But you have not been listening. I said there were three of you, so you did not murder Isaac alone. When you could not find the bottle – which had been smashed by the College cat and lay in pieces under the work-bench – one of you stayed to look again, while the other two went to see if it was still in Philius’s room. It was while you were looking there that Matt disturbed you, and the three of you fled, knocking me over on the way out. But, fortunately for one of you, Matt had found the broken bottle under the bench, and it was an easy matter to scrape up the pieces before you left.’

‘This is all wild nonsense,’ said Katherine in disbelief. She turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has the good Brother been drinking? Is he wholly in his right mind?’

‘Wholly, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘And you also killed Philius in his bed and chopped Egil’s head from his neck.’

‘Who is Egil?’ asked Katherine with an expression of profound confusion. ‘And why would I do such a foul thing? I am no warlock!’

‘Because he was the smuggler who brought you this wine across the Fens,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But this is outrageous!’ protested Katherine, laughing. ‘This Egil’s head was probably stolen by wild animals.’

‘So that is what we were meant to believe, was it?’ said Michael.

Katherine shook her head in exasperation and went to her husband. ‘Constantine! Why do you stand there and allow them to insult me? Call for the Chancellor and tell him to order these University men away, because I will sue them for slander if they continue in this vein. They are trying to provoke a riot by accusing a townsperson of vile crimes!’

Mortimer looked from her to Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘I do not understand how you arrived at all these conclusions. You have no evidence with which to accuse my wife, only wild guesses.’

In his heart, Bartholomew knew the baker was right. No court of law would find Katherine guilty on the evidence they had. Bartholomew was certain their reasoning was accurate, but the only clue that Katherine was involved came from her apparent attempt to implicate her bullying husband by claiming the wine was his. It was true that she had prevented Edward from drinking it, and provided him with the opportunity to flee, but it was hardly solid proof. He glanced at Michael, seeing his own frustration mirrored in the fat monk’s face.