A Deadly Brew

Chapter 7

‘But he was attacking you!’ protested Julianna, unrepentant. ‘And what would I have done if he had killed you, all alone out here in this vile place?’

Cynric shot her an unpleasant glance. ‘From what I saw, Egil did mean you harm, boy,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘He was choking the life out of you.’

‘He was!’ agreed Julianna. ‘I saved your life, but now you think I am a murderess.’

‘Well, so you are,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Where did you learn such things? Not at Denny, I am sure.’

‘It came naturally,’ said Julianna, not without pride. ‘I just knew what needed to be done and I did it. My uncle, Thomas Deschalers, always said I should have been born a boy. Then I might have been a fine warrior.’

Bartholomew gazed at her in revulsion. The woman had just struck a man dead, so that even now her hands were red from the blood that had splattered onto them, and she was boasting about it. He sat back on his heels and felt a wave of sickness pass over him. Egil had been killed instantly, his skull smashed like an egg under the great rock she had used. Even in the pale light from the moon, Bartholomew could see the huge depression at the back of the man’s head where the stone had dropped. What was he to tell Oswald? And what of Egil’s family? How would they manage without him?

Cynric patted him consolingly on the shoulder. ‘She saved your life,’ he said softly. ‘If she had not brained him, I might well have done.’

Bartholomew turned to look at him. ‘But you would not, Cynric,’ he said bitterly. ‘You might have rendered him insensible, but you would never have struck him dead from behind in the dark.’

‘What is done is done,’ interrupted Dame Pelagia sharply, looking down at the body. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for recriminations. Julianna believed this man was about to kill you, and so she took the action she considered appropriate. And now we should continue our journey before one of us comes to harm.’

Dame Pelagia’s reaction to Egil’s violent death was no more nun-like than Julianna’s had been, and Bartholomew wondered afresh about the religious community in the Fens. Were they all smugglers, slipping out in the dead of night with their habits kilted around their knees to haul stolen goods along secret waterways? Was it the nuns of Denny who had hired Alan and the mercenaries to kill him and Michael? But that made no sense – Bartholomew had never been to Denny before and the nuns could have no reason for wanting him dead. Perhaps it was something to do with Michael and his grandmother. He looked at the old lady dubiously, wondering what intrigues and wicked deeds she had encountered while in the service of the Bishop. If she had been in the spying business for years, her skills must be outstanding in order to have allowed her to have reached her ripe old age unscathed.

Bartholomew stood and walked away from the others, looking up at the star-blasted sky and trying to pull himself together. His first inclination was to go to Julianna and shake her so hard that her teeth would fall out; his second was to run back to Michaelhouse as fast as he could, and put the whole business – the pointless deaths of young Armel and Master Grene; the brutal murder of Isaac; the vicious attacks on him, Michael and Cynric; the Fen smugglers; and Julianna’s assault on Egil – out of his mind. He dismissed the wish almost as soon as he had made it: he had no desire to see Julianna tried for murder, since she had obviously acted in the firm belief that Egil was trying to kill him. But the matter would need to be handled very carefully, nevertheless, if the Sheriff were to be convinced her action was justified. And, Bartholomew admitted to himself, it was not so much the manner of Egil’s death that distressed him – horrifying though it was – it was Julianna’s total lack of remorse. He had met some selfish people in his life, but none were quite as cheerfully blatant about it as was Julianna.

Nothing would be gained from further delay, however, so he took a deep breath, and walked back to where Cynric was wrapping Egil in the dead man’s cloak.

‘We cannot carry him back with us now,’ said Cynric, tugging at the inert body and testing its weight. ‘He is too heavy for you to carry alone and I still need to scout ahead.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘Our first priority is to get Dame Pelagia and Julianna to safety. So, we will leave Egil at the side of the road and come back for him in the morning. Oswald …’

He had been going to say Oswald would lend him some of his men, but, in view of what had happened to the last ones, he was uncertain Stanmore would trust him with others.

‘Perhaps the Sheriff …’ he trailed off miserably, looking at Michael.

‘Master Stanmore will come for the body,’ said Cynric decisively. ‘Help me carry him off the track before we lose any more time.’

Between them, Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric managed to haul Egil’s heavy body to the side of the road. A dark trail dribbled from the bundle as they moved, and Bartholomew glanced involuntarily at the huge stone that Julianna had selected. She must surely have known that a blow from such a large rock would kill. He glanced over to where she watched, hands on hips and a satisfied smile playing about her lips. He considered inviting her to paint her face with Egil’s blood, as young hunters often did with their first kill, but was not entirely certain that she would not leap at the opportunity with enthusiasm.

