dead?’
Francis sniffed again and nodded. ‘We all wanted him gone – whether to a monastery or the Devil we did not care. But he was in the well, yes? So he is really dead this time and will not come back to haunt us?’
‘He is really dead, Francis,’ said Michael softly. ‘Thank you for having the courage to speak out. I promise neither Rob Thorpe nor Will Harper will be coming back to torment you.’
Francis burst into tears, his face buried in Michael’s habit. Michael ruffled his hair comfortingly. ‘You seem to have nursed a viper at your breast,’ he said to Edith.
‘This cannot be happening,’ said Edith, looking from where Francis sobbed into Michael’s ample girth to her husband. ‘We have always been gentle with Rob. I felt sorry for him, his father being disgraced and all.’
‘It may have been your very gentleness that made him bitter,’ said Michael.
‘Do you think his father encouraged him in this?’ asked Stanmore, white faced.
Michael shook his head. ‘I sincerely doubt it. Bitter and angry at his dismissal he might have been, but he would never have stooped to anything like this. And he certainly would not have encouraged his son to engage in anything so vile.’
‘Are you sure?’ pressed Edith.
Bartholomew put a comforting hand on her shoulder, seeing how she was clutching at straws in her desperation to shift the blame from the apprentice to someone else. It would not be easy for her to accept that the boy she had welcomed so generously into her household had repaid her kindness with such deception and wickedness.
Michael nodded. ‘I am sure. I believe poor Master Thorpe will be appalled when he learns about the havoc his son has wreaked on his behalf. But enough of this wretched little ingrate. Go home, Edith. I think your other boys might need you now. They will be frightened and will need reassuring.’
Edith gave a wan smile. ‘Thank you, Michael. You have been kind.’ She prised the sobbing Francis from Michael and turned away to take him home. ‘I still hope you are wrong,’ she said in a small voice, not looking back at them.
‘So do I,’ said Stanmore, watching her go. ‘This will break her heart, Matt. Rob was a favourite of hers. I think he reminds her of you when you were that age.’
Bartholomew, recalling Thorpe’s gloating smiles of triumph and murderous inclinations, sincerely hoped he was mistaken. ‘I suppose we had better see if he has fled to Valence Marie,’ he said, anxious to be away from Stanmore and his distress, since he felt as though he were at least partly responsible for it.
Stanmore gave a huge sigh. ‘I suppose I should come with you to help you find Rob,’ he said, ‘but I have no stomach for this sort of confrontation. The University is no place for honest traders.’
They left him sitting disconsolately on the low wall surrounding St Mary’s churchyard.
‘What do you plan to do?’ Bartholomew asked of Michael as they walked along the High Street. ‘Will you use Thorpe to flush out his accomplice?’
Michael stared at him and pursed his lips. ‘Eligius? I think he is far too clever to be startled into a confession by us confronting Thorpe.’
‘Thorpe strikes me as the sort of person who will try to blame someone else if he sees the net closing in on him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure he will betray Eligius in an instant if he thinks it will work to his advantage.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘It is worth a try, I suppose.’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘This is a vile business. It has led us to consider how we will bring pressure to bear on someone who is little more than a child to force him to betray his accomplices’ identities.’
‘He is seventeen years old, Matt. He is a man, and he is certainly old enough to commit murder,’ Michael pointed out. He studied Bartholomew’s face, and saw the conflicting emotions there. ‘Edith cannot hold you responsible for Thorpe’s crimes. Grene was foully murdered, and it does not take a genius to predict that dropping a corpse down a well might poison the water. Yet Harper’s body was disposed of with a total disregard for the health of the people who live nearby.’
‘Do you think he was so calculating?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It strikes me that Thorpe is more careless than malicious – he saw the well as a convenient dump and used it without considering the consequences.’
‘Ask the poor people who have been drinking that tainted water whether they give a damn what Thorpe’s intentions were,’ snapped Michael. ‘And you, of all people, should not be excusing his actions, since you have been so desperately trying to physic those who have been ill. Thorpe might be little more than a child, Matt, but he must be apprehended before he does anyone else harm. And you had better hope you are successful because, now Edith and Oswald are no longer protecting him, Thorpe might well turn on them.’
Bartholomew did not reply, but followed Michael through the Trumpington Gate. He was left behind when he recognised one of the guards as a fever victim, and stopped to enquire after his health. By the time he caught up again, Michael was engaged in a fierce altercation with the porter in the porch of the Hall of Valence Marie.
‘You cannot come in. There is a formal dinner in progress.’
‘I have not come to dine,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I have come to look for a young man who may have committed murder, and may be planning to do so again.’
‘But the Countess is here,’ objected the porter. ‘The Countess of Pembroke, our benefactor. She and the Fellows are having a private meal. I cannot let them be disturbed. I would lose my job.’
‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘The Countess! Thorpe is in there with the Countess, and there is still a bottle of poisoned wine unaccounted for!’
Michael stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘So? He can hardly do her harm at the dinner table.’
‘Why not? He managed with Grene,’ said Bartholomew, and, ignoring the protests of the porter, he forced his way through the door, across the cobbled yard and threw open the heavy wooden door to Valence Marie’s spacious hall.
Acting-Master Eligius and his colleagues were just taking their places at the high table on the dais when Bartholomew charged in, Michael at his heels. Valence Marie’s servants had gone to some trouble to make the Countess’s visit a memorable one: the table was covered by an embroidered cloth, and all the College silver was out, polished until it shone. Delicious smells came from behind the painted screen opposite the hearth, where serving-boys waited to bring out the platters of meat that had been prepared in the kitchens. It would be cold, but very little cooked food was served hot in Cambridge Colleges, given that the kitchens were usually some distance from the refectories. Michaelhouse occasionally managed warm oatmeal, but that was about all.
At the seat of honour, in the centre of the table, the Countess was reaching for the goblet of wine set for her.
‘No!’ yelled Bartholomew, freezing the movements of all and sundry. ‘The wine, madam! Do not touch the wine!’
There was an appalled silence, until the Countess recovered from her surprise. Bartholomew had not taken much notice of her during the installation, and noted now that she was older than he had initially thought. Money for cosmetics and fine clothes made her appear younger than her years, especially from a distance, although tell- tale wrinkles around her throat and a worldly look in her eyes betrayed her. She wore a robe of rich blue with flowing sleeves that brushed the ground. Her fingers were laden with so many rings that Bartholomew was surprised she could still use her hands, and a ruby pendant around her neck glistened like a clot of blood.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded imperiously, her hand arrested in the very act of lifting the goblet to her lips. ‘Who are you to burst in unannounced and issue orders?’
Bartholomew walked towards her. ‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he said, ‘but I have reason to believe that the wine you have been served might be tainted with a poison.’ He pointed at Thorpe, clad in his light blue tunic and with his hair hastily darkened with soot, standing just behind her. ‘He has already killed Master Grene.’
The Countess looked at her cup suspiciously, and twisted round in her chair to look at Thorpe.
‘I know this man!’ exclaimed Thorpe suddenly, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘He is a lunatic from the hospital run by the Austin Canons. You should have him removed – he might be dangerous.’
‘The boy lies,’ said Michael, striding forward. ‘My colleague’s name is Doctor Bartholomew, and he is a Fellow of Michaelhouse. I am Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor. I beg you, madam, do not touch the
