A Deadly Brew

Chapter 10

Bearing in mind Harling’s disapproval of his working relationship with the Sheriff, Michael informed the Vice-Chancellor that they were going to advise Stanmore of Thorpe’s arrest, rather than that he planned to visit the castle. Stanmore already knew about Thorpe: he had been waiting for them when they eventually emerged from Valence Marie and had gone to take the news to Edith. Some of the relief Bartholomew had felt, that Thorpe no longer represented a threat to his family, evaporated when he saw the slump in Stanmore’s shoulders and his grey face.

Tulyet was sitting at a table in his room in the great keep, reading a sheaf of hastily scribbled notes. He stood as they were shown in, and offered them stools near the fire.

‘What a day!’ he exclaimed, sitting again with a sigh. ‘I have been questioning those I have arrested since dawn, and then there was that unpleasant affair of the body in the well.’

‘And?’ asked Michael, stretching his feet towards the blaze. ‘Are you too busy or too weary to waste time in idle conversation with scholars?’

‘And nothing,’ said Tulyet gloomily. ‘The smugglers in my prison have told me the identities of a few other Fenmen and the locations of one or two trading routes, but I am really no further forward than I was before.’

Michael gazed at him in disbelief. ‘But that is not possible! My informant risked her life to provide you with those names I gave you. Let me question these smugglers – I will find out what you are lacking.’

‘You will not, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘And you will not because I honestly believe they have already told me all they know. The names you gave me are men at the lowest possible level, and a long way from the evil minds who are controlling all this.’

‘I have been thinking about this smuggling,’ said Bartholomew, staring at the flames flickering over the white-hot logs in the hearth. ‘There must be two independent operations.’

‘Yes?’ said Tulyet, regarding him intently. ‘Go on. We are listening.’

‘It is generally known around the town that smuggling has been taking place along the waterways for many years,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘It is a way of life for some Fenmen, and it provides a service to the town to which the authorities usually turn a blind eye. But, of late, the goods have not been trickling in surreptitiously: they have been flooding in, and anyone can buy exotic goods on the black market. You have assumed that the smugglers have suddenly become greedy and incautious, but it is their livelihood and I think they are unlikely to risk it so openly.’

‘I came to the same conclusion myself,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘It is encouraging to hear that you have been thinking along the same lines. I believe the unseasonably warm weather and flooded channels have attracted others to try their hand. The men I have in my cells are of the old breed – those who pilot the odd shipment of cloth, grain or spices through the Fens. The men who are bringing in these lemons and figs are using the same routes, but are doing so on a much grander scale.’

He paced back and forth in the small room, pulling at his beard.

‘I am certain the men I arrested confessed everything they knew, but they were unable to tell us anything about the attacks on the travellers on our roads – including the one on you – and very little about the sudden surfeit of goods on the black market. I decided to risk all and speak to the men who are benefiting from this additional trade: I managed to frighten old Master Cheney into telling me where his extra spices had come from.’

‘And they came via the Fens?’ asked Michael, twisting round to look at the Sheriff. When Tulyet nodded, Michael turned back to the fire again. ‘Deschalers virtually admitted as much to us when we took Julianna to him. He said he was unaware that smuggling was taking place around Denny – suggesting that he clearly knew smuggling was taking place elsewhere.’

Tulyet said nothing and Bartholomew noticed the rings of tiredness under his eyes.

‘So what is wrong, Dick?’ he asked. ‘What is stopping you from simply arresting all these people – Cheney and Deschalers and anyone else who is profiting from this illegal trading?’

Tulyet closed his eyes and pulled at his beard again. ‘While the King can be expected to overlook a little illicit trade – the odd casket of claret or consignment of wool – he cannot be expected to ignore smuggling when it has become so flagrant, and when it involves robbery and violence.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘Arrest the lot of them – anyone who is involved at any level. Do you know who they all are?’

Tulyet scrubbed at his face. ‘I am fairly certain the men in my cells gave me the names of most of the Fenmen, and once Master Cheney had started to bare his soul, it was almost impossible to stop him telling me who was flooding the black market with smuggled fruit and other goods. Then Constantine Mortimer, rather rashly, came to see why the Sheriff was taking such a long time at his neighbour’s house, and I terrified him into telling me all he knew, too. Between them they named most of the people in the town who are involved in the smuggling.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, then? Why all the gloom? You said you had learned nothing from my informant’s disclosures. But it seems to me you have learned a great deal.’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘Your informant’s disclosures allowed me to arrest the Fenmen – the old breed of smuggler. It was the Masters Cheney and Mortimer who provided me with the names of all the people involved in the opportunistic trading that has taken place this winter.’

‘But that means you have the identities of everyone involved,’ persisted Michael. ‘The Fenmen and the opportunists. It hardly matters whether the information came from Dame Pelagia or your dishonest merchants. I do not see why you are not broaching a bottle of fine wine to celebrate your victory.’

His none-too-subtle hint fell on deaf ears, and Tulyet sighed, too engrossed in his worries to think about pandering to Michael’s greed. ‘Although I have the Fenmen in my cells and I can arrest the opportunists at my leisure, I still do not know which of them is responsible for the burglaries in the town and the ambushing of travellers on the roads – including who organised the attack on you.’

Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘But if you know who is profiting from the smuggling, arrest them all. One – or perhaps more – of them will be responsible for the burglaries and attacks. I do not see your problem, Dick. Who are these people, anyway – other than Mortimer and Cheney?’

Tulyet sat in his chair and leaned back to look up at the cracked plaster on the ceiling. ‘Where shall I begin? How about with Father Paul from Michaelhouse?’

Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘But that is not possible!’ he exclaimed. ‘Paul is blind!’

‘So?’ said Tulyet wearily. ‘One does not need to be able to see to order illegally imported goods and sell them at a profit.’

He looked pointedly at Bartholomew’s grey cloak. Bartholomew’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Michael laughed nervously and Tulyet continued.

‘Doctor Lynton from Peterhouse; James Grene – before he died; Robin of Grantchester; John Colton of Gonville.’ He looked at Bartholomew. ‘Oswald Stanmore.’

Bartholomew groaned and sank back down on the stool. Poor Stanmore! First his apprentice arrested for attempting to murder the Countess of Pembroke, and now he himself was to be charged with smuggling.

Tulyet continued remorselessly. ‘Michaelhouse is particularly guilty: Roger Alcote has amassed a fortune by selling silver buckles; John Runham has been importing gold leaf with which to decorate his cousin’s tomb–’

Michael grimaced. ‘Damn! I thought I had foiled his plans to impose that monstrosity on us by bribing the goldsmiths not to sell him any.’

Tulyet tilted his chair backwards and put his feet on the table. ‘I have not finished. Father William has arranged to be sent hair shirts as a surprise gift for his students at Easter; Samuel Gray – your student, I believe, Matt – has a thriving business selling anything he can lay his hands on.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. No wonder Gray had failed his disputation if he was spending most of his time running a lucrative import business!

‘What about Ralph de Langelee?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘He always has money to spend on drink. He must be involved.’

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Tulyet. ‘As far as I can tell, he and Master Kenyngham are about the only two Fellows in your College who are innocent in all this.’

‘I am innocent!’ protested Michael.

Tulyet eyed the heavy gold cross Michael had worn since the installation. ‘Are you, Brother? Then where did that handsome bauble come from? It is not the work of any local smith.’

‘That is none of your affair,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But since you ask, I acquired it perfectly legally from Haralda the Dane, who occasionally works with gold.’

Tulyet smiled and Bartholomew saw he did not believe a word Michael had said. ‘To continue: Jonas the Apothecary has ordered a feather bed for his wife’s bad back; Constantine Mortimer has been selling fine leather gloves from France to boost the profits he makes by selling bread.’ He gave Bartholomew’s hands a hard look. ‘But you already know that.’