As Bartholomew tucked the cloak tighter around the corpse, Cynric drove a stick into the ground as a marker. Although nothing was said, Bartholomew knew as well as Cynric that a corpse might attract wild animals, and if they dallied too long before returning, who could be certain that Egil would be where they had left him?

When they had finished, Cynric wordlessly slipped off into the darkness to check the road ahead again, while Michael took Dame Pelagia’s arm and led her forward. Bartholomew was left with Julianna.

‘You had better go with them,’ he said, regarding her with distaste. ‘It will be safer for you.’

‘It will be safer for you if I am here,’ she replied brightly. ‘You would have been throttled by now, had I not saved you.’

‘You killed my brother-in-law’s servant,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his anger rising again. ‘There was no need to hit him so hard!’

‘There was every need!’ blazed Julianna. He shook his head and turned away from her, but she caught his arm. ‘Listen! I am sorry he was someone you knew but, believe me, it was you or him as far as I was concerned.’

‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, relenting slightly. ‘Now go with Dame Pelagia and Michael. I will check your screeching did not alert any outlaws.’

She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it, and flounced after Michael. The sadly inadequate shoes prevented her from walking in as dignified a fashion as she would have wished, but she managed to effect a respectable strut. Bartholomew watched her go, hearing her footsteps recede into the darkness. Overhead, the stars were beginning to fade and the sky was fractionally lighter than it had been. It would not be long until dawn. He stood looking down at Egil’s body for some time before he followed the others.

Mercifully, the rest of their journey was uneventful, and they arrived at the Barnwell Gate just after prime. Julianna’s flimsy shoes had finally disintegrated and Bartholomew and Michael had been forced to take turns to carry her for the last three miles. Dame Pelagia, however, had maintained a steady pace, and Bartholomew was impressed with her stamina, especially given her performance of frailty when he had helped her up the steep stairs to chaperone Julianna’s astrological consultation. The old lady, Bartholomew thought begrudgingly, was a fine actress indeed. He supposed her habitual pretence of feebleness would go a long way in ensuring she was excused from some of the more rigorous duties of a convent nun – such as taking a turn in the vegetable garden or long vigils – and thus improve Dame Pelagia’s quality of life immeasurably.

By the time they reached the town gate, all five of them were mud-spattered, cold and weary, and Michael was limping from where his wet sandals had chaffed his heels. Only Cynric and Dame Pelagia seemed to have any energy left. The soldiers on duty at the Barnwell Gate regarded the bedraggled party suspiciously, but allowed them in without comment when they recognised Michael.

‘Cynric will inform the Sheriff of what has happened to us,’ Michael announced to the guards imperiously, ‘and should anyone come asking whether we have returned, Master Tulyet will not be pleased if you tell them we have, no matter how kindly seeming the enquirer.’

The guards nodded understanding and escaped gratefully to their small lodge out of the cold. It was not the first time Michael had made such a demand, and they knew his threat was not an idle one. Unlike most University officers, Michael often worked closely with the Sheriff to maintain peace in the town, and Tulyet would take seriously a request from him to reassign the soldiers to less pleasant duties.

As they walked towards Petty Cury, a narrow street lined with a random assortment of shops, Michael grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him out of Dame Pelagia’s hearing.

‘When I made the decision to bring my grandmother with us, I had no clear notion but to get her away from Denny,’ he whispered, glancing furtively over his shoulder. ‘But what shall I do with her? I cannot take her to Michaelhouse: the other Fellows would have a fit if I took a woman there, regardless of her age and vocation.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘You could lodge her with the nuns at St Radegund’s Priory.’

Michael shook his head. ‘The Priory lies too far outside the town to be safe and, anyway, that will be the first place the smugglers will look when they see she has gone.’

Bartholomew regarded him speculatively. ‘You think they will come for her?’

‘I am certain of it,’ said Michael. ‘They will want to know how much information she has gathered, so they will know which parts of their operation are secure and which need to be closed down. I mulled over what she told me all the way home. If those smugglers are well organised enough to carry out an elaborate plan to kill us, then a search of the town for an old nun will be child’s play to them.’

‘I suppose we could take her to Edith at Trumpington,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to involve his sister, but feeling obliged to offer.

