‘Your own logic is failing you, my friend,’ said Michael. ‘It is entirely possible that this wine-seller sold claret to both Bingham and Armel. Perhaps not today, but maybe yesterday or last week. Bingham might have had no idea that the stuff was poisoned and it might be mere coincidence that Grene was the victim.’
‘Do you honestly believe that Bingham bought a bottle of wine – just the one, mind you, since your own search revealed that there was not another like it in the hall – and it just happened to be poisoned and just happened to end up being consumed by his arch-enemy, Grene?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.
Michael rubbed the rough whiskers on his chin and answered with a question of his own. ‘Do you think Bingham murdered Grene? You told Eligius you did not think he had the presence of mind, despite the fact that it was your observation of the convenience of Grene’s death to Bingham that brought Eligius from the shadows in the first place.’
Bartholomew raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘All I think at the moment is that we have insufficient evidence to say whether Bingham is guilty or not. To be honest, I would not imagine he would have the audacity to kill his rival in full view of most of the town, but desire for power leads men to desperate acts, as we both know from past experience.’
‘Eligius was right when he said the taint of murder will hang about Bingham regardless of whether he is guilty or innocent,’ mused Michael. ‘Even if he is acquitted, he will be hard pushed to rule Valence Marie as Master. Quite aside from the bitter division between supporters of Grene and supporters of Bingham, there is the fact that half the scholars are convinced that horrible hand Thorpe found last year is a sacred relic, while half have the sense to see that it is a fake.’
‘I thought any faith in the relic’s authenticity would have been destroyed when we proved that the man to whom the hand was said to belong was in possession of a full complement of limbs,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Eligius must be out of his mind to continue to think the thing is genuine!’
Michael shrugged. ‘I agree. But you know how people are once they believe in something – all the evidence in the world will not shake their faith. You must have seen that gleam of fanaticism in Eligius’s eyes when he spoke about the bones.’
‘But if Bingham killed Grene because Grene believed in the authenticity of the relic, that would make Bingham a fanatic, too, and he is scarcely that. He is stuffy and pedantic, but not a zealot.’
Michael was about to reply when the door opened and a chill blast of rain-laden wind gusted into the kitchen, making the fire glow and roar. Cynric, Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, entered with the nightporter behind him.
‘There you are, boy,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘Walter here has been looking for you.’
The porter pushed Cynric out of the way and strode into the kitchen. Walter’s perpetual bad temper was legendary and, during the nine years Bartholomew had been a Fellow of Michaelhouse, he had never seen Walter smile except at someone else’s misfortune.
‘You are not supposed to be in here!’ accused Walter. ‘The Master said scholars are not allowed in the kitchens any more.’
‘When Walter saw you were not in your room, he came to wake me, thinking you had gone out again,’ explained Cynric. He looked sly. ‘Although how he thought you could have left the College without being seen, I cannot imagine.’ The porter glowered. Besides his reputation for surliness, Walter was also known for sleeping on duty, and most scholars knew that they could break the curfew and slip in and out of College at will when Walter was guarding the main gates.
His morose gaze fastened on the cheerful fire. ‘Where did you get those logs?’ he demanded. He turned to Michael and pointed an accusatory finger. ‘You stole them! You stole them from Master Alcote’s personal supply in the stables!’
‘I am a man of the cloth,’ said Michael, rising to his feet in indignant outrage. ‘I do not steal!’
‘It was him, then!’ shouted Walter, spinning round to indicate Bartholomew. ‘He pinched poor Master Alcote’s logs – he is always complaining about how cold the College is, and so he decided to build himself a blaze in the middle of the night when there was no one else around to witness his crime. Master Alcote paid me a penny to protect those logs, and now he will want it back!’
‘Give it to him, then,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Matt told me you were nowhere to be seen when he borrowed the firewood from the stable. You do not deserve Alcote’s penny.’
‘What do you want, Walter?’ asked Bartholomew, standing and stretching his back. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired.’
‘You will not be enjoying your warm bed for a while yet,’ said Walter spitefully. ‘A messenger just came from Gonville Hall. Father Philius is sick and has sent for you.’ He gestured towards the door where the rain could be seen falling heavily. ‘You will get soaked,’ he added smugly.
‘Philius?’ said Bartholomew, startled. Father Philius was a physician who deplored the use of surgery and was one of Bartholomew’s most rabid critics over his unorthodox methods. The Franciscan must be ill indeed to resort to requesting Bartholomew’s help.
‘The messenger said you were to hurry,’ said Walter, putting his hand out of the door to test the strength of the rain with an expression as near to a smile as he ever came.
‘I will come with you,’ said Cynric, standing and reaching for the cloak that hung on a hook in the fireplace.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, picking up his own cloak and hunting about for his new gloves. ‘There is no need for us both to get wet. Go back to bed.’
Cynric swung the woollen garment round his shoulders. ‘The streets are far from safe for a single man. You will do better with me along.’
There was no disputing that. Since the plague, the price of food had risen dramatically and was beyond the means of many people. Bands of men simply defied the law, realising they could fare better by theft and robbery than by honest labour. Added to these were veterans from King Edward’s temporarily suspended wars with France, heroes who expected more from their country than a return to virtual slavery in the fields. Travelling had always been dangerous, but since the onset of winter the outlaws had become bolder and had started to attack the town itself, darting in from the Fens to take what they wanted and disappearing again before the Sheriff’s men could catch them. Cynric spoke the truth when he said the streets were unsafe for a single man and, although he was too tactful to say so, especially one with Bartholomew’s inferior fighting skills.
Bartholomew set off across the muddy yard with Cynric and Michael behind him. He made a brief detour to lock the four bottles of wine in the little storeroom where he kept his medicines, after which he secured the door carefully and tied the key onto his belt. As he left, he saw Michael give the door a surreptitious rattle to satisfy himself that it was firmly locked. They exchanged a glance: Michael was right to be cautious with the deadly brew and, once again, Bartholomew wondered who could have a reason to unleash such a hideous potion on the University’s scholars.
Outside, the rain was falling in great sheets, and Walter grumbled and cursed as he hauled the bar from the wicket gate to let them out. Fortunately, Philius’s room at Gonville Hall was a mere stone’s throw from Michaelhouse, but even as they walked the short distance, Bartholomew thought he saw a shadow move in the bushes to the side of the road. He drew one of the surgical knives he carried in his medicine bag and saw that Cynric already held his dagger.