A Deadly Brew by Susanna Gregory Page B

son, Edward. Deschalers and Cheney had donned their finest clothes in honour of the occasion – Cheney wore a tunic of a rich amber with matching leggings, while Deschalers was dressed in a short red cloak with rust-coloured shirt and scarlet hose. Bartholomew was immediately reminded of two of the four humours: Cheney was known for his short temper and aggression and his gold-coloured clothes reminded Bartholomew of the yellow bile that caused choleric behaviour; meanwhile, Deschalers was aloof and laconic, usually moods considered to be caused by an excess of blood. Bartholomew wished his students were with him, because he was sure such a visual example would burn the characters of the humours into their minds for the rest of their lives. By contrast, young Edward Mortimer might have been a scholar himself in his sober brown tunic and plain hose.
    ‘We heard Mortimer is dying,’ began Cheney without preamble. ‘When might the end come?’
    ‘Not for some years yet, with God’s grace,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Edward’s horrified intake of breath.
    ‘My father is dying? I was told it was nothing more serious than stomach pains!’
    ‘Get a grip on yourself, Edward,’ said Cheney coldly. ‘Your presence at your father’s bedside would have been quite wasted. Had you been needed, he would have sent for you. You have other duties to perform – such as representing the family business here tonight.’
    ‘Your father will make a full recovery,’ said Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Edward. ‘His malady was a simple case of too many lemons.’
    ‘Lemons?’ queried Deschalers, perching on the edge of the table and tossing back his cloak to reveal the elegant cut of his clothes. ‘The lemons I sold him?’
    Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are a bitter fruit unless properly prepared.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Deschalers as a faint smile touched his handsome features. He needed to say no more because the implication was clear: anyone of gentle birth would have known how to prepare the costly fruits and Mortimer had inadvertently exposed his humble origins by his ignorance. He exchanged a superior glance with Cheney.
    ‘We thought it might be a case of this winter fever that has struck at the river people,’ he said, addressing Bartholomew again. ‘One of my servants was stricken yesterday.’
    Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I feel sure this fever has something to do with the well in Water Lane. Master Mortimer’s house has its own well.’
    Deschalers was patently uninterested in issues of health. ‘Then can we expect Mortimer at the meeting of the town council next week, when we discuss our building plans for the town?’ he asked.
    Bartholomew nodded. ‘I do not see why not.’
    ‘Good,’ said Cheney. ‘We need him to help us finance the continuing construction of Bene’t’s.’
    ‘The College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary,’ corrected Deschalers, giving Cambridge’s newest College its full and official title. Most people referred to it simply as Bene’t’s because it was attached to St Bene’t’s Church by a slender corridor, like a cloister. ‘The only University College to be founded by townspeople and paid for with town money,’ the grocer added with an odd mixture of pride and smugness.
    ‘It is a fine building,’ said Bartholomew politely.
    ‘It will be the best College in Cambridge given time,’ claimed Deschalers, ‘and will be a noble memorial to the men of the Guild of Corpus Christi and the Guild of St Mary who endowed it.’
    As they had been speaking, Deschalers’s eyes had been roving around the hall, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that the grocer was looking for someone more influential with whom to talk. Bartholomew watched as Deschalers suddenly became aware of the intense conversation between Oswald Stanmore and the Master of Gonville Hall. The grocer’s eyes narrowed. He nodded a brusque farewell to Bartholomew and was away towards them, weaving his