Michael shook his head again. ‘That will be the second place they will look. We need somewhere where they will never think of checking.’

Bartholomew thought for a moment. ‘Is your grandmother easily shocked?’ he asked.

Michael gave a snort of laughter. ‘Grandmother? Shockable? Never!’

‘Then I know just the place,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But first, I want to get rid of Julianna before she kills someone else, and then I want to see Oswald.’

‘You are being unfair to Julianna, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric was right. Egil looked as though he was going to kill you.’ He pulled at Bartholomew’s tunic and looked at his neck. ‘There are still scratches on you from where he almost had you throttled. Let me tell Oswald what happened – if you relate the tale, he will have Julianna swinging for murder and you beside her as her accomplice!’

‘Egil did not make these marks,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his throat. ‘Julianna did that when she was flailing around with a stick – before she thought of using a more deadly weapon. I suppose I should be grateful it was Egil she brained and not me.’

‘I see you are shocked that a young, well-bred woman could kill without compunction,’ said Michael, eyeing Bartholomew with an amused expression. ‘Well, you should not be. With all the teaching you do, you have forgotten what women are really like. You idolise them and think they are meek and gentle creatures. Do you think Edith would have hesitated to kill Egil if she thought he was harming you? Or that Philippa, of whom you were so enamoured during the Death? Or even Agatha our laundress? And look at my grandmother! How do you think she has lived so long in the sinister world of spying, if it were not for a certain ruthless streak and her inimitable cunning?’

Wondering how the monk came by his superior knowledge of women, Bartholomew conceded the point, and acknowledged that his attitude to Julianna was probably unreasonable. Part of his ambivalence to the incident, he accepted, was that he did not like her, and that was unfair. Both Cynric and Michael, whose opinions he trusted, had been convinced that Egil would have killed him had not Julianna acted when she did. He gave Michael a weak smile, and tried to force his feelings of misgiving from his mind.

While Cynric went to St Mary’s Church to report the attack to Vice-Chancellor Harling, and then to the castle to tell the Sheriff, the others made their way to Milne Street where Bartholomew rapped sharply on the bright new door of the house of Thomas Deschalers the grocer. A servant answered, and they were conducted to a chilly room overlooking the street while she went to fetch her master. Julianna was uncharacteristically subdued and Bartholomew had a sudden lurching doubt that she was related to Deschalers at all, and wondered if she had tricked him into bringing her from the abbey.

After a brief wait, during which Michael greedily devoured a dish of sugared almonds that someone had rashly left on the table, Deschalers entered. He had apparently been working in his yard, for he was wearing thick woollen hose of a russet red and a fur-lined cloak that looked comfortable and warm. Bartholomew thought of his own threadbare cloak, now a pile of ashes at Denny, and tried to imagine how he would survive the rest of the winter without it.

‘Uncle!’ exclaimed Julianna, racing across the room and hurling herself into her startled relative’s arms. ‘Uncle! I have had such a foul time! Look!’ She pulled up her gown to reveal ankles that were scratched from grovelling around in the undergrowth, while her slippers dangled from her feet, hopelessly ruined.

Deschalers looked from the shoes to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘What in God’s name have you done to her?’ he asked, his eyes blazing with a sudden anger. ‘Why have you taken her from Denny Abbey? Dame Pelagia?’

‘Your niece overheard some men talking there,’ said Dame Pelagia soothingly. ‘They seemed to be smugglers, and so we brought her here with us for her own safety.’

‘Smugglers?’ echoed Deschalers, bewildered. ‘What are you talking about? There are no men at Denny Abbey. It is a convent!’

‘They are the menfolk of the lay sisters,’ explained the elderly nun patiently. ‘Brother Michael will inform the Sheriff. But, meanwhile, I think Julianna will be safer with you than at Denny.’

‘But what about these smugglers?’ queried Deschalers, looking from her to Michael. ‘I have heard of no smugglers in that area. Why were they at the abbey?’

‘Unfortunately, we know little about them,’ said Michael, ‘except that they are well organised and ruthless.’ He paused, but then plunged on. ‘On our way here, there was an unfortunate incident.’ He glanced at Bartholomew, and quickly outlined the circumstances of Egil’s death and the role Julianna had played in it. Deschalers paled and swept Julianna up in a protective hug.

