He picked up the Countess’s cup and held it out to Thorpe with an encouraging smile.
‘I do not like wine,’ said Thorpe, licking his lips nervously. ‘It makes my head swim.’
‘In that case,’ said Eligius, ‘let us put an end to this nonsense here and now.’ Before Bartholomew or Michael could stop him, he had put the cup to his lips and drained it in a single draught. There was a deathly hush in the hall. Eligius replaced the cup on the table and raised his hands. ‘Well, Brother? I am still here. I am not struck down in an instant like Grene. You have clearly been mistaken in your logic.’
Michael gazed at him in disbelief. Thorpe’s disbelief, however, was the greater. He looked at Eligius in horror and the blood drained from his face, leaving him an unhealthy grey-white colour.
‘You seem to have made a grave mistake, Brother Michael,’ said the Countess. ‘You have accused a young man of a vile crime of which he appears to be wholly guiltless.’
She rested her elbows on the table and steepled her beringed fingers. Meanwhile, Eligius walked around the table to the seat next to her and sat, leaning back in his chair to fix his gaze on Michael and wait for an explanation. Michael strode forward and seized the cup, his face almost as pale as Thorpe’s. For quite some time there was no sound in the hall as everyone watched Michael staring at the goblet. Bartholomew racked his brains for an answer, but he had been so convinced that Rob Thorpe had intended to harm the Countess, for some warped reason of his own, that his mind was nothing but a blank. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Eligius should be gasping his last, his lips and throat blistering from the same poison that had killed Grene, not reclining easily in his chair with his bony hands folded in his lap.
Eventually, when the Countess began to show signs of impatience, and the mutters of the cook at the rear of the hall that the food was spoiling grew embarrassingly audible, Michael spoke.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, turning the cup over in his hands in bewilderment. ‘I was certain we were correct in our beliefs. You see, we reasoned that Thorpe had killed Grene using one of six bottles of wine sold by a thief named Sacks. An apprentice – Thorpe’s cousin – was dredged from the well today and his body shows similar signs of poisoning as those we observed on James Grene.’
The Countess pulled a face of disgust. ‘I heard about the body in the well. But it seems as though your reasoning is flawed, Brother. Why should Thorpe – or anyone else for that matter – poison me? I am no candidate for the Mastership, and I played no part in his father’s dismissal.’
Michael raised his hands in defeat and took a few steps towards the Countess. ‘What can I say? I am sorry, my lady. My only thought was that you might be in danger, and I acted without giving the matter sufficient thought. But despite Father Eligius’s conviction regarding Bingham’s guilt, Thorpe has admitted that he gave the poisoned wine to Grene, and we must be allowed to question him further on the matter. He has also stolen from his employer. If he will come with us now, we will leave, and you will be able to finish your meal in peace.’
He turned to Eligius, whose eyes were closed, as if in prayer. For the third time since their dramatic entry, there was a heavy silence as everyone waited for him to give Michael permission to take Thorpe away. Thorpe swallowed hard as Bartholomew looked more closely at Eligius, and then he darted past them, aiming for the door and freedom. Bartholomew dived at him, and both went tumbling to the floor. Thorpe scratched, kicked and bit like an animal as Bartholomew fought to pin him down. The Countess leapt to her feet.
‘For God’s sake!’ she exclaimed in angry exasperation. ‘Eligius has just proved the boy’s innocence: Bingham killed poor Grene and there is an end to it. Eligius? Order Brother Michael and this brawling physician to leave my presence at once. I will not be insulted in this way!’
‘Eligius will not be ordering anything ever again,’ gasped Bartholomew, still struggling with Thorpe. ‘He is dying.’
It was not until much later that Bartholomew and Michael were able to leave Valence Marie and go to make their report to Harling. He listened to their description of events in silence.
‘So,’ he said, when Michael had finished. ‘Thorpe maintains the whole affair was Grene’s idea?’
Michael nodded, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. ‘He says he fled to Grene – his father’s best friend – when Will Harper died from the poisoned wine. Apparently, Thorpe and Harper liked to drink together – Stanmore disapproves of his apprentices frequenting taverns and had forbidden Thorpe to meet his cousin on pain of dismissal from his service. When Harper died on Stanmore’s premises, Thorpe was afraid he would be sacked for disobedience – or, worse, that he would be accused of his cousin’s murder. Thorpe described Harper’s quick, and seemingly painless, death to Grene, and Grene conceived the notion of revenge for them both.’
He rubbed his chin, and continued. ‘According to Philius, Grene was dying anyway, and had very little to lose. His death at the installation was not as painless as Thorpe had probably led him to believe it would be, but the rest of the plan went perfectly. Over the previous week, Grene made claims to three other Fellows that he was in fear of his life from Bingham, including to Father Eligius on the eve of his death. The scene was set: Grene died; Bingham was arrested for his murder; Grene was avenged for his defeat; and Rob had struck a blow against the College that he felt had wronged his father over the business of the false relic.’
Harling swallowed hard. ‘And this Rob Thorpe is just seventeen, you say? Yet he plotted all this murder and mayhem?’
Michael shrugged. ‘With Grene’s help. But perhaps he is not wholly without hope. Edith Stanmore told us he has been having nightmares over the last month or so, and all that time he spent in St Botolph’s Church – such as when we thought he had fled to his accomplice – must count for something. He was clearly suffering from remorse.’
‘But not enough to prevent him from attempting to murder the Countess,’ remarked Bartholomew, recalling Thorpe’s gloating expression when Edith and Stanmore had prevented Bartholomew from hauling him off to the Proctors’ cells after he had gone to inspect Egil’s mutilated corpse.
Harling was silent, shaking his head slowly and looking down at his ink-stained table. ‘What bitterness,’ he said at last. ‘I, too, lost an election, but it never occurred to me to poison myself so that Tynkell would be blamed for my murder.’
‘But you are not fatally ill,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
Harling began to speak again before Bartholomew could moderate his remark so it did not sound as if he believed Harling might well have conceived such a plan given the right conditions.
‘So circumstances were simply opportune,’ mused the Vice-Chancellor. ‘The poisoned wine coming into Thorpe’s possession merely provided Grene with an opportunity for revenge that he had been considering for some time.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Michael, standing and walking to the window. ‘And it might have worked, had Thorpe left the town quietly after the installation as he had promised Grene he would. But Bingham’s arrest was not enough for him. He decided to commit one last act of vengeance before leaving Cambridge to join his father in York.’