‘These?’ asked Bartholomew, looking down at his gloves, aghast. ‘Mortimer gave me smuggled goods?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Do not feign shock with me, Matt. Mortimer is a baker. How do you imagine he came by gloves to sell?’

‘But I did not know,’ objected Bartholomew. He sounded feeble, even to his own ears, and had clearly not convinced Tulyet. Michael simply regarded him with sceptically raised eyebrows. ‘I did not buy them. Mortimer gave them to me.’

‘Of course he did,’ said Tulyet flatly. Michael still said nothing and the Sheriff continued. ‘Do you want to hear more? There is not a merchant, and scarcely a scholar, in the town who has not taken advantage of what the mild weather has to offer – except, it would seem, Thomas Deschalers.’

‘Deschalers?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘He must be involved – there are lemons wherever you look in the town.’

The Sheriff gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Deschalers really has discovered that keeping fruit in his cellars increases its lifespan. He stockpiled lemons in the summer, and is able to sell them at a profit now. Because he is doing so well at his legal trade, he has had no need to engage in illegal activities. I checked everything in his cellars and he has the proper licences for the lot.’

‘Deschalers was the one who set us thinking about smuggling in the first place,’ said Michael, shaking his head slowly. ‘How ironic!’

‘Father Yvo of Bernard’s Hostel has been making money to repair a leaking roof by hawking fine quality parchment, would you believe!’ Tulyet leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘He thinks the constant damp is the cause of melancholia in one of his students, and he wanted to mend it to make the young man feel better.’

‘Paul gave me half the money he made from his contraband cloaks for the victims stricken with winter fever,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the gold the friar had given him, ‘and he sent the rest to the Leper Hospital.’

Tulyet groaned. ‘It is one thing arresting half of Cambridge for committing crimes for their own gain; it is entirely another when they do it to help the sick and the poor. What in heaven’s name am I going to do? Seal off the town and present the entire population to the King? What a mess!’

‘Your position is not so impossible,’ said Michael thoughtfully. Tulyet looked at him hopefully. ‘The King will not want his prisons full of the town’s leading citizens – or scholars. Go to arrest your miscreants, but do not be discreet about it. You cannot arrest anyone unless you find smuggled goods in their possession, yes?’ Tulyet nodded and sat up straight. ‘Inform all your sergeants what you plan to do, and make sure everyone hears what you say. Then have a leisurely meal and go about your business. Anyone who does not have the sense to take the necessary precautions within the next hour or so deserves to be arrested anyway.’

‘You are right,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘The King will impose new taxes on the merchants when he hears of this, and they will be too grateful that they have escaped imprisonment – or worse – to complain. It is a perfect compromise!’

Michael sat back, his arms folded and a self-satisfied smile on his face. Bartholomew looked out of the window, wondering whether the town possessed a single honest citizen other than Kenyngham, Langelee and Deschalers – who was not involved only because he was doing rather better than usual legally.

‘Right,’ said Tulyet, rubbing his hands together. ‘After I have been home for something to eat and played a while with my young son, I will visit Constantine Mortimer. I have never liked him – he is hard on his wife Katherine and she is a kindly soul. Then I will see Oswald Stanmore and then Father Paul. Hopefully, by then the word will have spread.’

He gave the scholars an absent grin and went to make his announcement to the soldiers in the bailey. Bartholomew and Michael left him to make a conspicuous show of organising his surprise raids and began to walk back towards Michaelhouse. On the way they met Cynric and dispatched him to tell Father Paul to dispose of his smuggled cloaks, while Bartholomew went with Michael to warn Stanmore.

It was nearing dusk, and the apprentices were busy taking bales of cloth into the storerooms and tidying their tools away. Bartholomew sensed a light-heartedness that had been lacking before: Stanmore and Edith might grieve for Thorpe, but their apprentices certainly did not. Francis darted up to Michael and flashed him a grateful grin full of missing teeth, before racing off to help another boy close the storehouse doors. Stanmore emerged from his house, straining to read some jottings on a scrap of parchment. He stopped when he saw Bartholomew and Michael.

‘What has he done now?’ he asked with a weary sigh. ‘Has he accused me of ordering him to kill the Countess? Or Edith?’

‘We have not come about Rob Thorpe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet is arresting people who are thought to be involved in smuggling.’

Stanmore met his eyes levelly. ‘So I have heard. Are you implying I might be a smuggler?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I am implying nothing, Oswald. I am merely passing you information. Tulyet says he can arrest offenders only if he finds evidence of smuggled goods in their possession.’

Stanmore stroked his beard and watched the high-spirited apprentices jostling and pushing at each other as they finished their chores. ‘I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I assure you it is unnecessary.’

Bartholomew nodded. He had delivered his message, and if Stanmore chose to ignore it then that was his business.

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Stanmore, reading Bartholomew’s thoughts with the ghost of a smile. ‘I am not trying to tell you I am not guilty: I would have been foolish to pass up a business opportunity such as has been presented this winter – there is barely a merchant in the town who has declined the trade that has come our way, and honesty would have forced a man out of business – but I am not so unwise as to leave evidence of it lying around in my own storerooms.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I can provide legal documentation for every fibre of cloth here and at my premises at Ely. And as for elsewhere, who knows where to look?’

Bartholomew was astounded. He had never entertained any doubts about his brother-in-law’s ruthless efficiency in business, but he had not realised his talents extended to calm and skilful evasion of the King’s taxes. Stanmore made the other merchants, whose apprentices scurried here and there carrying hastily wrapped bundles, look like amateurs.

Edith emerged from the kitchens, wiping her floury hands on her apron. Her eyes were red and Bartholomew knew she had been crying.

‘Matt has been telling me that Sheriff Tulyet is rounding up all those merchants who have been acquiring illicit goods through smuggling this winter,’ said Stanmore.

Edith shook her head. ‘Silly men! If they are so greedy, they deserve to be arrested!’

Behind her back, Stanmore winked at Bartholomew. Edith invited them for some cakes and mulled wine and, anxious to begin to heal the rift that still yawned between them, Bartholomew accepted. They sat for some time in Stanmore’s solar discussing the mild weather, the problems Michael faced in finding appropriate music for his choir, and the poor quality of the wool shipment Stanmore had recently received from Flanders – anything, in fact, except smuggling and the nasty affair of the murderous Rob Thorpe.

‘We should go,’ said Michael, taking the last cake and cramming it in his mouth. ‘It is almost supper time.’

They made their farewells, Bartholomew relieved to escape the somewhat strained conversation. He sensed Edith was ambiguous in her feelings about his role in exposing Thorpe, but supposed she would come to accept it, given time. At least, he hoped so.

In Milne Street the scene was chaotic, with people running here and there in uncontrolled mayhem. Dogs barked, men swore and panted under heavy burdens, and furious arguments took place as merchants squabbled over buying space on the barges moored at the wharves, to secrete their ill-gotten gains away before the Sheriff found them.

The cause of all the panic was at the house of Constantine Mortimer. Indignant gibbering pursued Tulyet as he emerged from Mortimer’s house carrying a box. The baker scuttled after him, his red, bellicose face outraged, while his son Edward and wife Katherine were at his heels. Mortimer saw Bartholomew, and stopped dead in his tracks.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ he hissed, looking around him furtively. ‘Take off those damned gloves or you will have us both in the Sheriff’s prisons!’

‘I am sure Matt will furnish me with a receipt for those – should I feel the need to ask him for one,’ said Tulyet, making Mortimer jump by speaking in his ear. ‘Quite unlike this wine, I imagine.’

‘I had no idea that was there,’ Mortimer insisted angrily. ‘I never use that cellar. It is damp.’

‘Of course,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘Someone must have slipped into your cellars and hidden it carefully behind that pile of old crates for safekeeping. It is odd how so many people seem to have found themselves in the same position today.’