‘What have you done?’ he asked in a whisper. At first, Bartholomew thought he was talking to Julianna, but Deschalers was looking at him. ‘To what horrors have you subjected this innocent child? Is it not enough that you drag her off in the middle of the night in the company of rough men? And to compound your crime, you force her to fight for her life against an outlaw?’

This seemed a somewhat jaundiced interpretation of the circumstances. Bartholomew protested, goaded by Julianna’s expression of gloating self-righteousness. ‘Egil was not an outlaw. He was one of Oswald Stanmore’s men. And no one forced her to fight – she joined in of her own accord.’

‘I did no such thing!’ said Julianna with dignified outrage. She turned to her uncle. ‘Doctor Bartholomew abandoned me in the bushes by the side of the road while he went off in the dark. I grew so frightened on my own that I was forced to find my own way to Dame Pelagia. And then that man – Egil – attacked me. It was horrible!’

She buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder, while Deschalers turned a furious face towards Bartholomew.

‘What were you thinking of? You left my niece alone when there were outlaws nearby?’

Bartholomew’s recollection of the incident was somewhat at variance with that of Julianna, and he was certain that it had been curiosity and impatience that had driven her from her hiding place, not fear as she had claimed. He regarded her with dislike. She lifted her face from the depths of her uncle’s cloak, her bright, turquoise eyes blazing defiantly.

‘And then, when Doctor Bartholomew finally came to my aid, this outlaw started to get the better of him. I struck Egil with a stone, and in so doing I saved all our lives!’

‘Is this true?’ Deschalers demanded, still holding his niece close to him.

‘More or less,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could answer. ‘She dispatched Egil with a single blow to the head using a rock, although I am unable to verify that we were in danger of our lives. He had no weapon with him.’

‘He was throttling the physician,’ said Julianna angrily, struggling from her uncle’s grasp and striding across the room to wrench at Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘Look! See those marks and tell me Egil did not mean business.’

‘It appears you owe my niece a great deal,’ said Deschalers, moving forward to inspect the scratches on Bartholomew’s neck. He smiled with sudden pride. ‘If only she had been born a boy. What a wonderful heir she would have made!’

Bartholomew suspected that Julianna would make Deschalers a wonderful heir just as she was – she was resourceful, resilient, ruthless and wholly without remorse. She would be a splendid merchant, especially if she were able to learn how to use her brutish instincts with more discretion. He imagined what she might be like having acquired Deschalers’ power and influence, and shuddered.

‘I could still make you a wonderful heir, uncle,’ she pouted. ‘I am clever and determined, and no man has yet bested me in anything.’

That Bartholomew could well believe. ‘You should make her your chief henchman,’ he said to Deschalers. ‘You would never need fear anything again.’

Deschalers eyed him uncertainly, but Julianna took his words as a compliment and smiled. ‘Perhaps you should hire me as your book-bearer,’ she said to Bartholomew, with a predatory gleam in her eye. ‘I would do a better job than that dirty little man you have now.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Bartholomew coldly.

‘You know I would,’ claimed Julianna haughtily. ‘Who was it who saved your life, while your servant grubbed about doing the Lord knows what in the bushes up ahead? And I can sew. I certainly would not have mended brown leggings with a red patch!’

Bartholomew would have worn red patches on all his clothes if the alternative was Julianna’s companionship. He gazed at her with undisguised dislike. ‘We cannot stand around talking nonsense with you all day. I have patients to see.’

He ignored Michael’s look of warning, and pushed his way past her to leave. Deschalers stepped into his path.

‘You seem more shaken by this affair than the others, Bartholomew,’ he said, waving a hand to where Michael and Julianna watched in anticipation of a confrontation. ‘Even more than old Dame Pelagia. Therefore I will overlook your rudeness. But bear in mind that you owe my niece your life; perhaps she will require a favour in return one day.’

Outside, in the street, Bartholomew waited for Michael with his temper barely under control. Typical merchant, he thought with disgust, seizing every opportunity to turn it to some kind of advantage! His blood ran cold when he considered the kind of return favours Julianna was likely to demand. After a few moments, Michael joined him. Dame Pelagia had been persuaded to take some refreshment with Deschalers and Julianna, while Michael and Bartholomew went alone to perform the unpleasant task of informing Stanmore of the deaths of Egil and Jurnet.

‘You might have been more gracious,’ complained Michael as they walked to Stanmore’s premises next door. ‘You cannot just barge into the houses of the most influential people in the town and yell at them.’

‘I did not yell!’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And I do not care whether they are influential or not. That Julianna is positively gloating about how she killed Egil!’

