‘The Countess?’ asked Harling.
Michael nodded. ‘But by this stage he had no more of Sacks’s wine left: one of his bottles had killed his cousin and then been stolen by Isaac; the other he had used to kill Grene.’ He gestured that Bartholomew should continue.
‘Father Philius’s medical notes showed that he had prescribed a powerful opiate for Grene to use should the pain of his illness become too great. Thorpe confessed to Michael that he took this from Grene’s room after the installation. He then mixed all of it with the wine he planned to serve the Countess when she visited Valence Marie.’
‘So this was premeditated,’ said Harling sadly. ‘Thorpe planned to murder the Countess as long ago as last Saturday.’
Michael nodded. ‘I imagine he was encouraged by the ease with which he helped Grene to his death, and so decided to try it once again. And his reason, of course, was that by murdering Valence Marie’s benefactor, he would assure the College’s dissolution. His bag was already packed so that he could flee the moment he saw the Countess swallow the wine. He was appalled when Eligius drank it, and probably anticipated that he would keel over immediately.’
‘And he did not?’ asked Harling. ‘Not like Grene?’
‘No,’ answered Bartholomew. ‘This opiate is slower acting and less dramatic than the poison in the wine Sacks sold him. By the time we realised there was something wrong, it was too late to do anything to save Eligius. He had fallen into a deep sleep and could not be roused. His breathing grew shallower and slower until it stopped completely; he died about an hour ago.’
‘So Eligius’s faith in Grene’s claims and his belief in Bingham’s guilt, brought about his own death?’ asked Harling.
‘I suppose it might be viewed like that,’ said Michael. He sat back down on the wall bench so heavily that Bartholomew was forced to grab the table lest he be catapulted from the other end. ‘But let us not forget the role the relic played in all this.’
‘Ah, yes. The relic,’ said Harling heavily. ‘I wish to God that foul thing had never been found. It has been nothing but trouble ever since it emerged from the foul black mud of the King’s Ditch. If I were Chancellor, I would throw it back, where it can do no more harm.’
‘Eligius was convinced that the relic was genuine – as was Grene,’ said Michael. ‘Bingham, on the other hand, has the sense to see it for what it really is – a monstrous fraud foisted on the town by an evil man. Part of Eligius’s conviction that Bingham killed Grene stemmed from that, despite the fact that it was an illogical conclusion to draw.’
‘Even great minds like Eligius’s can be confounded when it comes to matters of faith,’ said Harling. ‘He told Chancellor Tynkell and me that he sensed an aura of holiness emanating from the relic, and that its purity and goodness touched his soul. It is difficult to argue with someone who has convictions like that.’
Bartholomew recalled Eligius standing with him and Michael as they inspected Grene’s body, and the fleeting expression of remorse that had crossed his face. It was not simply faith in Grene’s claims nor belief in Bingham’s guilt, nor even his total conviction that the relic was holy, that had prompted him to drink the Countess’s wine: it was his own troubled conscience – that Grene had come to him with his fears and he had done nothing about them. Bartholomew was sure that Eligius held himself responsible for Grene’s death, which explained why he had initiated his own quest to have Bingham indicted of his murder. He had even gone to the Sheriff and made out a case for Bingham’s arrest, because he felt he could not wait for the Senior Proctor to return from dealing with the burglary at St Clement’s Hostel.
Harling sighed. ‘I am certain poor Master Thorpe knows nothing of his son’s plans for revenge,’ he said. ‘There is some talk that the King has regretted his hasty decision in removing Thorpe from the Mastership, and is considering reinstating him. He will be aghast when he hears what his son has done.’
Bartholomew felt sick at the futility of it all. ‘Please do not tell Edith Master Thorpe might be reinstated. All this is hard enough for her to accept without the knowledge that Rob’s drive to avenge his father’s unjust treatment was all for nothing.’
Harling and Michael were silent, so that Bartholomew wondered whether his request had already come too late. For all he knew, Master Thorpe was already riding south to reclaim his post as head of Valence Marie.
Michael stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘So, Rob Thorpe is lodged in the Proctors’ gaol, the Countess is safe, and Bingham is freed from his cell in the castle. But we still do not know how Sacks came by this poisonous wine.’
‘We know it must be related to the smuggling in the Fens,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hopefully, we will find out who was responsible when Tulyet arrests the contrabanders.’
‘And then there is still the missing bottle,’ said Michael. ‘Sacks had six and we only know what happened to five of them.’
‘Perhaps Thorpe had three, not two,’ said Harling, patting his greased hair with both hands.
‘I do not believe so,’ said Michael. ‘Or I imagine he would have used the last one on the Countess, instead of resorting to the unknown qualities of Grene’s medicine. I think we have yet to discover the fate of the sixth bottle.’
Chapter 10
Bearing in mind Harling’s disapproval of his working relationship with the Sheriff, Michael informed the Vice-Chancellor that they were going to advise Stanmore of Thorpe’s arrest, rather than that he planned to visit the castle. Stanmore already knew about Thorpe: he had been waiting for them when they eventually emerged from Valence Marie and had gone to take the news to Edith. Some of the relief Bartholomew had felt, that Thorpe no longer represented a threat to his family, evaporated when he saw the slump in Stanmore’s shoulders and his grey face.
Tulyet was sitting at a table in his room in the great keep, reading a sheaf of hastily scribbled notes. He stood as they were shown in, and offered them stools near the fire.
‘What a day!’ he exclaimed, sitting again with a sigh. ‘I have been questioning those I have arrested since dawn, and then there was that unpleasant affair of the body in the well.’
‘And?’ asked Michael, stretching his feet towards the blaze. ‘Are you too busy or too weary to waste time in idle conversation with scholars?’
‘And nothing,’ said Tulyet gloomily. ‘The smugglers in my prison have told me the identities of a few other Fenmen and the locations of one or two trading routes, but I am really no further forward than I was before.’
Michael gazed at him in disbelief. ‘But that is not possible! My informant risked her life to provide you with those names I gave you. Let me question these smugglers – I will find out what you are lacking.’
‘You will not, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘And you will not because I honestly believe they have already told me all they know. The names you gave me are men at the lowest possible level, and a long way from the evil minds who are controlling all this.’
‘I have been thinking about this smuggling,’ said Bartholomew, staring at the flames flickering over the white-hot logs in the hearth. ‘There must be two independent operations.’
‘Yes?’ said Tulyet, regarding him intently. ‘Go on. We are listening.’
‘It is generally known around the town that smuggling has been taking place along the waterways for many years,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘It is a way of life for some Fenmen, and it provides a service to the town to which the authorities usually turn a blind eye. But, of late, the goods have not been trickling in surreptitiously: they have been flooding in, and anyone can buy exotic goods on the black market. You have assumed that the smugglers have suddenly become greedy and incautious, but it is their livelihood and I think they are unlikely to risk it so openly.’