‘Suttone does not care what happens to the University,’ he was bawling, ‘because he thinks we will all be dead of the plague in a few months. But before he goes, he intends to sample every woman in Cambridge, and encourages us to do likewise.’
Michael marched towards him, and Hopeman evidently knew he would not win a public battle of words with the monk, because he jumped down from the trough on which he had been standing, and indicated that one of his acolytes was to take his place.
‘What do you want, Brother?’ he demanded. ‘Hurry up! I am busy with God’s work, and cannot afford to squander time with you.’
‘Did God tell you to murder Tynkell in order to force an election?’ asked Michael baldly. ‘And then dispatch Lyng, because he was the candidate most likely to win?’
‘My conversations with the Lord are private,’ declared the friar, then gave a grin that verged on the malevolent. ‘You will never convict me of those crimes, so go to Rochester and forget about them. Your time here is done.’
‘Was that a confession?’ asked Michael, as the priest strutted away, bristling defiance in every step. ‘It sounded like one.’
‘It was a challenge, certainly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But you need evidence. Accusing him without it will achieve nothing – the Dominicans will defend him, just because he is one of them, regardless of what they really think. And then he will claim that you arrested him just to make sure your candidate was the only one left.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘That will be difficult to deny, even though it would be a lie.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘So you cannot arrest him until you have real evidence of his guilt – hard facts or material proof.’
‘Then go and find me some,’ ordered Michael. ‘Try the King’s Head. It is a good place for gossip, and the patrons will talk to their medicus more readily than me.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the monk must be desperate indeed if he was resorting to that sort of tactic.
‘Tackle Kolvyle. And let us hope that one of us succeeds in shaking something loose, or the election will be upon us, and then it will be time for me to go to Rochester. I said I would not leave until the killer was caught, but I am beginning to think it is a promise I may not be able to keep.’
Dusk would come early that night, because clouds had rolled in from the north, and lamps were already lit in those houses that could afford fuel. In the rest, the residents shivered in the gloom, waiting for the daylight to fade completely so they could go to bed. The bitter cold had driven most of the bell-hunters indoors, too, although a hardy few were still out and about. Mallet and Islaye were among them.
‘I thought I told you to return to Michaelhouse at noon,’ Bartholomew said coolly.
‘We did,’ replied Islaye blithely, ‘where we ate dinner, read a bit of Maimonides, and then went out again. Two marks is a lot of money, sir, and we do not want Kolvyle to get it.’
‘Honour is at stake here,’ added Mallet. ‘Us versus him. You must understand why we are determined to win.’
Bartholomew did not have the energy to argue. He listed several texts he wanted them to learn that evening, ignoring their insistence that studying by candlelight hurt their eyes, and they parted ways. He passed the little church of St Mary the Less, where the scholars of Peterhouse were emerging from a special service at which prayers had been said for a break in the icy weather. Their petitions had evidently gone unheard, because snow was in the air.
He reached the King’s Head, and heard the rumble of conversation emanating from within. Beyond, the road curved south like a brown ribbon through the empty countryside, fringed by winter-bare trees and scrubby hedges. The Gilbertine Priory had lamps lit outside its gates, which shed a warm yellow halo, welcoming and cosy. Reluctantly, Bartholomew turned to the King’s Head, which was neither.
He was just reaching for the handle when the door opened and Isnard hobbled out, Gundrede and several scruffy cronies at his heels. All were dressed for a long journey. Those who did not own cloaks were wrapped in oiled sacks, boots had been given a liberal layer of grease to repel water, and there was a fine variety of snow-proof headgear.
‘Who blabbed to him?’ demanded the bargeman angrily, turning to glare at his friends. ‘I told you to keep your mouths shut, and now he is here to stop us from going.’
‘Going where?’ asked Bartholomew, cutting across the indignant chorus of denials.
‘To attack the thieves’ lair,’ replied Gundrede. ‘Miller here has found it.’
‘He has?’ asked Bartholomew, looking at the man in question, a puny individual who eked a meagre living from the river. ‘How?’