‘Then let her gloat,’ said Michael pragmatically. ‘She will learn in time that such an attitude is unbecoming, and it cannot harm Egil now.’

Bartholomew took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, and walked through the gates into Stanmore’s yard. The clothier stood in the middle of it, shouting orders to a group of sweating apprentices who were struggling to fit more bales of black cloth onto the top of an already teetering pile. He saw Bartholomew coming towards him and gestured for the weary boys to take a break. Gratefully, they clattered off towards the kitchens in search of food. One hesitated, and watched them uncertainly before following the others. He looked vaguely familiar, but Bartholomew was often in Stanmore’s yard and he had doubtless seen him there before. He thrust it from his mind, and tried to concentrate on finding the right words to break the news about Egil and Jurnet to his brother-in-law.

‘Always hungry,’ said Stanmore, shaking his head indulgently as he watched his apprentices go. ‘Although they have been somewhat listless of late. Perhaps you might have a look at them when you have a moment, Matt. But you are back early – you told Edith that you might be gone for a week. I hope you were not so foolish as to travel the road at night. The Round Church was burgled two nights ago – inside the town itself and right under the noses of the Sheriff’s patrols! These outlaws have grown bold indeed. I trust you took the proper precautions when you travelled–’

‘Your suspicions about the Bishop’s message were right,’ said Bartholomew in a quiet voice, breaking into Stanmore’s tirade. ‘The whole thing was a ploy to get Michael and me out into the Fens and ambush us.’

Stanmore stared at him with his mouth open and Bartholomew continued. ‘Jurnet was killed in the fight and Egil died on the way home.’

He waited. He would not have blamed Stanmore if he had raged and sworn. One of the traits Bartholomew most admired in his relative was the care he took of the people who worked for him, and Bartholomew would have been beside himself if someone had taken Cynric and returned to say that he was dead. Stanmore, however, neither raged nor swore. He took Bartholomew and Michael firmly by the elbows and led them towards the house. Although he did not live there, it was handsomely furnished, and the solar on the upper floor that he used as an office was a pleasant, although cluttered, room. He gestured that they were to sit by the fire and ordered a maid to bring mulled wine.

‘And some bread,’ called Michael opportunistically as the maid left. ‘And perhaps a little cheese and a bit of bacon for a starving and exhausted monk.’

Stanmore sat opposite them and folded his arms. ‘You look dreadful,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I am sorry, Oswald,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Father Paul warned me that the Bishop’s summons was odd; then you and Edith voiced doubts; then Harling expressed fears. But we paid no heed to any of you, and now Egil and Jurnet are dead.’

Oswald reached out to touch him lightly on the knee. ‘I am sure you are not to blame,’ he said gently. ‘Now, put aside your remorse and tell me what occurred.’

Michael began to speak before Bartholomew could collect himself, and gave a reasonably accurate account of the events of the previous two days, omitting reference to his grandmother and to Julianna’s evident satisfaction at having killed Egil. When he had finished, Stanmore sat back and sipped his mulled wine.

‘Smugglers, you say,’ he said, setting down the cup and frowning thoughtfully. ‘It is common knowledge that there are smugglers in the Fens – there have been for years – but I had no idea that they were at the abbey itself.’

‘You know of these smugglers?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘What exactly have you heard?’

‘Not much,’ said Stanmore with a regretful shrug. ‘Goods are brought from France and the Low Countries to the Wash, and then dispersed around the country via the Fens. It is, by all accounts, an easy matter to use the channels there to keep out of the sight of the men who collect the King’s taxes on imported goods. It is nothing new, however, as I said, although I imagine there has been more smuggling this year than last because the mild weather has kept the waterways from freezing. And, of course, taxes are high to finance the King’s wars in France, so contrabanding is a lucrative business.’

‘I thought hostilities with France had ended because of the plague,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from the cup he held in both hands in an attempt to warm them.

Michael and Stanmore looked at him pityingly. ‘The King still has debts to pay and his soldiers’ wages to find,’ said Stanmore.

‘And he still needs to keep his spy network in place,’ continued Michael. ‘Spies are expensive. Then there are officials to bribe, enemies to be deposed and friends to be bought. And although fighting might have temporarily ceased in France, Brittany is still a hotbed of violence and looting.’

‘Sheriff Tulyet told me that bands of Englishmen roam Brittany at the King’s command, ambushing traders, attacking villages and plundering religious houses,’ said Stanmore, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Brittany is an unsafe place to be.’