‘You are quite mistaken, father,’ said Edward nervously. ‘You bought that wine last summer. You have been keeping it to allow it to mature.’

‘The King allows his wines to mature before drinking them,’ put in Katherine.

‘Rubbish!’ said Mortimer impatiently. ‘I remember purchasing no wine.’

‘Of course you do, dear,’ said Katherine, favouring him with an indulgent smile. ‘You said we might drink it to celebrate Edward’s coming of age.’

Mortimer looked taken aback, and his certainty began to waver. ‘Did I?’ he said, frowning.

Bartholomew went to the box Tulyet was placing on the back of a cart and looked inside. There were six bottles made of smoked glass, the wine dark red inside them. He started back. The last time he had seen such a bottle it had been smashed on the floor under Isaac’s work-bench. He exchanged a glance with Michael.

‘When did you purchase this wine?’ asked Michael. ‘And where?’

‘Why?’ demanded Edward, uncharacteristically aggressive. ‘Father’s wines are no concern of the University.’

‘Really?’ said Michael, fixing him with a hard stare.

‘It is just good French wine,’ said Katherine, smiling lightly. ‘No more, no less.’

Mortimer looked from one to the other belligerently. ‘All this fuss over half a crate of wine!’ he snapped. ‘If Katherine says I bought it, I did. I will have a receipt somewhere for it. I will hunt it out tomorrow.’

‘You will not find it,’ said Michael. ‘Because you never bought it.’ He turned to Edward and Katherine. ‘Despite the fact that your family is trying to suggest you did.’

‘He did buy it,’ insisted Edward. ‘Just because he does not remember, it does not mean to say it did not happen.’

‘You cheeky whelp!’ said Mortimer, taking a step towards his son threateningly. ‘Do you imply I am losing my wits? The business is not yours yet, Edward; you must wait until I die.’

Edward said nothing, although his expression indicated that Mortimer’s words generated ambiguous emotions within him: while he might long to be rid of his dominating, bellicose father, he certainly did not relish the prospect of inheriting a business in which he had no interest.

‘Perhaps you would care to try some,’ said Katherine, leaning into the box to take a bottle and offer it to Michael. ‘We have already sampled the other six bottles and found it most delicious.’

‘But James Grene did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And neither did Brother Armel.’

Mortimer stared at him and then began to laugh. ‘The University’s poisoned wine! You think this is it! How ridiculous! Give it to me. I will prove how wrong you are.’

He snatched the wine from Katherine and raised it to his mouth to draw out the cork with his teeth. Bartholomew slapped his hand down.

‘No,’ he said. He took the bottle carefully from the indignant Mortimer and held it out to Edward. ‘You drink it.’

Edward regarded the bottle in horror and put his hands behind his back.

‘Edward does not drink wine,’ said Katherine quickly. ‘It makes him sick.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Mortimer. ‘He had some last night with no ill effects. Drink the wine, Edward. Prove to these insolent scholars how they slander the name of Mortimer.’

Edward reached out a hand and slowly took the bottle from Bartholomew. Hesitantly, he began to raise it to his lips.

‘No!’ Katherine dashed the bottle from Edward’s hand and it smashed on the ground. Everyone leapt backwards and, for a moment, all eyes were on the dark liquid that pooled in the mud of the street. Then Edward tore towards Tulyet, knocked him off his feet, and had darted up Milne Street before anyone could stop him. Tulyet’s men gaped at him stupidly before the Sheriff’s angry cry set them racing after him.

Mortimer looked about him in confusion. ‘What is going on?’ he demanded of Katherine. ‘What is he doing? Stupid boy! How does he imagine he will become a Master Baker when he is given to this kind of behaviour?’

Tulyet climbed to his feet and took Katherine by the arm. ‘It seems you have some explaining to do, madam. Your husband is not the only one who wants to know what you have been plotting.’

Katherine met his eyes coolly, but said nothing.

‘For God’s sake, Katherine!’ yelled Mortimer in sudden fury. ‘What is happening?’

‘Nothing!’ she said to Tulyet. ‘Edward and I have done nothing. The wine is Constantine’s.’

‘It is over, Katherine,’ said Tulyet quietly. ‘It is clear Master Mortimer knows nothing about this wine. But it is equally clear that you and Edward do.’

‘Not so,’ said Katherine in the same calm voice. ‘Edward is a timid boy, and he has always been frightened of his father. It was from Constantine he fled, not from you as a sign of guilt.’

‘Who was the third person?’ demanded Michael. ‘It was you and Edward who went to Gonville to reclaim the poisoned wine from Isaac once you realised it was there. You knocked me over as you came racing out. But who else was with you? Who helped you kill Isaac?’

‘We have killed no one,’ said Katherine. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘What are you saying?’ said Mortimer, bewildered as he looked from Michael to Katherine. ‘Of what are you accusing my wife?’

‘Of murder,’ said Michael. He pointed a soft white finger at the remaining bottles. ‘Crates of wine from this part of France tend to contain a dozen bottles. So, we can assume that originally there were twelve, but that a little over a month ago six were stolen by an opportunistic thief named Sacks.’

‘Sacks?’ queried one of Tulyet’s sergeants, as he lounged against the wall watching the exchange with interest. ‘Has he been busy again?’

‘Sacks sold the wine he stole from you in the Brazen George – two bottles to Rob Thorpe and three bottles to Brother Armel. One of Thorpe’s bottles killed Will Harper, the boy we pulled from the well, and the other killed James Grene.’ Michael’s eyes never left Katherine’s face. ‘Harper died more than a month ago, but it was not until last Saturday that Sacks tried to sell the remaining bottles.’

‘Sacks has been in the castle prison,’ said Tulyet’s sergeant, eager to join in. ‘We kept him for three weeks for selling stolen goods. It was a petty matter and we did not think to bother you with it, Master Tulyet, knowing how all your time was taken up with hunting down the outlaws. He was released last Saturday – the morning of the installation.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. He turned his attention back to Katherine. ‘You must have thought you were off the hook when no tales of violent death were rumoured around the town. Then last Saturday Grene died horribly and publicly at the installation. Edward was there and must have seen it – although you were absent because of your husband’s illness. It was followed by rumours about the death of Armel, and you knew the wine was finally beginning to surface.’

Katherine shook her head and smiled. ‘I really have no idea what you are talking about. I know nothing of stolen wine. I have already told you we drank the six bottles you see missing from the crate.’

Michael continued relentlessly. ‘In desperation, knowing that it might be traced back to you via Sacks, you took steps to remove the evidence – you stole four of the bottles from Michaelhouse, first terrifying poor Walter, our porter, out of his wits, and then went to Gonville to see whether Matt had been called to physic another case of poisoning. Cynric saw you – three of you – in the shadows in St Michael’s Lane, waiting to slip unnoticed into Michaelhouse as soon as the coast was clear. After you searched his room and found what you wanted, you went to Gonville, where you had heard the messenger tell Walter that Philius had been struck down with a strange illness. You followed Isaac from Philius’s room when he went to fetch the wine he had used in the purge, and you stunned him with a savage blow to the head in the ensuing struggle. You could not risk leaving him alive to identify you, so you hanged him to make certain he would die.’

Katherine gave a short laugh of bemusement. ‘How can you think such a thing of me? How could I hang a man from the rafters? I am only a woman, not a great brawny ox, like you.’

‘From the rafters, was it?’ pounced Michael. ‘But you have not been listening. I said there were three of you, so you did not murder Isaac alone. When you could not find the bottle – which had been smashed by the College cat and lay in pieces under the work-bench – one of you stayed to look again, while the other two went to see if it was still in Philius’s room. It was while you were looking there that Matt disturbed you, and the three of you fled, knocking me over on the way out. But, fortunately for one of you, Matt had found the broken bottle under the bench, and it was an easy matter to scrape up the pieces before you left.’