‘He happened across it when he was out poaching fish,’ explained Isnard, then flushed scarlet at the weary groans that followed. ‘I mean visiting his mother.’
‘His mother is dead,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Widow Miller had been one of Cook’s victims. ‘And their lair is not by her cottage, because I searched that area when I was looking for the killer’s cloak – the one that blew off the tower when he stabbed Tynkell.’
‘His other mother,’ said Isnard, blithely oblivious to the absurdity of this claim. ‘Who lives by the manor of Quy, in the Fens. We are going there now, to confront the villains, and prove our innocence once and for all.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is the Sheriff’s responsibility.’
‘But he will think we are part of their operation if we do not catch the villains ourselves,’ objected Isnard. ‘He does not believe us when we say we are not.’
‘It is too dangerous,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They have already killed Lucas, Reames and Peres. Please – just go to the castle and report what Miller has learned. The soldiers are trained in this sort of thing. You are not.’
Isnard considered carefully. ‘All right, then, but only if you come with us. Perhaps the Sheriff will agree to a joint venture – us and him, standing shoulder to shoulder against villainy.’
Bartholomew could not see it, but dared not say so, lest Isnard changed his mind.
It was a strange procession. Bartholomew walked at the front with the bargeman and Gundrede, while the remaining King’s Head’s regulars streamed at their heels. While they went, Isnard confided his plans for the choir when Michael left, speaking in bursts, because Bartholomew had set a brisk pace for a man with one leg and crutches to manage.
‘Brother Michael will be sorry,’ he vowed. ‘We shall be better than ever … and when he comes back … to tell Suttone how to be Chancellor … he will regret abandoning us.’
‘Look at them!’ sniggered Gundrede, as they passed a group of students who were exploring the Brazen George’s outhouses. ‘We will be the ones to get the two marks, because the bell is not in the town – it will be in the thieves’ lair.’
They refused to enter the castle – understandably enough, given that the previous times they had visited had been when they were under arrest – so Tulyet came out, where he listened carefully to what Miller had to say. It was a faltering, disjointed report, interspersed with a lot of asides and unhelpful details from Isnard.
‘How do you know it was the thieves you saw?’ Tulyet asked. ‘Not Fenland fishermen?’
‘Because fishermen do not use cargo barges for their trade,’ replied Miller promptly. ‘It was the felons, right enough. And besides, they looked untrustworthy.’
‘Then they must be ruffians indeed,’ murmured Tulyet, eyeing the scruffy horde that was ranged in front of him. ‘And this happened by the canal outside Quy?’
Miller nodded. ‘I watched them for ages. They have a shed full of stolen goods, although it will not be full now – I heard them say they were going to start loading everything on a boat.’
‘A sea-going vessel,’ put in Isnard. ‘Which will hug the coast to London, where you can always get higher prices for such items. Not that we know from experience, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Tulyet. �
��How many of these thieves were there?’
‘Just two – a captain and his mate,’ replied Miller. ‘However, they talked about being joined by “others” soon.’
‘Then we had better mount a raid,’ said Tulyet, and called for Helbye.
When the sergeant arrived, Bartholomew was concerned. He was clearly ill, with sweat beading his face, despite the chill of the fading day, and his eyes were fever bright.
‘Not tonight, sir,’ he said tiredly, when he heard what Tulyet intended to do. ‘It will be dark soon, and the Fens are no place to be on a cold winter night. Look – it is starting to snow.’
‘We have torches and good cloaks,’ said Tulyet briskly. ‘And we cannot wait until morning. We do not want to arrive and find the villains have sailed.’
‘But the weather,’ objected Helbye. ‘And the track – it will be hard and treacherous …’
‘Norys?’ bellowed Tulyet, and when the soldier stepped forward, he asked, ‘You travelled that road when you went to hunt Inge earlier. How was it?’
Norys drew his cloak more closely around him. ‘Miserable, sir. The wind from the Fens is like no other – a knife scything through you. I am still chilled to the bone.’
