‘But it was Widow’s Wine. You told me the stuff is deliberately brewed to be strong and nasty.’
‘But not this strong and nasty,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder whether someone tampered with it.’
‘I do not think so, Brother. It was probably just a bad brew.’
‘You are wrong, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Think back to other College feasts. They sometimes continue until morning, and no one – no one – would consider leaving while there was still wine to be had. But there was wine left from this feast, because Agatha sent me some only yesterday.’
‘But there was no great cause for celebration, if you recall,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘We had just elected our new Master.’
‘The students would drink anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Yet when we returned from Matilde’s house, the whole College was silent and still, and everyone was sleeping.’
‘It was late.’
‘Not too late for student carousing, Matt. I think someone did something unspeakable to the Widow’s Wine – or gave us an especially powerful batch – so that we would all have a comparatively early night. And, of course, with Widow’s Wine, no one would notice: the flavour is so damned unpleasant that you could add the most noxious substances known to man and they would do nothing but improve the taste.’
‘But why would anyone do such a thing? And anyway, at least two scholars were not sleeping – the pair who pushed me over in St Michael’s Lane.’
‘Precisely,’ said Michael. ‘They were not drunk, and I told you at the time that they were no mere students sneaking out for a night in the taverns. I think that Michaelhouse was provided with extra-strong or doctored wine so that this pair could complete whatever it was that they were doing.’
‘That seems a little far-fetched,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Perhaps not everyone drank as much as we did. They are not all gluttons.’
‘They are students, Matt. Wine pigs. Of course they are all gluttons! I am certain that something odd was going on in Michaelhouse that night – and you and I almost stumbled on it.’
‘I think you are reading too much into this, but I agree that the wine was unusually strong. Most of our colleagues looked awful the next morning, even Kenyngham. He was also uncharacteristically tearful.’
‘Tearful?’ asked Michael in surprise.
Bartholomew told him about Kenyngham’s remorse because he had not intervened when the choir had almost attacked him after they had been dismissed.
‘Runham again,’ said Michael harshly. ‘It seems to me that he was one of the few people who did not fall victim to this powerful wine. Was he one of the two who pushed you over in the lane, do you think?’
‘Impossible. He was lurking in our staircase when we got back to our rooms, remember? He could not have run off down the lane with a beadle in hot pursuit and been hiding on the stairs at the same time.’
‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘But someone was up to no good in the College that night. I will do a little investigating here this afternoon, while you can assist me with the Bene’t deaths. My beadles are doing all they can, but I have decided I need your assistance in the matter of Wymundham and his claim that Raysoun was pushed.’
‘But surely the Junior Proctor is looking into that? He must be back from Ely by now.’
Michael shook his head. ‘He is still away. Will you go to St Bene’t’s Church and have another look at the bodies of Raysoun and Wymundham, as you promised? Go to Bene’t College first, and ask permission from Master Heltisle, just to be polite.’
‘But I have teaching to do …’
‘You have just been complaining that teaching is impossible. From what Gray tells me, you and Runham – who has bagged himself the comfort of the church – are the only two Fellows still trying to teach in all this racket anyway.’
‘But–’
‘You promised you would do it,’ pressed Michael. ‘And Agatha heard you. Shall we summon her and have her repeat what she heard you agree to do?’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘I will do it.’
‘Good.’
‘I might not be teaching much longer at Michaelhouse in any case,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that running Michael’s nasty errands was not something he would miss if he were forced to resign his Fellowship. ‘Runham is expecting me to choose between Michaelhouse and medicine tomorrow.’
‘Then we have a day to prove Runham doctored the Widow’s Wine and had two cronies illicitly in the College that night,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together. ‘Because I, for one, do not want you to make that choice.’
Bartholomew did not feel at all inclined to inspect bodies that afternoon, but the banging and crashing had reached such a crescendo that he could barely hear himself think, let alone write his treatise. He unlocked the chained medical books from the hall – books were a valuable commodity, and most libraries kept their tomes under lock and key – and distributed them among the students with strict instructions as to what they should read. They were resentful, aware that most of the others had been given leave to watch the building progress, but Bartholomew was grimly determined that Runham’s ambition to make Michaelhouse one of the grandest edifices in the town would not interfere with the College’s academic responsibilities.
At the gate, Bartholomew paused and looked back across the courtyard. The north wing was swathed in a complicated mess of planking, most of it old and crumbling, and he assumed it comprised timbers from condemned houses that could not be used for anything else. Workmen swarmed over it, hammering and sawing furiously, some adding yet more levels to the already precarious structure, while others were repointing the stonework on the windows or replacing broken tiles on the roof.
The yard was a chaos of activity, with men running here and there, carrying timber on their shoulders or staggering under the weight of blocks of Barnack stone. Apprentices wearing the distinctive liveries of their masters darted this way and that, ferrying tools, or performing tasks that were beneath the dignity of the qualified tradesman – sawing wood, sanding the rough edges of stones, counting nails, and mixing mortar of lime and sand. The area of the planned new court was equally frenetic. Shallow foundations had been dug, and the first beams that would form the skeleton of the wattle-and-daub kitchen and stables were already in place.
‘It is impressive, is it not?’ Bartholomew jumped at the closeness of Clippesby’s voice behind him. The scholar’s eyes were soft and dreamy, and he looked almost sane. ‘Master Runham is amazing to have organised all this so quickly. I am glad I came to Michaelhouse and not Bene’t.’
‘You would have had an opportunity to reside in a building site had you gone to Bene’t, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is also having a new wing raised.’
‘But ours will be better,’ said Clippesby. ‘Raysoun was always complaining that the progress was too slow; he thought the masons would still be labouring on it in a hundred years’ time. Master Runham is not permitting such sluggishness.’
‘I did not know we had so many builders in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the milling workmen in awe. ‘I always understood labour was short after the plague.’
‘Not if you know where to get it,’ said Clippesby smugly.
‘And the terms Runham offered are very enticing – these men will be paid double if they can complete all this within a month. Instead of the usual three and a half pence per day, masters will earn a total of eighteen shillings for a mere four weeks’ labour.’