‘This is all wild nonsense,’ said Katherine in disbelief. She turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has the good Brother been drinking? Is he wholly in his right mind?’

‘Wholly, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘And you also killed Philius in his bed and chopped Egil’s head from his neck.’

‘Who is Egil?’ asked Katherine with an expression of profound confusion. ‘And why would I do such a foul thing? I am no warlock!’

‘Because he was the smuggler who brought you this wine across the Fens,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But this is outrageous!’ protested Katherine, laughing. ‘This Egil’s head was probably stolen by wild animals.’

‘So that is what we were meant to believe, was it?’ said Michael.

Katherine shook her head in exasperation and went to her husband. ‘Constantine! Why do you stand there and allow them to insult me? Call for the Chancellor and tell him to order these University men away, because I will sue them for slander if they continue in this vein. They are trying to provoke a riot by accusing a townsperson of vile crimes!’

Mortimer looked from her to Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘I do not understand how you arrived at all these conclusions. You have no evidence with which to accuse my wife, only wild guesses.’

In his heart, Bartholomew knew the baker was right. No court of law would find Katherine guilty on the evidence they had. Bartholomew was certain their reasoning was accurate, but the only clue that Katherine was involved came from her apparent attempt to implicate her bullying husband by claiming the wine was his. It was true that she had prevented Edward from drinking it, and provided him with the opportunity to flee, but it was hardly solid proof. He glanced at Michael, seeing his own frustration mirrored in the fat monk’s face.

They all turned at the sound of a violent altercation between John Cheney and another of Tulyet’s men, who was attempting to inspect a large barrel.

‘I will not broach it,’ the spice-merchant was shouting. ‘That is finest quality sea salt and the rain will spoil the contents. I have shown you all the legal documentation for it and you have no right to press me further!’

‘It will take only a moment!’ yelled the soldier in his turn. ‘Your records show it is almost empty anyway. I just want to ensure nothing has been hidden with its legal contents.’

‘But water will ruin the salt,’ shouted Cheney, putting his hand palm up to emphasise his point. Rain fell steadily in fine, misty droplets.

‘We could move it inside,’ suggested the soldier, more quietly.

Cheney considered. ‘Very well, then,’ he conceded in a more reasonable tone of voice. ‘As long as you put it back where you found it.’

The barrel in dispute stood just inside the gates to Cheney’s yard. An idea suddenly formed in Bartholomew’s mind. Katherine and her pugilistic husband forgotten, he walked over to the barrel and tapped on it. It sounded hollow.

‘And what do you think you are doing?’ Cheney snapped, angry again. ‘Get off my property!’

Bartholomew turned to Tulyet and Michael. ‘I wonder if we might … ?’

He stopped as he saw Katherine clutch her throat and sway dizzily. Next to her, Mortimer watched his wife in disbelief as a smoky bottle slipped from her nerveless fingers and smashed on the ground. Tulyet darted forward and caught her as she swooned, but as Bartholomew ran towards them, he could see there was nothing that could be done to save her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she began to convulse in Tulyet’s arms. Bartholomew called for water to wash the poison from her mouth, but even as he did so, he knew it would do no good. After a few moments, her desperate attempts to breathe eased and she went limp.

‘My God!’ breathed Tulyet in horror. He eased the body onto the ground and looked up at Bartholomew. ‘She is dead already. What is this poison?’

Even a sudden death in one of the town’s busiest thoroughfares did little to slow the frantic activity there. One or two people stopped to look at Katherine Mortimer’s body as it lay in the rain, but most ignored the scene outside the baker’s house, too anxious to ensure their own businesses were in order to risk interfering with someone else’s. Mortimer knelt next to his wife, holding her limp hand in his with an expression of total mystification, as though he imagined she might leap to her feet at any moment and tell him it had been some kind of macabre joke. Tulyet, Michael and Bartholomew stood over him, while the sergeant shouted to one of his men to help carry the body into the house.

‘Do you have any idea at all where this foul stuff came from?’ asked Tulyet, poking one of the bottles in the crate on his cart with his dagger. ‘Or how much of it is currently loose in the town?’

Michael shook his head. ‘I made the erroneous assumption that there were only six bottles in total. Now we find there was a full case of twelve. I have no idea whether this is all of it, or whether another crate is lurking somewhere.’

Bartholomew looked down at the lifeless form of Mistress Mortimer. ‘I have never seen any poison work as quickly as this before. Neither had Philius.’

‘Philius was good with poisons,’ said Tulyet, moving away from the crate with a shudder. ‘He used to help Jonas the Apothecary prepare potions to kill lice and fleas, while his reputation for producing effective concoctions to rid granaries of rats stretched as far afield as Thetford. All the Franciscans in the Friary on Bridge Street are good with herbs and powders.’

‘Well, that’s Franciscans for you!’ muttered Michael. ‘While we Benedictines live our lives in serene contemplation and prayer, the Franciscans find themselves one of the best houses in Bridge Street and find new ways to kill things.’

Something horrible occurred to Bartholomew as he stared down at the lifeless features of Katherine Mortimer. Had he, by encouraging Philius to investigate the nature of the poison that had made him so ill and killed Will Harper, Grene and Armel, inadvertently brought about Philius’s death? He spoke his thoughts aloud.

‘Master Colton of Gonville Hall said he went with Philius to visit the Franciscan Friary – where Philius told me he would ask about this poison among his colleagues. It must have been the fact that he was asking questions that aroused the suspicions of Katherine and her associates, and Philius must have been killed before he could come too close to the truth.’

Michael tapped him smartly on the arm. ‘You could not have prevented Philius’s death, Matt. How were you – or any of us – to know that his asking questions about a kind of poison in his own Friary would make someone want to kill him?’

‘We misjudged Colton, too,’ said Bartholomew, facts coming together in his mind. ‘I was certain his determination to suppress knowledge of Philius’s murder was a sign of guilty involvement. Now I see his suspicious behaviour was nothing more than a desire to keep the Sheriff well away from his College and its activities while he was indulging himself in a little smuggling.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘That explains why he was so nervous, and why he tried to claim his College could not be connected to the poisoned wine and the deaths of Grene and Armel – he did not want me or the Sheriff to start digging too deeply into Gonville’s affairs given that the cellars are probably well stocked with all sorts of contraband.’

‘But why would someone kill Philius for asking about the poison?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Its nature is no secret – half the town saw Grene die.’

‘It seems a curious substance to me,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling to look more closely at Katherine’s body. ‘It killed Grene, Will Harper, Armel and now Katherine almost instantly, but it only made Philius ill. And it killed the rat, but the cat which I saw drinking it escaped unscathed.’

‘You and that wretched cat!’ exclaimed Michael, exasperated. ‘You must have been mistaken about it. The wine has certainly killed Katherine stone dead.’

Bartholomew continued to inspect the corpse. Her husband still held one of her hands and gaped at her in stunned disbelief, while the sergeant muttered meaningless and trite words of comfort in his ear and attempted to make him stand up. On Katherine’s other hand was a burn where the wine had attacked her skin as she had opened the bottle, like the ones on Isaac and the porter at Valence Marie.

The sergeant finally succeeded in prising the baker from his wife’s side and led him into the house, leaving two of his men to cover Katherine with a cloak and carry her inside. The soldiers treated the body with an exaggerated care that had nothing to do with respect for the dead and a good deal to do with their respect for the poison. Bartholomew helped them, protecting his own hands with the gloves Katherine herself had given him just a few days before.

‘I suppose we can assume he is innocent in all this?’ asked Tulyet, watching Mortimer stumbling through the door to his house with the sergeant behind him.

‘He certainly acted as though he were,’ said Michael. ‘His unbearable arrogance and temper must have led his wife and son to plot against him. She was quite happy for him to take the blame for owning the poisoned wine.’