‘Sounds like the Fens,’ remarked Bartholomew, looking down at the dark wine in his cup.

‘It is curious,’ mused Michael, ‘but Master Deschalers seemed surprised when we told him about the smugglers. Have you not discussed this with the other merchants?’

‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, as though it was obvious. ‘He knows as much as I do – or possibly more, since most of his goods come from the Wash via the river. Most of mine come from the south, and I use the roads not the waterways.’

‘Then why did he deny that he was aware there is smuggling in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely he would guess that we would discuss the matter with you, and that you would reveal he knew all about it.’

Stanmore shrugged. ‘Perhaps he thought you would accuse him of being involved if he acknowledged what he knew.’

‘Now that I rethink his actual words, Deschalers did not deny that he was aware of smuggling in the Fens, Matt,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘What he said was that he did not know there was smuggling in that area. That is an entirely different statement.’

‘Do you think it is likely that he is involved in it?’ asked Bartholomew of Stanmore.

Stanmore scratched his head. ‘I really could not say. And anyway, he is a fellow tradesman. It would be very wrong of me to besmirch his reputation with unfounded suspicions.’

‘Your reticence does you credit, Sir Oswald,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘Now, tell us what you suspect, if you please.’

Stanmore leaned back in his chair, and blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, Deschalers has been selling lemons recently. It is possible they came via these smuggling routes. But I have no evidence to support such a claim, and I would rather you did not tell him it was I who put the idea into your heads.’

Bartholomew sensed immediately that he and Michael had stumbled into a trade war. No matter how Stanmore stressed that his relations with his powerful neighbours – Mortimer, Cheney and Deschalers – were friendly, Bartholomew was not fooled. He had spent his childhood in Stanmore’s house, and knew only too well how bitter the competition between merchants could be. Even though Deschalers was a grocer, Mortimer a baker, Cheney a spice-dealer and Stanmore a clothier, they were still rivals in the hard world of commerce. They fought over use of the river wharves, the size of their stalls in the Market Square and even their relative positions in the ceremonial processions through the town. Their dealings with each other appeared cordial enough, but in fact they watched each other like predators, waiting for signs of weakness. Deschalers and Cheney seemed to have taken young Edward Mortimer under their wings, but Bartholomew was certain it was not for altruistic reasons – they were probably already looking ahead to the day when Edward inherited his father’s business, and were securing their influence over him for the future.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ asked Michael, pouring the last of the wine into his cup. ‘I know the day is wearing on, and we have already taken up too much of your time, but I would appreciate any more information about this smuggling you might have.’

Stanmore frowned. ‘I really have little more to share with you, Brother. I am certain this has been a good year for smuggling. In the summer, the waterways teem with legally loaded vessels and the long hours of daylight make secret voyages difficult. In the winter, trading usually stops when the Fen waterways become frozen. But this year, the heavy rains have not only kept the ice away, but have provided deep water and more channels for the smugglers’ crafts. They have doubtless become more brazen because business is good and profits have been high – hence Deschalers’s lemons wherever you look.’

‘But why should these smugglers want to kill Michael and me?’ asked Bartholomew, shaking his head as Michael offered him the last piece of bread. ‘We had no idea that any of this went on until we arrived at Denny Abbey.’

‘You would know the answer to that better than I,’ said Stanmore. ‘It must be something to do with that poisoned wine you were investigating before you left. I suppose it is possible that the brew which caused all those deaths was smuggled through the Fens.’

‘It must have been,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘Some rascal named Sacks was selling it in the Brazen George and, according to Matt’s students, Sacks seldom comes by anything honestly.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Stanmore. ‘In the wine lies the solution to all this. Discover more about that, and you will know who is prepared to kill you, rather than risk letting you make your inquiries.’

‘I do not care about smuggling and tax evasion,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘I only want to make certain no more of this deadly claret is sold to our scholars.’

Stanmore picked up his cup, but then set it back on the table without drinking. ‘Do you think someone is trying to foul University–town relations? It would be an easy matter to sell tainted goods to scholars and make them think someone in the town was trying to kill them. I hope that is not the case – it would be devastating for commerce!’

‘I understand that trade is very good for most merchants at the moment, which is unusual for winter,’ said Michael conversationally.

