continued to insist that he had merely been moving them to a safer place. Exasperated, Bartholomew recommended that the wine Grene had spilled in his death throes was treated with appropriate caution, and had carried the other bottles back to Michaelhouse.
‘This is a waste of time,’ snapped Michael, glaring at the feeble glow of the fire. ‘I am the University’s Senior Proctor and one of the finest theologians in the country – do not look like that, Matt, it is true – and here I am reduced to blowing on ashes to warm my frozen feet. I have had enough of this!’
He stormed from the kitchen, leaving the startled physician alone in the chilly kitchen wondering whether he was coming back. A few moments later, Michael returned, his arms full of logs.
‘There,’ he said, setting them in the hearth and watching the flames take hold. ‘That is better. Now, all that aggravation has given me an appetite. Fetch some ale to mull, Matt, and I will see what can be salvaged from that miserable hole Agatha sees fit to call her pantry.’
He returned with several slices of fat bacon, some cheese and half a venison pie that Bartholomew knew was the personal property of Roger Alcote. The physician set the ale to mull over the now merry fire and watched Michael eat, wondering how he could, given the quantity of food he had put away at the installation feast.
‘You were giving me your impressions of Father Eligius,’ said Michael, barely understandable through a mouthful of pie. His eyes watered, and he began to cough as crumbs caught at the back of his throat from trying to eat and talk at the same time.
‘Only that I find him disconcerting,’ said Bartholomew, giving him a hefty thump on the back.
‘Father Eligius is a fine scholar,’ said Michael, swallowing the pie and jamming a sizeable chunk of bacon in his mouth. ‘He has disconcerted some of the finest minds in the western world with his logic and theories.’
‘I was not referring to his intellect,’ said Bartholomew, pulling his stool as close to the fire as possible and holding his frozen hands near the dancing flames. ‘I find his attitude to Grene’s death unsettling.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘His reaction seemed perfectly reasonable to me, given what Grene had confided the day before.’
Bartholomew pondered as he watched Michael sit in Agatha’s chair, accompanied by a medley of grunts and sighs as he settled himself comfortably. ‘I suppose it was the casual way he revealed that Grene was in fear of his life. Had you confided to me that you were afraid someone would kill you, and you were poisoned within a day, I would be a little more vocal about it.’
‘With Bingham there?’ asked Michael, stretching his sandalled feet towards the fire. ‘That probably would have caused exactly the kind of confrontation Valence Marie needs to avoid. Bingham would have denied the accusation vehemently – perhaps even violently.’
Bartholomew was silent, thinking. ‘The same kind of poisoned wine was used to kill both Armel and Grene. We know Armel bought his from a man in a tavern, but how could Bingham have acquired some – today of all days, when his every moment would have been filled with preparations for the installation? Surely Eligius, as a logician, can see that is unlikely.’
‘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