‘But Mortimer was right – we had no real evidence against her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure what we have reasoned is correct, but she must have seen we had no proof.’

‘I have known Constantine Mortimer for many years,’ said Tulyet with a sigh. ‘I can see he would have given his wife no peace over this – whether your accusations were unproven or not. He kept her on a short rein, and she was never allowed out unless he or Edward were with her. I am sure she knew her chances of running away from him were remote, and so she must have decided to drink the wine when she realised her future was bleak.’

‘You mean just saying what we did induced her to take her own life?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong.’

‘She killed herself because she knew we had her measure, and that it would be only a matter of time before we had the proof of it,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We are not responsible for her death.’

Bartholomew looked at Cheney’s barrel, his scrutiny of which seemed to have tipped her to drinking the poisoned wine in the first place. Was there proof of her guilt concealed within it? ‘Perhaps she has more of this wine stored there. Or perhaps …’

His voice trailed away as he regarded the barrel. Gradually, as realisation dawned on him, it went from being a simple container to something sinister, and he was certain that whatever it contained, it was not salt. He walked slowly towards it and borrowed a dagger from one of Tulyet’s men to prise off the lid.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Cheney crossly, trying to snatch the weapon away from him. ‘That is finest sea salt from Hunstanton and it will be no good if it gets wet. Sheriff Tulyet! Stop this man at once!’

‘Perhaps you should allow one of my soldiers to do this,’ said Tulyet without conviction, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, making no attempt to prevent Bartholomew from levering at the lid, but watching with interest. ‘Master Cheney does not seem to like it.’

‘I most certainly do not!’ shouted Cheney. ‘If water spoils that salt, I shall expect you to pay for it. You have no right to force your way on to my property and take liberties with my barrels.’

The lid came off with a creaking pop and Bartholomew glanced inside. Immediately, he backed away coughing. Cheney elbowed him out of the way and looked himself. He gave a gasp of horror, hands flying to his mouth as he saw what was in it, the blood draining from his face.

Crouched in the barrel was the body of a small man wearing rough, homespun clothes, while on his lap lay Egil’s decapitated head. The stench was overpowering, a sickly, sulphurous reek of decay mingled with salt and rotting wood. Cheney regained the use of his legs and backed away hurriedly, colliding with Michael as he did so.

‘It is Sacks,’ said Tulyet, looking down at the thief and wrinkling his nose at the smell. ‘Sacks and someone else’s head.’

‘Egil’s head,’ said Michael, after a very cursory glance. ‘Hacked from his shoulders after we left his body for Oswald Stanmore to collect from the Fens. We wondered what had happened to it.’

‘And we wondered what had happened to Sacks,’ said Tulyet’s sergeant, emerging from Mortimer’s house and peering over Michael’s shoulder into the barrel. He showed no particular emotion at the grisly sight, not even surprise: he had seen a good deal worse as a soldier during the King’s wars in France. ‘When we realised we had not seen him for a few days, we assumed he had decided to move away from Cambridge after his spell in our prison, to try his skills where he was less well known.’

‘His hands have red marks,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to blisters on the thief’s fingers. ‘The Bernard’s students said there was something wrong with his skin. He must have been burned by one of the bottles.’

He leaned in and poked around, digging into the coarse-grained salt in search of more evidence. After a moment he found it.

‘Here are Egil’s hands,’ he said, drawing one out and holding it up. Tulyet slapped his arm down, aware that a curious crowd was beginning to gather, and that their mood was uneasy. While Katherine Mortimer dropping stone dead in Milne Street might not be cause for more than a passing glance, dismembered corpses in spice barrels were another matter entirely. Cheney gave another stifled exclamation of horror and swallowed hard.

‘I suppose I will not be able to use that lovely salt now,’ he said shakily. ‘No one will buy it if they know where it has been.’

‘You should dispose of it quickly, then,’ said Bartholomew, aware that if the spice-merchant did not rid himself of the tainted salt while the vile memories were fresh in his mind, he might have second thoughts about throwing it away. Apart from one or two patches that were stained black, it certainly appeared to be clean enough, and could easily be stored until the time was right to sell it.

‘My sergeant will relieve you of it now,’ said Tulyet, apparently thinking along the same lines. ‘He will throw it in the King’s Ditch and have the barrel scoured out with boiling water for you.’

‘We were right about the poison and Egil – there are burn marks on his hands, just like the ones on Sacks’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And there are small blisters on Egil’s face, too, although they have nearly healed. We must have been blind not to notice them earlier. I imagine Egil spilled the wine when he transported the bottles across the Fens. His face was probably burned when he transferred the poison to it from his hands – while Sacks’s hands were burned when he touched the bottles he sold to the Bernard’s students and Thorpe.’

Michael turned to Tulyet. ‘Do you need more from me or can I leave this matter with you? Matt may be happy to poke about with dismembered corpses, but I have had quite enough of all this!’

Tulyet nodded assent. ‘I have only one question. Matt, how did you guess Sacks’s body and Egil’s missing parts were in Cheney’s salt? It was when you walked over to it that Katherine realised the game she was playing was over and drank the poisoned wine.’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I was going to ask Cheney if he had another of similar size that we might borrow as a water barrel for people to use while the well is drained.’

The following afternoon, Bartholomew perched on the trunk of a fallen apple tree in the orchard behind Michaelhouse and watched Tulyet. The Sheriff leaned against the wall and kicked at a rotten apple left from the previous summer and somehow missed by worms and maggots. Next to Bartholomew, Michael sat devouring the last of a fruit pie he had stolen from the kitchens. There would be hell to pay when Agatha discovered it was missing.

‘I think you succeeded admirably,’ Michael said to the Sheriff, ducking out of the way as pieces of apple flew from under Tulyet’s boot. ‘You clearly could not arrest everyone involved in this business, or the town would have lost virtually its entire population. You gave sufficient warning so that most had the opportunity to dispose of their ill-gotten gains, but yet the offenders have had enough of a fright from their narrow escape that it will be a long time before they think of cheating the King out of his taxes again.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tulyet moodily. ‘Although I will be saying masses for a short and very cold winter next year. All this happened because the waterways are so open.’

‘Why the gloom?’ asked Michael, finishing the pie and wiping his sticky fingers on his habit. ‘You have done just what the King would have wished. He will raise town taxes and the merchants will be too guilt-stricken to protest. Everyone will gain from your discreet handling of the affair.’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘I have the Fenmen who smuggled the occasional barrel of brandy and I know exactly which merchants and scholars used the established routes to bring in smuggled goods since the beginning of winter. But neither of these groups is responsible for the outlaws I have been hunting. These are still at large.’

Michael raised his hands in the air, exasperated by Tulyet’s continuing claims that the case was not yet fully solved. ‘But the outlaws must be Fenmen hired by the merchants to bring the goods along the waterways.’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘Because the Fens are flooded, it is not difficult to travel across them by boat. Anyone can do it this year, and no special knowledge of Fenland geography is needed. No new men were hired – the merchants simply used their own people to bring the goods in. For example, I know that Stanmore’s steward, Hugh, was responsible for bringing cloth from the Wash to Cambridge and he has no experience of the Fens whatsoever.’

‘But if you know which of the merchants’ “own people” were used, arrest them,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘They will be your outlaws – hired louts like Stanmore’s Hugh who decided to take advantage of jaunts out of town to do a little business for themselves. I do not see your problem.’

‘The merchants’ people are men I know,’ said Tulyet. ‘I cannot see the likes of Hugh committing robberies and burglaries. I may have uncovered the Fenmen’s little business and unnerved the merchants and some scholars, but I still do not have the outlaws.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. ‘My informant was very clear about the names of the smugglers. If you are certain the merchants and their servants are not to blame, then the culprits must be among the Fenmen.’