‘But the going was reasonable?’
Norys nodded, albeit reluctantly, so Tulyet issued an order for horses to be saddled.
‘I had better fetch a thicker jerkin, then,’ said Helbye without enthusiasm. ‘It is—’
‘I need you here, Will,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘The scholars are in a feisty mood, and I do not want them embroiling the townsfolk in one of their spats.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Isnard. ‘Those academics are a rough crowd.’
‘You can stay, too,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Go back to the King’s Head and leave this to us. Here is a shilling for ale.’
It was a generous sum, and an excellent way to keep Isnard’s companions where they belonged. Eyes lit up, although the bargeman was dismayed.
‘But we want to watch them caught! We deserve it after all we have been through.’
‘If Miller’s report is accurate, you will see them when we bring them back in chains. If he is sending us on a fool’s mission, it will be you lot in my gaol. So, I ask you once more, Miller: are you sure about what you saw?’
‘Yes,’ replied Miller firmly. ‘Go to Quy manor, then take the track that runs by the lode. Shortly before the lode meets the river, you will find a great big warehouse. That is where the villains keep their loot.’
‘A warehouse?’ asked Tulyet, sceptical again. ‘All the way out there?’
‘It is a convenient spot for smugglers,’ said Miller, with the authority of one who knew. ‘There is a good road to Quy, and canals that run north and east.’
‘Let me lead the raid, sir,’ begged Helbye plaintively. ‘I know the area better than you. I was born up there.’
‘You are not well enough,’ said Bartholomew quickly, lest Tulyet weakened. ‘Let me see your arm. You seem to be—’
‘It itches,’ interrupted Helbye shortly, waving away his concern, ‘which means it is getting better. Cook said so.’
‘I hardly think we can trust his opinion,’ spat Tulyet in disgust. ‘Now go and pick me six good men, Will. We leave as soon as they are ready.’
Helbye limped away, shoulders slumped. However, when more snow floated down, Bartholomew suspected he was secretly glad to stay at home.
‘If we cannot come, we want him to represent our interests out there,’ said Isnard, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘To make sure everything is done properly.’
‘Very well,’ said Tulyet, although Bartholomew opened his mouth to protest. ‘There is always room for the hero of Poitiers.’
Bartholomew shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Take Cynric. He will be far more useful.’
‘He is needed to guard Suttone. God’s blood, man – do not give him that one!’ Tulyet’s last remark was directed at Robin, who was in the process of presenting Bartholomew with the reins of an enormous black stallion. ‘It will have him off before we leave the Barbican.’
With considerable trepidation, Bartholomew climbed atop a brown mare instead, hoping she would not buck and prance, as horses invariably did when he was on their backs. He winced when the wind whipped a flurry of snow into his face, and was grateful when Isnard removed his own cloak and handed it up to him – it was thick and warm, and far more suitable for a jaunt to the Fens than his threadbare academic one – along with a leather hat and a pair of fur-lined gloves.
‘Stay back if there is any skirmishing,’ instructed Isnard in a low voice. ‘I know what Cynric says about you, but you do not have the temperament to be a good warrior. Let the Sheriff do the killing.’
‘Hopefully, there will not be any,’ said Bartholomew, more unhappy than ever about being included in the venture.
‘I am afraid there will,’ said Isnard, ‘because Helbye has picked the castle’s fiercest warriors to go with you – men who would far rather fight than take prisoners.’
Bartholomew glanced towards them and saw what Isnard meant. Their leader was the loutish Norys, while the other five were hard-bitten soldiers in functional armour, all of whom sported a terrifying arsenal of well-honed weapons. Then he noticed there was a seventh – a young lad with an eager grin and a brand-new jerkin.
‘Not you, Harold,’ snapped Helbye. ‘Get off that horse at once.’
‘Let him come,’ countered Tulyet, when Harold’s face fell in dismay. ‘He needs the experience.’
And with that, he wheeled his mount around and set off, his troops streaming at his heels.
