‘It is too cold to be out here,’ he said. ‘And there is a fire in the conclave today.’
‘You would never get near it,’ said Michael, leaning back comfortably. ‘All the Fellows and commoners are there, and Langelee is entertaining them with some story about a journey he took to Bristol last year.’
‘That does not sound appealing in the slightest,’ admitted Bartholomew, sitting down again. ‘I do not like that man. I was hoping he would be implicated in all this smuggling so we might be rid of him.’
‘I told you that I would have a few words here and there,’ said Michael, making it sound most sinister. ‘I will put it about that he drinks, and that I am afraid he will spark off some incident that might cause a riot. Kenyngham will not wish to risk that, no matter who is pressuring him to employ Langelee.’
‘So, Colton, Julianna and Eligius, whom I was certain were as guilty as sin, are now wholly vindicated,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still running over the events of the past few days.
‘Do not speak too soon,’ said Michael. ‘You heard Tulyet say there are still outlaws at large.’
‘Colton and Julianna are hardly likely to be outlaws,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Eligius is dead.’
Michael sat up straight and stretched his burly arms so hard they cracked. ‘I said I would return to Valence Marie today and tell them more about what Thorpe confessed to doing in their hallowed halls.’
‘And what was that exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, pulling his borrowed cloak closer around him, reluctant to return to his room to start work on his lecture. ‘The last I heard, he was professing his innocence and big bad Grene was entirely to blame.’
‘He has stuck to his story,’ said Michael. ‘But we were essentially right. He turned to Grene when Will Harper died from drinking Sacks’s wine, and Grene told him how and where to dispose of the body so that he would not be dismissed from Stanmore’s service. He confided to Grene how he yearned to strike a blow at the College that allowed his father to be disgraced, and Grene worked out a plan that would allow him to do just that.’
‘And Grene really did drink the poison knowingly?’
Michael nodded. ‘I think Rob Thorpe is telling the truth – although my ability to distinguish between liars and honest men is sorely stretched these days. I am inclined to believe Grene felt sufficiently bitter to use his public suicide to destroy his hated rival, Bingham. We know from Philius that he was dying anyway, and we know from Eligius that he took some care to ensure three Fellows knew he considered himself in danger from Bingham. Even if Bingham had not been convicted of his murder, the suspicion would have hung over him like the Sword of Damocles.’
‘And the Countess?’
Michael gave a nasty smile. ‘That was all Thorpe’s own idea, although he did try to convince me that Grene’s tormented spirit appeared to him in a dream and ordered him to do it.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘I imagine he will be expelled from the country,’ said Michael without much interest. ‘He will be stripped of his possessions and put on a ship for France – best place for him, if you ask me. The Countess wants him hanged, though. She is afraid he will try to kill her again.’
‘He might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor Eligius!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘It just goes to show that you should never think good of people. If Eligius had been suspicious and cynical like the rest of us, he would never have drunk that wine. But you live and learn. Well, he did not, I suppose. Will you come with me to Valence Marie?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘Every time I visit that College, either someone dies or someone tries to kill me. And anyway, I need to think about this lecture.’
‘Walk with me to the Trumpington Gate, then,’ said Michael, standing and adjusting the cowl on his cloak. ‘Edith told me at church this morning that Mistress Pike is unlikely to last the day. She lives near Valence Marie, so you can keep me company and see her at the same time. You have given lectures on Theophilus a hundred times, and have no need for preparations.’
‘I have seen her twice today already,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing more I can do.’
But he followed Michael through the orchard towards the back gate. Because it was Sunday, there were no trader’s carts rattling up and down the lane, and the town was unusually peaceful. Agatha’s cockerel crowed somewhere in the distance, and a blackbird sang sweetly from one of the trees in the orchard. They walked in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Bartholomew’s mind jumped between considering whether it was safe to visit Matilde and relieve her of Dame Pelagia, and Edith’s continuing distress over Thorpe. Michael pondered how he might inveigle an invitation to dine at Valence Marie and still manage to have supper at Michaelhouse.
Above, the sky grew blacker as heavy rain clouds gathered, so that it seemed as though dusk was already approaching even though it was only mid-afternoon. A golden shaft of sunrays broke through unexpectedly, and illuminated the soft creamy stone of St Mary’s Church, making it dazzle like gold in the sullen light of the clouds. As they passed, Bartholomew squinted as it reflected off the shiny ground, and stumbled from not being able to see where he was treading. But the sunlight was short-lived, and by the time they reached the Trumpington Gate, the clouds had filled in the gaps, and the first, great drops of rain began to fall, splattering into the mud.
‘If this foul weather continues, we will be forced to build an ark,’ grumbled Michael, glancing upwards. ‘I had no idea the heavens could hold so much water!’
Still muttering complaints, he stamped inside Valence Marie, while Bartholomew continued on to the house of the ailing Mistress Pike. His journey was wasted, however, because he was told she had died a few moments earlier. Since she was well over eighty years old, Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised, but the death of a patient always unsettled him. Her family politely insisted that he should stay until the storm passed over, but Bartholomew did not feel comfortable waiting in a house filled with grieving relatives and left as soon as he could.
The rain was coming down hard, and the cloak Paul had lent him had no hood. For an instant, he regretted his decision not to tarry at Mistress Pike’s house, but then realised he would be able to take shelter in the little church of St Peter-without-Trumpington Gate. Breaking into a run as the drops fell more heavily, he dashed through the grassy graveyard and took the great brass handle in both hands to open the door. It was locked. Bartholomew swore under his breath, flinching as large, cold drips splattered on his bare head. But it made sense to keep the building secured: it was vulnerable, standing as it did outside the city gates with the outlaws’ attacks drawing ever nearer to the town.
He stood under a tree in the churchyard, trying to keep out of the wet. He glanced up the High Street. The guards on the gate had abandoned their posts, and the few people who were braving the downpour passed through it unquestioned. Bartholomew did not relish the notion of walking back to Michaelhouse in weather so foul that he could barely see, and decided it might be an opportune time to visit his medical colleague Master Lynton at nearby Peterhouse. Now that Philius was dead, he and Bartholomew were the only physicians in Cambridge, and were likely to be thrown more and more into each other’s company. And they could start, Bartholomew decided, by debating some of the issues in Theophilus’s De Urinis that he was to lecture on at King’s Hall the following day.
Pulling his cloak closer around him, grateful for Mortimer’s smuggled gloves to protect his hands against the icy chill of the rain, he was about to leave the partial shelter of the tree and run the short distance to Peterhouse, when a sudden prod in his back made him stop. He started to turn, but was arrested by a voice hissing in his ear.