Tulyet sighed, and scratched his head. ‘Perhaps you are right. I suppose I will have to question them all over again.’

‘I offered you my services for that,’ said Michael.

Tulyet nodded absently. ‘Perhaps I will have to accept. But I was convinced they were being honest with me.’

‘It seems honesty is not a virtue widely practised around here,’ said Michael, gazing meaningfully at Bartholomew’s cloak and gloves. ‘I am shocked that so many people I considered principled, law-abiding citizens have gaily travelled along the paths of iniquity and turpitude.’

‘Do not be so pompous, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, tugging off his gloves and shoving them in his bag. He stood up and prepared to take his leave. ‘I must go. I am due to lecture on Theophilus’s De Urinis at King’s Hall tomorrow, and I should prepare something if I do not want to appear totally incompetent.’

‘A lecture on urine sounds almost as inviting as hearing Langelee pontificating on the creation of the world,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Personally, I would rather talk to Dick’s vile little smugglers in his dank and rat-infested prison.’

Tulyet smiled suddenly. ‘Remember I told you that I searched Thomas Deschalers’s house? His stored lemons were wholly legal as it transpired – the pomegranates, figs and nuts were imported by Cheney – but there was a woman staying with Deschalers who almost had him arrested regardless of his innocence. As I was talking to him, a lemon dropped from her sleeve, and her bedchamber was filled to the gills with them, where she had made an attempt to hide them away. She had the brazen effrontery to offer one to me as a gift!’ He drew it out of his pocket and showed it to Bartholomew.

‘Julianna,’ said Bartholomew, in sudden understanding. ‘Yes, she would.’

‘She was quite a challenge,’ said Tulyet, his eyes glittering with amusement as he recalled the scene. ‘When I asked to inspect Deschalers’s cellars, he immediately gave me permission. But this woman – Julianna – refused point blank. She overrode Deschalers as if he were her servant. Who is she? His harlot?’

Michael gave an unpleasant leer. ‘His niece.’

Tulyet blew out his cheeks. ‘What a harpy! She hurled herself at my sergeant like a wild animal, and screamed that if he wanted to inspect the cellars, it would be over her dead body. He offered to arrange it and she backed off. Then, when Deschalers provided us with all the legal documentation for his stored fruit, she turned to him with such an expression of shock that I could not help but laugh. I have never seen such a performance that bespoke of her belief in his guilt in my life!’

Michael smiled. ‘She was betrothed to Edward Mortimer. Perhaps he has had a lucky escape.’

Bartholomew was certain he had.

Tulyet sighed and stretched. ‘I should be at home with my family – it is Sunday, after all.’ He tossed the lemon in the air and caught it. ‘What shall I do with this?’

‘Well, do not eat it raw,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And do not give it to your infant son.’

Tulyet grinned. ‘I heard about Mortimer’s illness. Katherine probably fed him the raw lemons to see if she might kill him. You have this. I do not want to be walking around the town with bribes in my pocket!’

He threw the hard fruit to Bartholomew and departed, leaving the two scholars alone. Bartholomew put the lemon in the pocket in his shirt and shivered, reaching down for his bag.

‘It is too cold to be out here,’ he said. ‘And there is a fire in the conclave today.’

‘You would never get near it,’ said Michael, leaning back comfortably. ‘All the Fellows and commoners are there, and Langelee is entertaining them with some story about a journey he took to Bristol last year.’

‘That does not sound appealing in the slightest,’ admitted Bartholomew, sitting down again. ‘I do not like that man. I was hoping he would be implicated in all this smuggling so we might be rid of him.’

‘I told you that I would have a few words here and there,’ said Michael, making it sound most sinister. ‘I will put it about that he drinks, and that I am afraid he will spark off some incident that might cause a riot. Kenyngham will not wish to risk that, no matter who is pressuring him to employ Langelee.’

‘So, Colton, Julianna and Eligius, whom I was certain were as guilty as sin, are now wholly vindicated,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still running over the events of the past few days.

‘Do not speak too soon,’ said Michael. ‘You heard Tulyet say there are still outlaws at large.’

‘Colton and Julianna are hardly likely to be outlaws,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Eligius is dead.’

Michael sat up straight and stretched his burly arms so hard they cracked. ‘I said I would return to Valence Marie today and tell them more about what Thorpe confessed to doing in their hallowed halls.’

‘And what was that exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, pulling his borrowed cloak closer around him, reluctant to return to his room to start work on his lecture. ‘The last I heard, he was professing his innocence and big bad Grene was entirely to blame.’

‘He has stuck to his story,’ said Michael. ‘But we were essentially right. He turned to Grene when Will Harper died from drinking Sacks’s wine, and Grene told him how and where to dispose of the body so that he would not be dismissed from Stanmore’s service. He confided to Grene how he yearned to strike a blow at the College that allowed his father to be disgraced, and Grene worked out a plan that would allow him to do just that.’

‘And Grene really did drink the poison knowingly?’

Michael nodded. ‘I think Rob Thorpe is telling the truth – although my ability to distinguish between liars and honest men is sorely stretched these days. I am inclined to believe Grene felt sufficiently bitter to use his public suicide to destroy his hated rival, Bingham. We know from Philius that he was dying anyway, and we know from Eligius that he took some care to ensure three Fellows knew he considered himself in danger from Bingham. Even if Bingham had not been convicted of his murder, the suspicion would have hung over him like the Sword of Damocles.’

‘And the Countess?’

Michael gave a nasty smile. ‘That was all Thorpe’s own idea, although he did try to convince me that Grene’s tormented spirit appeared to him in a dream and ordered him to do it.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘I imagine he will be expelled from the country,’ said Michael without much interest. ‘He will be stripped of his possessions and put on a ship for France – best place for him, if you ask me. The Countess wants him hanged, though. She is afraid he will try to kill her again.’

‘He might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor Eligius!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘It just goes to show that you should never think good of people. If Eligius had been suspicious and cynical like the rest of us, he would never have drunk that wine. But you live and learn. Well, he did not, I suppose. Will you come with me to Valence Marie?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘Every time I visit that College, either someone dies or someone tries to kill me. And anyway, I need to think about this lecture.’

‘Walk with me to the Trumpington Gate, then,’ said Michael, standing and adjusting the cowl on his cloak. ‘Edith told me at church this morning that Mistress Pike is unlikely to last the day. She lives near Valence Marie, so you can keep me company and see her at the same time. You have given lectures on Theophilus a hundred times, and have no need for preparations.’

‘I have seen her twice today already,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing more I can do.’

But he followed Michael through the orchard towards the back gate. Because it was Sunday, there were no trader’s carts rattling up and down the lane, and the town was unusually peaceful. Agatha’s cockerel crowed somewhere in the distance, and a blackbird sang sweetly from one of the trees in the orchard. They walked in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Bartholomew’s mind jumped between considering whether it was safe to visit Matilde and relieve her of Dame Pelagia, and Edith’s continuing distress over Thorpe. Michael pondered how he might inveigle an invitation to dine at Valence Marie and still manage to have supper at Michaelhouse.

Above, the sky grew blacker as heavy rain clouds gathered, so that it seemed as though dusk was already approaching even though it was only mid-afternoon. A golden shaft of sunrays broke through unexpectedly, and illuminated the soft creamy stone of St Mary’s Church, making it dazzle like gold in the sullen light of the clouds. As they passed, Bartholomew squinted as it reflected off the shiny ground, and stumbled from not being able to see where he was treading. But the sunlight was short-lived, and by the time they reached the Trumpington Gate, the clouds had filled in the gaps, and the first, great drops of rain began to fall, splattering into the mud.

‘If this foul weather continues, we will be forced to build an ark,’ grumbled Michael, glancing upwards. ‘I had no idea the heavens could hold so much water!’