* * *
It was a miserable journey. Tulyet rode harder than Bartholomew thought was safe in the failing light, especially as the track was slick with ice. The occasional flurry of snow soon became a regular fall that drilled directly into their faces, making it even more difficult to see where they were going. Bartholomew was obliged to cling hard to the pommel of his saddle, and not for the first time wished he had paid more heed to the riding lessons he had been given as a child.
‘You do realise this is a waste of time?’ said Tulyet, coming to trot next to him. He was able to speak only because that part of the road was heavily rutted, forcing them to slow down. ‘There will be nothing to find at Quy.’
Bartholomew frowned in confusion. ‘I thought you believed Miller’s story.’
‘I am sure he saw thieves, but I doubt they are the ones who took Stanmore’s tomb, Dallingridge’s feet, the University’s bell, and the rest of it. And Miller’s rogues will not be at Quy now anyway. Not in this weather.’
‘Then why are we going?’ demanded Bartholomew crossly.
‘I am going because Helbye would not have countenanced me giving the command to anyone else. And you are going because you put me in that position by telling me that I can no longer use him as my second.’
‘I had not taken you for a petty man.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘The excursion will do you no harm, and will give you a fine tale to tell your colleagues at the election tomorrow. Besides, your inclusion placated Isnard – I suspect he would have followed if I had refused to let you come, and I do not want his “help”.’
‘But the weather …’
‘A bit of snow should not bother a seasoned old campaigner like you. It will not settle anyway – the wind will whisk it away.’
‘The wind will whisk it into drifts,’ argued Bartholomew.
‘We will be home long before then,’ said Tulyet dismissively. ‘I have reached Quy in less than an hour in the past. Granted, it was not in the dark …’
Eager to be done with the foolish mission as soon as possible, Bartholomew jabbed his heels into the mare’s sides. She snickered angrily, warning him not to do it again.
‘We must hurry,’ he said, when Tulyet regarded him enquiringly. ‘You saw for yourself that the University is uneasy tonight, and I may be needed. Moreover, Michael is expecting me to provide him with informa
tion about the murders – which have to be solved by the day after tomorrow, as that is when he leaves for Rochester.’
‘I imagine the killer is Kolvyle. Langelee locked him in a cellar earlier, to keep him out of mischief, but just before you came to the castle, I had word that he had escaped.’
Bartholomew regarded Tulyet in alarm. ‘Running is not the act of an innocent man.’
‘Quite.’
Bartholomew reined in. ‘Then I should go back and help Michael to—’
‘His beadles are more than capable of laying hold of that silly youth.’ Tulyet grabbed Bartholomew’s bridle and urged the mare into a trot. ‘Did I tell you that I am closing in on the woman in the cloak with the embroidered hem, by the way?’
‘No – that is good news.’
‘She was seen taking it off in a tavern shortly afterwards. The witness who saw her is away today, but will be back tomorrow, and I am confident that he can take us to her. Then she can tell us who murdered Moleyns – Kolvyle, in all probability.’
‘Surely you want to be there when all that happens – not chasing about in the Fens?’
‘I can do both. We will be home long before dawn.’
‘We had better be,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I have to vote for Suttone at noon, because my colleagues will never forgive me if I miss it, and he loses by one.’
Tulyet spurred his horse on when the track became firmer, and then it was all Bartholomew could do to keep up with him.
After what felt like an age, the physician bumping and lurching uncomfortably in the saddle, they reached Quy, which comprised a church surrounded by a few cottages, and a winding track that led to the manor. Lights gleamed in some houses, but no one came out to see why travellers should be passing at such an hour.
‘They have been paid to look the other way,’ surmised Tulyet. ‘Well, well! Perhaps these thieves of Miller’s will be worth catching after all.’
The lode lay to the east of the village, a long, arrow-straight canal cut centuries earlier to connect with the River Cam. A towpath ran along its side, just as Miller had said. It was too narrow for horses, so Tulyet ordered them tethered to a tree. He detailed one soldier to guard them, and ordered the rest to continue on foot.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 36