A Deadly Brew by Susanna Gregory Page A

resting, Philius. As should you.’
    Philius shook his head. ‘Isaac,’ he croaked, his voice little more than a rustle. ‘Isaac steals.’ He swallowed painfully and tried again. ‘He stole wine from Stanmore.’
    ‘Oswald Stanmore?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘My brother-in-law?’
    Philius nodded. ‘His apprentice drank the wine and died.’
    His eyes began to close, and Bartholomew knew they would get nothing further from him that night. The dose of laudanum he had used had been a powerful one: Bartholomew had intended that Philius should rest until the morning, so that sleep could allow the body to heal itself.
    ‘Did that mean anything to you?’ asked Michael, leaning over Bartholomew’s shoulder, and looking down at the sleeping friar. Bartholomew shrugged, his expression troubled, and stood up. He ordered that the shutters be opened to allow the smoke out, and closed again when the room was clear. Meanwhile, the nightporter set about building up the fire in the hearth, and restoring order to Philius’s room. Bartholomew promised to return to visit the ailing physician the following morning, and took his leave. In a few words, he told Michael what had happened as they walked across Gonville’s yard together. Colton hurried after them and waylaid them by the gate.
    ‘What is happening?’ he demanded of Bartholomew. ‘The porter woke me to say Isaac was dead, and then I find someone has tried to ignite Philius in his room.’
    ‘Some wine made him ill,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly, not wanting to go into details. ‘Isaac was fetching it for me to examine when he seems to have been struck down.’
    ‘Isaac was struck down for wine?’ asked Colton, confused.
    ‘I expect he disturbed a burglar,’ said Michael, rubbing his chin. ‘The Sheriff was telling me only yesterday that the wolves-heads, who have been busy on the highways since Christmas, attacked three houses inside the town itself last week. They are growing bolder all the time.’
    ‘How secure is Gonville?’ asked Bartholomew of Colton. ‘How easy would it be to break in?’
    Colton raised his hands, palms upwards, and gestured around him. Bartholomew saw he was shaking. ‘There is a porter on the front door, but if he is called away, I suppose it would be easy enough for a determined person to gain access. Do you think that is what happened?’
    ‘The alternative is that Isaac was killed by someone already inside,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
    Colton shook his head. ‘No one in Gonville would attack Isaac. And certainly no one would harm Philius. How was Isaac killed? Come with me to see. He is in the storeroom, you say?’
    Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed him across the courtyard, Michael in tow, and into Philius’s medicine room. Colton bent to look at Isaac’s corpse. ‘Poor man. He has been Philius’s book-bearer for many years.’
    ‘Where is this bottle?’ asked Michael in a low voice, as Colton began to pray over Isaac’s body. ‘We should retrieve it before anyone else comes to harm.’
    ‘It is broken, under the bench,’ said Bartholomew, pointing. While Michael went to look, Bartholomew sank down onto a stool, and rested his head in his hands. He wondered what time it was. It must be almost time for lauds. He looked up as Michael began to sigh in agitation.
    ‘Where is it exactly?’ he hissed irritably. ‘I cannot find it.’
    Wearily, Bartholomew hauled himself up from the stool, and crouched to point out the bottle. His jaw dropped in astonishment. A dark stain on the wooden floor indicated where the wine had spilled, but every shard of the broken bottle itself had gone. He exchanged a mystified glance with Michael, and looked again to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him.
    He stood slowly and rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘It was there,’ was all he could think to say. He saw a furry body nearby and pushed it with his foot. ‘And there is the rat that drank it.’
    Michael knelt to examine the