Still muttering complaints, he stamped inside Valence Marie, while Bartholomew continued on to the house of the ailing Mistress Pike. His journey was wasted, however, because he was told she had died a few moments earlier. Since she was well over eighty years old, Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised, but the death of a patient always unsettled him. Her family politely insisted that he should stay until the storm passed over, but Bartholomew did not feel comfortable waiting in a house filled with grieving relatives and left as soon as he could.

The rain was coming down hard, and the cloak Paul had lent him had no hood. For an instant, he regretted his decision not to tarry at Mistress Pike’s house, but then realised he would be able to take shelter in the little church of St Peter-without-Trumpington Gate. Breaking into a run as the drops fell more heavily, he dashed through the grassy graveyard and took the great brass handle in both hands to open the door. It was locked. Bartholomew swore under his breath, flinching as large, cold drips splattered on his bare head. But it made sense to keep the building secured: it was vulnerable, standing as it did outside the city gates with the outlaws’ attacks drawing ever nearer to the town.

He stood under a tree in the churchyard, trying to keep out of the wet. He glanced up the High Street. The guards on the gate had abandoned their posts, and the few people who were braving the downpour passed through it unquestioned. Bartholomew did not relish the notion of walking back to Michaelhouse in weather so foul that he could barely see, and decided it might be an opportune time to visit his medical colleague Master Lynton at nearby Peterhouse. Now that Philius was dead, he and Bartholomew were the only physicians in Cambridge, and were likely to be thrown more and more into each other’s company. And they could start, Bartholomew decided, by debating some of the issues in Theophilus’s De Urinis that he was to lecture on at King’s Hall the following day.

Pulling his cloak closer around him, grateful for Mortimer’s smuggled gloves to protect his hands against the icy chill of the rain, he was about to leave the partial shelter of the tree and run the short distance to Peterhouse, when a sudden prod in his back made him stop. He started to turn, but was arrested by a voice hissing in his ear.

‘Do not move! I have a sharp knife, Bartholomew. You do what I say, or I will kill you.’ The knife jabbed again. ‘Do you understand?’

Bartholomew nodded, his heart pounding. Was this one of the men who had tried to kill him and Michael in the Fens, back for a second attempt? He started to turn again, but the knife pricked at his spine, harder this time.

‘Be still!’

The voice was no longer a hiss, and Bartholomew was able to recognise it.

‘Harling!’

‘Harling!’ the voice behind him mimicked. ‘Harling, indeed! Now, we are going to walk together through the churchyard and away from the road. If you shout out, or try to alert anyone, I will strike you dead. The guards are unlikely to venture from their lodge in this weather, but it pays to be cautious.’

The Vice-Chancellor took a firm hold on Bartholomew’s right arm with his left hand, while his right hand pushed the knife into Bartholomew’s side, just under the ribs. The physician inched away, repelled by the sickly odour of perfumed grease from Harling’s slicked hair, but Harling held him tightly, and forced him back into the tangle of bushes and trees that surrounded the church.

At first, the foliage became denser, and Bartholomew wondered whether Harling meant to murder him there, where his body might not be found for days. But then the tangle thinned and he found they were at the edge of Coe Fen, an area of common land between the King’s Mill and Peterhouse. The extended rains had flooded it, so it was no longer viable for grazing, and the meadows were deserted. Bartholomew moved his feet, hearing the squelch of sodden grass, and knew the chances of someone passing that way to help him were remote. Further downstream, the great King’s Mill wheel pounded the water of the mill race. With a distant part of his mind, Bartholomew wondered why the miller would risk using it when the Cam was in full spate – especially considering it was a Sunday, when work was forbidden.

Harling pushed him forwards until they stood near the edge of the swollen river, close to where it swirled past in a muddy brown torrent of eddies and waves. It had ripped small trees and branches from its banks further upstream, and these bobbed and dipped in its unsteady currents. Bartholomew was suddenly reminded of his near drowning in the Fens, and hoped that was not what Harling had in mind for him.

Cursing, Harling inadvertently glanced down at the ground as his leg sank into mud to the calf, and Bartholomew seized the opportunity to attempt to break away. He hurled himself to one side and tried to scramble out of Harling’s reach. But the ground was slippery with rain, and Harling’s reactions were much faster than he had anticipated. Harling had pounced on him and had the knife at his throat before he could take more than two or three steps away.

‘I may as well tell you now, to avoid any further efforts to escape, that I have your student Sam Gray hidden away in a safe place. If you do not want him found face-down in the King’s Ditch, you will do what I say. Do you understand?’

Bartholomew gazed at him in horror, and forced himself to nod. The Vice-Chancellor moved away from him, although the knife remained in his hand. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew clambered to his feet.

‘You see, I was anticipating meeting you here,’ Harling continued, glancing downstream to where the waterwheel pounded the flooded river into a brown froth. ‘I thought I might have to resort to trickery to entice you out of Michaelhouse in all this rain, but I underestimated your devotion to your patients – poor Mistress Pike. I could not have chosen a better place to ambush you than that jungle Peterhouse calls its churchyard.’

Bartholomew glanced down at the knife in Harling’s hand, and wondered whether the Vice-Chancellor would harm him with it. Harling followed his gaze and gave a nasty smile.

‘Do not fool yourself into believing that I will not use this,’ he said, brandishing it. ‘I fought for the King in France before I became a scholar, and killed more men than I care to remember. Run if you will, but I will get you.’

He sprang forwards suddenly and made a deft flick with his wrist. Bartholomew looked down, and saw that Harling had neatly severed the leather straps of the medical bag he always wore looped around his shoulder. As it fell to the ground, Bartholomew was left convinced that Harling’s prowess with the knife was no idle boast.

‘Father Philius had a more practical demonstration of my skills with sharp objects – he put up a fight when he realised my visit to his chamber was not to enquire after his health, but he died instantly once I decided he should. I was told it took you quite some time to discover what had happened to him.’

He smiled and Bartholomew felt sick. ‘You murdered Philius? That poor old friar only just out of his sickbed?’

‘He was asking too many questions,’ said Harling dismissively.

‘About the poisoned wine?’ asked Bartholomew, his bewildered mind trying to make sense of Harling’s revelations. ‘It was yours? But then why did Katherine Mortimer kill herself? I do not understand.’

‘That strong acidic poison was created in a small town in France where wolves are a particular problem. Its success has made it fairly well known to people interested in such things – I am sure one of Philius’s colleagues will have heard of it. That town in France happens to be where I spent quite some time in the service of the King – as many of my colleagues will know – and I did not want that particular association to be made. Now, do you believe I am as talented with blades as I say, or would you like yet another illustration?’

‘Where is Gray?’ asked Bartholomew numbly, his thoughts reeling. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Gray is in a safe place,’ said Harling. ‘And you will not find him, so do not bother to look. And in return for his life, I require something from you.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, when Harling paused.

‘You and Brother Michael mentioned you had occasion to spirit a nun away from Denny Abbey. This nun had been asking questions of some of my colleagues in the Fens and they, foolishly, gave her some answers, thinking her to be some dim-witted ancient. I suspect she is anything but. I want to know where you have secreted her.’

‘Why?’

Harling made a grimace of impatience. ‘Do not act the fool with me, Bartholomew. Why do you think? I want her before she can pass this information to the Sheriff.’

‘But the Sheriff already knows what she has to say,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Brother Michael has passed him the information already.’

‘Liar!’ spat Harling. ‘All Michael did, after you and he went to whine to your friend the Sheriff about how you had been so viciously ambushed in the Fens, was go into All Saints’ Hostel for a drink. He needed to recover from the attempt on his life that another of my employees had so badly botched. And the nun certainly is not hidden in All Saints’. I checked.’

‘Michael suspected someone might be watching him, and so he left through the rear door,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He returned the same way, so that anyone watching would think he had been in All Saints’ the whole time. So, you see, the nun will be useless to you now. Where is Gray?’

