a fanatical frenzy about something, Matt. If you made a convincing case that cows could fly, you would find people willing to believe it – and even to die for it – despite what their experience and common sense dictates to them.’
‘I am concerned that Grene expressed fears for his safety to
‘Can we be sure all three are telling the truth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What if they are the same three who voted for Grene in the election, and this is no more than College politics running wild?’
‘Are you suggesting that Father Eligius is lying?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘He is one of the University’s foremost scholars.’
‘No one saw Bingham give Grene the poisoned wine,’ said Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace. ‘And murdering him would be a foolish thing to do in front of half the town. I cannot believe Bingham did it.’
‘Then who did?’ asked Tulyet, watching him move back and forth across the small room. ‘Who else might gain?’
‘Father Eligius himself,’ suggested Michael quietly.
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration. ‘He was offered the Mastership and he did not want it. He has no motive for wanting Grene dead.’
‘He has no motive that we know about,’ corrected Michael. ‘But there is always the relic that he feels so strongly about. Perhaps Grene’s death is somehow connected to that.’
‘I suppose he was very quick to accuse Bingham of Grene’s murder,’ admitted Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘That might be significant.’
‘But so were you,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If you recall.’
‘Only to you,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘But what of these other two Fellows who say Grene professed he was in fear of his life? Why did they wait for Eligius to instigate an investigation before telling their stories? It all strikes me as very odd.’
‘Do you think Bingham is guilty?’ Michael asked Tulyet.
Tulyet shrugged. ‘As you say, the installation was a foolish place to dispatch a rival. But people are often foolish and live to regret their actions. I see plenty of evidence to suggest his guilt, and none to support his innocence. He claims he is blameless, of course. Do you want to speak to him?’
Michael nodded, and Tulyet led them up to the second floor, where a sleepy guard unlocked the door of a small chamber set in the thickness of the wall. The room was gloomy – only a narrow slit allowed the daylight to filter in – but was reasonably comfortable. The remains of a sizeable meal lay on the table, and Bingham had been provided with better, warmer blankets than the ones Bartholomew had at Michaelhouse.
Bingham recognised Michael and came towards him, his face haggard. ‘I did not kill Grene,’ he began immediately, his voice a throaty whisper. ‘I did not like the man, but I did not kill him.’
‘Then how did the poison find its way into his cup?’ asked Michael harshly. ‘It is strange that only he was stricken at the installation, would you not say?’
‘I do not know!’ said Bingham, in the weary tones of a man who had said as much many times before. ‘I was as shocked by his death as was everyone else. I did not kill Grene and I have no idea how poison came to be in his wine. When he died, I assumed it had been simple gluttony that had brought about a seizure. The serving lad behind him had been filling his cup all night.’
Bartholomew had never been good at ascertaining whether people were telling the truth, but Bingham was convincing. It would have been difficult for him to pass a poisoned bottle to Grene without having it intercepted or seen by another person – unless he had an accomplice, of course. But then, surely the accomplice would be working to quell the allegations that Bingham was the murderer – for his own sake as much as Bingham’s – and yet no one was speaking in Bingham’s defence. The tall, willowy figure of Eligius sprung into Bartholomew’s mind again. But what was his motive? Eligius did not want to be Master, so why should he want Bingham convicted of Grene’s murder? Was it to promote the relic in some bizarre way – slaying one of its proponents to make people believe it was worth dying for?
A commotion in the bailey drew Tulyet over to the narrow window. He threw open the shutter and leaned out.
‘Let him in,’ he yelled to the sergeant on the gates. Moments later, feet pounded on the newel stair, and Cynric burst breathlessly into the room.
‘Thought I would find you here,’ he gasped, ignoring the Sheriff and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Master Colton of Gonville asks that you come immediately. Father Philius is dead!’
Chapter 8
Although the death of a scholar was not the concern of the Sheriff, Tulyet went with Bartholomew and Michael as they hurried down Castle Hill towards Gonville Hall.
‘You seem to have most of your soldiers out in the Fens, Dick,’ said Michael. ‘Given that the outlaws have started to attack places in the town itself – the Round Church and poor little St Clement’s Hostel to name but two – perhaps you would be better advised to keep a few back to patrol the streets.’
‘Damn these villains!’ spat Tulyet in sudden anger. ‘What am I supposed to do? It is like looking for a needle in a haystack! Do I concentrate my searches on the Fens, or do I withdraw men, as you suggest, and look for them here? Your descriptions will help, but names would have been better.’
‘I think we can provide you with some of those,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I have an informant who knows the identities of several of these smugglers. The attack I was investigating on St Clement’s Hostel distracted me – I should have told you before now.’
Tulyet stopped walking abruptly, and seized the fat monk’s sleeve. ‘How have you come by such information?’ He shook his head quickly. ‘Never mind. Just give me the names.’
‘A nun has all the information you need,’ said Michael. ‘We brought her with us from Denny.’
‘Well, where is she? Can I speak with her now?’
‘I thought she would have passed this information to you on the way back from Denny,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant for a well-known public figure like the Sheriff to visit Matilde’s house and alert the outlaws to Dame Pelagia’s whereabouts. ‘She had plenty of time.’
‘Of course she did not,’ said Michael, treating Bartholomew to the kind of look that he normally reserved for students who made exceptionally stupid observations. ‘First, it would not have been wise to discuss such matters on an open trackway – who knows who might have been listening from among the bushes at the roadside? Second, the fewer the people privy to this kind of information, the better – what one does not know, one cannot be forced to tell – and, anyway, Julianna was with us a good deal of the way, and I did not want her knowing more than she already does. And, third, Dame Pelagia is an old lady and needed all her energy for walking. She did not have excess breath to be chattering with me.’
Bartholomew’s recollections of their journey suggested that it was probably Michael who had needed all his breath for walking, while Dame Pelagia had remained very sprightly, even at the end of the walk.
Tulyet made an impatient sound at their digression. ‘Never mind all that. I want to speak with her immediately!’
Michael shook his head. ‘I do not want anyone to know her whereabouts because I believe her to be in grave danger from these outlaws. I will ask her for the information and pass it to you as soon as we have finished with Father Philius.’
‘No,’ said Tulyet, hauling on Michael’s sleeve as he made to walk on. He gestured up at the sky. ‘If you tell me now, I can set about hunting these rogues immediately, while there is enough daylight. If you tell me later, I will have to wait until tomorrow, and by then who knows what might have happened? Go now. I will accompany Matt to see about Father Philius.’
Michael made as if to demur, but Tulyet stood firm. The Sheriff was right: the sooner the outlaws were rounded up, the sooner he, Bartholomew and Dame Pelagia would be safe. Michael nodded acquiescence, and headed off towards The Jewry. After a moment of hesitation, Cynric slipped away after him, and Bartholomew was
