‘Then how did the poison find its way into his cup?’ asked Michael harshly. ‘It is strange that only he was stricken at the installation, would you not say?’
‘I do not know!’ said Bingham, in the weary tones of a man who had said as much many times before. ‘I was as shocked by his death as was everyone else. I did not kill Grene and I have no idea how poison came to be in his wine. When he died, I assumed it had been simple gluttony that had brought about a seizure. The serving lad behind him had been filling his cup all night.’
Bartholomew had never been good at ascertaining whether people were telling the truth, but Bingham was convincing. It would have been difficult for him to pass a poisoned bottle to Grene without having it intercepted or seen by another person – unless he had an accomplice, of course. But then, surely the accomplice would be working to quell the allegations that Bingham was the murderer – for his own sake as much as Bingham’s – and yet no one was speaking in Bingham’s defence. The tall, willowy figure of Eligius sprung into Bartholomew’s mind again. But what was his motive? Eligius did not want to be Master, so why should he want Bingham convicted of Grene’s murder? Was it to promote the relic in some bizarre way – slaying one of its proponents to make people believe it was worth dying for?
A commotion in the bailey drew Tulyet over to the narrow window. He threw open the shutter and leaned out.
‘Let him in,’ he yelled to the sergeant on the gates. Moments later, feet pounded on the newel stair, and Cynric burst breathlessly into the room.
‘Thought I would find you here,’ he gasped, ignoring the Sheriff and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Master Colton of Gonville asks that you come immediately. Father Philius is dead!’
Chapter 8
Although the death of a scholar was not the concern of the Sheriff, Tulyet went with Bartholomew and Michael as they hurried down Castle Hill towards Gonville Hall.
‘You seem to have most of your soldiers out in the Fens, Dick,’ said Michael. ‘Given that the outlaws have started to attack places in the town itself – the Round Church and poor little St Clement’s Hostel to name but two – perhaps you would be better advised to keep a few back to patrol the streets.’
‘Damn these villains!’ spat Tulyet in sudden anger. ‘What am I supposed to do? It is like looking for a needle in a haystack! Do I concentrate my searches on the Fens, or do I withdraw men, as you suggest, and look for them here? Your descriptions will help, but names would have been better.’
‘I think we can provide you with some of those,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I have an informant who knows the identities of several of these smugglers. The attack I was investigating on St Clement’s Hostel distracted me – I should have told you before now.’
Tulyet stopped walking abruptly, and seized the fat monk’s sleeve. ‘How have you come by such information?’ He shook his head quickly. ‘Never mind. Just give me the names.’
‘A nun has all the information you need,’ said Michael. ‘We brought her with us from Denny.’
‘Well, where is she? Can I speak with her now?’
‘I thought she would have passed this information to you on the way back from Denny,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant for a well-known public figure like the Sheriff to visit Matilde’s house and alert the outlaws to Dame Pelagia’s whereabouts. ‘She had plenty of time.’
‘Of course she did not,’ said Michael, treating Bartholomew to the kind of look that he normally reserved for students who made exceptionally stupid observations. ‘First, it would not have been wise to discuss such matters on an open trackway – who knows who might have been listening from among the bushes at the roadside? Second, the fewer the people privy to this kind of information, the better – what one does not know, one cannot be forced to tell – and, anyway, Julianna was with us a good deal of the way, and I did not want her knowing more than she already does. And, third, Dame Pelagia is an old lady and needed all her energy for walking. She did not have excess breath to be chattering with me.’
Bartholomew’s recollections of their journey suggested that it was probably Michael who had needed all his breath for walking, while Dame Pelagia had remained very sprightly, even at the end of the walk.
Tulyet made an impatient sound at their digression. ‘Never mind all that. I want to speak with her immediately!’
Michael shook his head. ‘I do not want anyone to know her whereabouts because I believe her to be in grave danger from these outlaws. I will ask her for the information and pass it to you as soon as we have finished with Father Philius.’
‘No,’ said Tulyet, hauling on Michael’s sleeve as he made to walk on. He gestured up at the sky. ‘If you tell me now, I can set about hunting these rogues immediately, while there is enough daylight. If you tell me later, I will have to wait until tomorrow, and by then who knows what might have happened? Go now. I will accompany Matt to see about Father Philius.’
Michael made as if to demur, but Tulyet stood firm. The Sheriff was right: the sooner the outlaws were rounded up, the sooner he, Bartholomew and Dame Pelagia would be safe. Michael nodded acquiescence, and headed off towards The Jewry. After a moment of hesitation, Cynric slipped away after him, and Bartholomew was reminded, yet again, what a dangerous position they were in.
A student was waiting outside Gonville Hall to conduct them to Father Philius’s room. In it, Master Colton paced back and forth, pulling at his beard in agitation, while Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Philius’s room looked as though a fierce wind had blown through it. Parchments were scattered everywhere, and the table and several stools had been overturned. The collection of fine crucifixes had gone, too – the hooks where they had hung were empty. As Bartholomew recovered himself, and walked towards the body that lay on the bed, glass and pottery crunched under his feet from the bottles and cups that had been shattered.
He knelt on the floor, and eased the dead scholar over onto his back. Philius’s eyes were wide open, there were traces of blood around his white lips, and his face revealed an expression of profound shock. Tulyet leaned over Bartholomew’s shoulder to look, and crossed himself hurriedly.
‘It seems to me that the evil humours, for which you treated Philius recently, must have burst from him,’ said Colton from the doorway as he watched. He gestured around the room. ‘He must have done all this in his death throes. We decided we should leave everything as we found it, so that you could be certain it was these evil humours that killed him. I cannot have lies circulating that Philius died in suspicious circumstances, not so soon after the rumours that he was poisoned by his own book-bearer. What will people think of us?’
Bartholomew stood up, and turned to face Colton.
‘But I think Father Philius has been murdered,’ he said quietly. He looked around the room. ‘And it seems he put up quite a fight.’
‘Murdered?’ echoed Colton nervously. ‘But that cannot be so! The porter heard and saw nothing, and these days – with the outlaws at large – we keep our gates locked during the day as well as the night.’
‘But he must have heard something,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Surely the sound of that table falling would have been audible from the porter’s lodge?’
‘Send for him,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘We shall see.’
With a long-suffering sigh, Colton hailed a passing student, and instructed him to fetch the porter.
‘We might know what happened for certain once I have looked more closely at Philius’s body,’ said Bartholomew. He crouched next to the dead Franciscan, and inspected his face. Colton reached past him and hauled the bed-cover up, so that it covered the body. Bartholomew twisted round to gaze at the Master of Gonville Hall in astonishment.