‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Now we can discuss last night’s events before I meet Harling.’
‘Hardly a religious matter, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to his breakfast.
‘But we are speaking Latin,’ said Michael comfortably, ‘so we are half-way there.’
‘I do not want to become involved in this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sick of murder.’
‘So are we all, Matt,’ replied Michael. ‘I told Harling as much this morning, and that was when he said you need not assist me in this if you feel you do not want to, and that your work among the people with winter fever was more valuable to the University than assisting me.’
‘Harling said that?’
Michael nodded, genuinely puzzled. ‘I admit I was surprised. I thought he would have commandeered anyone’s assistance in order to solve this as quickly as possible. He said you should not be forced to do anything that would interfere with your other duties.’
Bartholomew’s opinion of Harling rose several degrees. It was certainly unexpected – the University’s officials seldom considered people’s preferences when their beloved institution was at risk – and Harling’s sympathetic response came as a pleasant change from orders and demands.
‘There is a curious thing about Tynkell’s election as Chancellor,’ mused Bartholomew, his mind wandering back to the ballot that Harling lost. ‘I have never met anyone who voted for him. Everyone I know says they voted for Harling, but Harling still did not win.’
Michael shrugged. ‘That is because Tynkell is an unknown quantity. No one would be foolish enough to admit voting for him when he might prove … inappropriate.’
‘Not everyone I know is so dishonest,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I voted for Harling myself.’
‘So did I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Although you know that – you took my voting slip to St Mary’s Church because I was ill.’
‘You had indigestion because you ate three apple pies one after the other and shared them with no one,’ corrected Bartholomew.
‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Indigestion is being ill. I was confined to my bed, was I not? Anyway, by eating those pies myself, I saved you from a similar fate.’
‘Most thoughtful of you, Brother.’
‘But let us go back to Harling. He has his faults, but better the Devil you know. He works well with the Proctors, has the respect of the beadles and is a cunning negotiator.’
‘I had never heard William Tynkell’s name before the election,’ reflected Bartholomew. ‘Yet everyone knew Harling, and he is not unpopular. I do not understand why so many masters voted for such a nonentity as Tynkell.’
Michael stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting the election was falsified?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I confess the notion has crossed my mind. Who counted the votes?’
Michael grabbed the egg bowl and began to dig out the bits left at the bottom with his knife. ‘Each master signs his own name and that of his favoured candidate on a slip of parchment, and hands it to the Senior Proctor. The Senior Proctor and the Vice-Chancellor then count the votes.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I know what is supposed to happen. But when Tynkell was elected that procedure was not followed: Harling, as Vice-Chancellor, could not count the votes of an election in which he was a candidate; and you did not count them, as Senior Proctor, because you were brought low by three apple pies.’
Michael crammed a loaded knife of egg scraps into his mouth. ‘In our absence, two men were selected whose integrity was beyond question.’ He ignored Bartholomew’s snort of derision and continued. ‘Namely Father Eligius from Valence Marie and our own Master Kenyngham.’
Bartholomew reconsidered. He did not know Eligius particularly well, but Kenyngham’s honesty was beyond question. He watched Michael’s face grow sweaty with the exertion of reclaiming the last of the egg from the bowl and tried to put the matter from his mind. Michael was doubtless right, and most scholars would be waiting to see what kind of chancellor Tynkell made before admitting that they had helped him into power.
‘We digress,’ said Michael, pushing the empty bowl away from him and leaning back in his seat. ‘I know you do not want to become involved – and that you have Harling’s sanction to let me struggle against evil killers alone – but you will not refuse me a discussion of the facts, will you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, although his instinct was to decline. Michael steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the table.
‘Then let us review the events leading to these deaths. Yesterday morning, a man in the Brazen George sells three bottles of poisoned wine to a group of students, one of whom later dies. At some point, a similar bottle of wine found its way to James Grene, who perished horribly, but highly conveniently, before a goodly part of the town. Valence Marie’s most eminent scholar, Father Eligius, believes Grene’s rival, the newly installed Master Bingham, murdered him.’
‘And Bingham’s motive is either that Grene was proving to be a bad loser, or Grene’s misguided, but fanatical, belief that a handful of boiled bones was a sacred relic was proving awkward,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Meanwhile,’ continued Michael, ‘we can surmise, from what Philius told us, that a fifth bottle came into the possession of your brother-in-law a month ago and killed one of his apprentices, after which it was appropriated by the light-fingered Isaac. Isaac eventually used the stolen wine to make Philius’s weekly purge – obviously not knowing it was poisoned – whereby he brought Philius to death’s door and burned his own hand in the process. Isaac was murdered as he went to fetch the bottle for you to inspect, probably by the three people who knocked me over in their haste to leave Gonville Hall. We have already established that they were unarmed – they hanged, not stabbed, Isaac and did no real harm to you or Philius – and I conclude that they came only to steal the bottle before we could inspect it properly.’
‘No, not steal,’ said Bartholomew, thinking. ‘Retrieve.’
Michael looked blankly at him and waited for an explanation.
‘This is a strange poison – I have never seen anything quite like it before. Isaac’s killers seem to be going to some lengths to find the bottles, which suggests to me that they know exactly what is in them, and that, in turn, means that they must have had them in their possession at some point – so they came to retrieve, not steal them.
‘I see,’ said Michael, nodding.
Bartholomew continued. ‘At some point between the time Isaac used the wine to make Philius’s purge and Isaac’s death, the bottle rolled under the bench and was smashed: Isaac’s killer could not find it. When Cynric called me to look at Isaac’s body, the killers then slipped across the yard into Philius’s room to look for the bottle there. I came back sooner than they anticipated and we struggled in the dark. They threw the lamp against the wall to start a fire to distract me long enough to allow them to return to the storeroom for a second search.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Too risky. I agree that they started the fire to distract you, but it was to prevent you from chasing them not to give them time to search again.’ He pulled at the straggling whiskers on his chin. ‘You said you saw two people running away from Philius’s room, whereas Cynric and I encountered three. I suspect one person was left in the storeroom to continue the search there, while the other two went to Philius’s room. There were enough sacks and barrels in the room to make hiding easy.’
‘You mean one of the people who killed Isaac watched me while I examined his body?’ said Bartholomew in horror.
Michael nodded. ‘There is no other rational explanation. You said you saw the bottle under the bench – thus revealing its whereabouts to the watching person who later removed all traces of it. But I think you were in no danger.’
‘Isaac was!’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced.
‘I have no explanation for Isaac’s demise,’ said Michael pompously, ‘but that third person could have killed you in the storeroom when you found the bottle: he did not. The other two might have killed you when you struggled with them in Philius’s room: again, they did not. And they could have killed Walter when they came to “retrieve” the bottles from your room: but they did not. I think your theory is correct, and that the sole intention of these people was to regain possession of the bottles. We had five of them – three from Bernard’s, one from Valence Marie and the smashed one from Gonville – and now we have none. In the bottles, and thus in the nature of this strange poison, lies the answer to this mystery.’
‘So, have you abandoned the notion that this is a dire plot by the town to kill scholars?’ asked Bartholomew,