‘There is no back door at All Saints’,’ sneered Harling. ‘If Brother Michael told you that, he is not telling you the truth.’

‘Michael has no cause to lie to me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘The Sheriff knows all the nun has to tell.’

‘Then why does he sit uselessly in his castle, scratching his head like some stupid schoolboy?’ asked Harling. ‘Why is he not out with his men looking for me and my companions?’

‘He has been,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was out all of yesterday and the day before.’

His breath suddenly caught in his throat. Tulyet had said that he was still concerned that he did not have the outlaws who had been terrorising the roads around Cambridge. Was one of the outlaws Harling? Bartholomew was so confused he did not know what to think.

‘Then why am I still at large?’ asked Harling, smiling coldly as he read the physician’s thoughts. ‘And all the others who have been helping me? Why have we not been arrested? I tell you again, Bartholomew, if Brother Michael informed you that he passed Dame Pelagia’s list of names to Tulyet, then he is lying.’

‘Michael told Tulyet all she had to tell,’ insisted Bartholomew. He watched beads of rain slide off Harling’s greased hair, and the first seeds of doubt began to grow in his mind. If Dame Pelagia knew Harling to be a smuggler, then Michael most certainly had not told Tulyet: Harling was one of the few people in the town whose name was not on the list. Was Michael deliberately shielding the Vice-Chancellor in order to save the University from the embarrassment of having a criminal at its helm?

Harling raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘You are loyal to your friends, which is more than can be said for Brother Michael. He has lied to you, Bartholomew – he has told the Sheriff nothing. Now, where is Dame Pelagia?’

‘I do not know,’ stammered Bartholomew.

‘You are not good at deceit,’ said Harling, unimpressed by Bartholomew’s feeble attempt to lie. ‘In fact, you are almost as dreadful as Michael is accomplished. I see you still do not believe me. Michael is clever and ambitious: do you think he will allow your friendship to stand between him and his goals of power and wealth? Of course he will not! And a man who passes up the offer of the Mastership of Valence Marie to wait for something better is ambitious indeed! Michael is fully aware that the smuggling ring he uncovered involves high-ranking members of the hostels and the Colleges, and that to expose it would have been an embarrassment to the University.’

‘But he did expose it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet knows several heads of houses and eminent scholars who were involved.’

‘Really?’ asked Harling with heavy sarcasm. ‘Then why do you think he suggested his clever solution – warning people to give them more time to hide the fruits of their crimes – to Tulyet? Do you think it was to save the merchants? Of course it was not! It was for the benefit of silly scholars, like the greedy opportunists from Michaelhouse – Alcote, Paul, William and Runham – not to mention Colton from Gonville and Lynton from Peterhouse.’

‘But the scholars were not treated differently from the merchants,’ said Bartholomew.

‘That is patently untrue!’ snapped Harling. ‘It is the merchants who will pay the heavy taxes the King will impose when he learns of this, not the University. And while the merchants’ actions will be bandied about for all to hear, the scholars’ role will be downplayed. As I said, Michael will not want the University embarrassed by this affair, because what embarrasses the University will embarrass its patron, the King. Do you think Michael will risk the wrath of the King when his greedy sights are set so high? Be honest with yourself, Bartholomew! Will he?’

Bartholomew swallowed. He was uncertain. Michael was ambitious, and he would certainly think twice about exposing some devilish plot if he thought the King might not like it. Father Paul’s warning suddenly came unbidden into his mind: Paul had told Bartholomew that Michael’s ambition might bring him to harm. Would it? Bartholomew wanted to believe not, but at the back of his mind there was a nagging doubt. But why would Michael lie to Tulyet about what Dame Pelagia knew?

‘Michael told Tulyet he could provide him with the names of these smugglers,’ he said, thinking quickly. ‘Tulyet sent him to do it immediately. Do you think the Sheriff would have let the matter drop if Michael had failed to come up with the information he wanted?’

‘I think Michael fed Tulyet false information,’ said Harling with a shrug. ‘I believe he sat in All Saints’ Hostel, guzzling their wine, and made up a list of names that would send Tulyet on a wild-goose chase.’

‘That was no wild-goose chase,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A good many Fenland smugglers were caught. If Michael’s intelligence was false, how did Tulyet know to arrest them?’

‘But Michael’s so-called intelligence was all but worthless to Tulyet,’ said Harling in exasperation. ‘Tulyet is still seeking those he considers more dangerous than peddlers of figs, and shabby little Fenmen.’

‘And you consider yourself something better, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, wearied by Harling’s accusations, and with a sick feeling gnawing at the back of his mind that somewhere in the Vice-Chancellor’s story there might be a grain of truth.

‘Of course I am something more!’ snapped Harling. ‘My interests extend further than cheap gloves from France. Unlike you, it seems.’ He gave Bartholomew’s hands a disparaging glance.

‘But why are you doing this?’ cried Bartholomew suddenly, looking at the University’s second-in-command as his mind failed to make any sense of what the man was telling him. ‘You are the Vice-Chancellor!’

‘Precisely,’ spat Harling. ‘Vice-Chancellor! I have worked hard for this University, and I am Vice-Chancellor! The masters voted for that nonentity Tynkell over me. And Tynkell finally dragged himself from the pleasures of the Bishop’s palace at Ely today, so there is no real need for me at all. Brother Michael has leached away any powers the Vice-Chancellor might have had, and it is not me Tynkell calls upon when there are important matters to discuss – it is that fat monk. So, when the opportunity came to indulge in something a little different, I decided to take advantage of it, and it has made me a wealthy man. As soon as I have Dame Pelagia, I am leaving Cambridge. And there will be an end to it. Now, where have you hidden her?’

Bartholomew gazed desperately at the swirling brown water. He guessed that as soon as Harling had what he wanted, he would show Bartholomew precisely how skilled he was with his weapon – as he had done with poor Philius. He wondered if he should jump in the river to avoid answering Harling and betraying the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia. But then what would happen to Gray? He rubbed a hand through his hair and met Harling’s glittering black eyes.

‘I cannot tell you,’ he said unsteadily. ‘She is an old lady.’ And Matilde was with her, he thought. Matilde should not be exposed to any more danger just because she had been kind enough to hide Dame Pelagia at his request.

‘Then Gray will die,’ said Harling with a shrug. ‘And I will find Dame Pelagia in the end – Brother Michael is sure to visit her at some point. Your telling me will just save us some time. Hurry up, Bartholomew. Or do you want Gray’s death to be on your head – for nothing?’

‘How do I know you will not kill him anyway?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How can I trust you to let him go?’

‘You cannot,’ said Harling. ‘But you are not in a position to negotiate.’

‘How do I know you even have him at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You might be bluffing.’

‘I might be,’ said Harling, ‘but are you prepared to take that risk?’

Bartholomew thought of Matilde and her long silky hair. She was an innocent in all this, just like Gray. The only reason they were involved was because they were unfortunate enough to be acquainted with Bartholomew. He should never have suggested to Michael that they use Matilde’s house to hide Dame Pelagia, and he had no doubt that once he had told Harling where to look, Matilde would be sacrificed to ensure her silence, just as would Dame Pelagia. And Gray? Harling could well be making the whole thing up: Gray would not be an easy person to take hostage because he was quick-witted, resourceful and ruthless.

‘I am sorry for Gray,’ said Bartholomew, coming to a decision and meeting Harling’s eyes. ‘But I will not tell you what you want to know.’

For a moment, Harling and Bartholomew regarded each other without moving. And then both moved suddenly. As Harling lunged at Bartholomew with the knife, Bartholomew dived under its blade, grabbed Harling around the knees and twisted to one side. The two men tumbled to the ground, spray flying high as they hit the sodden grass. Harling’s dagger glinted once in the dull light of the late afternoon and then plunged downwards.