Stanmore agreed. ‘The cloth trade is an exception – it is always better in the winter than in the summer because people need warm clothes in the colder months. Unfortunately for me, the open waterways mean that there are fewer travellers on the roads, and so my goods are more vulnerable. Two of my carts have been attacked on their way from London within the last month. The Sheriff is out daily looking for these outlaws, and I have had to place my merchandise under an armed escort.’

Bartholomew glanced at him guiltily, thinking that he would be two guards short following the loss of Egil and Jurnet.

Stanmore read his thoughts and patted his hand. ‘I do not blame you for their deaths, Matt. Egil came looking for work last autumn. He was an adequate guard, but hated life in the town. When I needed him here, he pleased himself whether he would come, and might spend the day fishing in the Fens if the mood took him. I was on the verge of dismissing him. And Jurnet has been with me only since Christmas. I needed a strong arm, and he served his purpose, but he was a lout. He bullied my apprentices, and I suspect his wife had good reason for not leaving her house in Ely to live with him here. I am sorry they are dead, and will help their families if I can, but I am not surprised either came to a violent end.’

That Stanmore did not like the men who had died was of small comfort to Bartholomew. He stood to leave. ‘I am sorry anyway. And next time I will pay more attention to my friends’ misgivings.’

‘In that case, Matt, heed this. The attack on you sounded well organised and elaborate. It is not cheap to hire men to commit murder. Either drop this poisoned wine business, or solve it quickly, because men who have organised one such ambush will easily be able to arrange another.’

Bartholomew did not need to be reminded. He gave his brother-in-law a weak smile and looked around for his cloak, before he realised he no longer had one. He picked up his gloves from where they had been drying near the fire and pulled them on.

‘Those are fine gloves,’ said Stanmore, regarding them with the eye of a professional. ‘Who gave them to you? I am sure you did not pay for them while there are still books in the world to be bought.’

‘Constantine Mortimer,’ replied Bartholomew, leaning down to retrieve his medicines bag from the floor. ‘Actually, he wanted to sell them to me, but his wife said they would compensate me for missing the installation.’

‘Then Mortimer must have felt wretched indeed,’ said Stanmore. ‘He rules that poor woman with a fist of iron and does not usually take heed of her suggestions. But how did he come to have such things to sell anyway? He is a baker not a glover.’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew, uninterested. ‘I have not given it much thought.’

‘If I were you,’ said Stanmore, watching him stretch stiff limbs, ‘I would leave Cambridge until all this has died down. Come to Trumpington. Edith would love you to stay with her, and you know we will both fret over you until all this is resolved and you are safe again.’

‘They would find him,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘The more I learn about these men, the more I fear them. The only way we will be safe from another attack is to catch them and hand them to the Sheriff.’

They left Stanmore to arrange for his steward to fetch Egil’s body, and collected Dame Pelagia from Deschalers’s house. She had borrowed a dark blue cloak from Julianna and removed part of her veil, so that she looked like any anonymous old crone and not a nun. Bartholomew was impressed that she had thought to disguise herself on the way to her hiding place, but then remembered that she was Michael’s grandmother and an agent of the Bishop. He glanced down at her and she gave him a beneficent smile, which made her look sweet and gentle. But when the smile faded and he looked at her again, he saw her hard green eyes taking in every detail as they walked and, although her progress was slow, there was nothing shaky or frail about her movements. Michael was walking awkwardly, stiff after his long walk, but Dame Pelagia showed no such weakness.

Bartholomew led the way up the High Street towards the area known as The Jewry, which had been the domain of Jewish merchants until their expulsion from England in 1290. It was here that Matilde had her small, neat house. Michael realised where they were heading in an instant, and rubbed his hands together in glee.

‘Excellent, Matt! Who would ever think that we would secrete an elderly nun in the house of the town’s most exclusive prostitute?’

‘No one, I hope,’ said Bartholomew, casting an anxious glance at the old lady. He was already beginning to have second thoughts. ‘Perhaps this is not such a good idea.’

‘Nonsense. It is a superb idea. She will have the time of her life.’

‘Who? Matilde or your grandmother?’ asked Bartholomew, knocking at the door hesitantly.

Before Michael could answer, the door was opened and Matilde stood smiling at them. To Bartholomew, she was one of the most attractive women in Cambridge, with long silky hair that almost reached her knees, and bright blue eyes. Known as ‘Lady’ Matilde for her fine manners and literacy, she and Bartholomew had struck up an unlikely friendship that was proving increasingly valuable to both of them.

‘Have you come to barter for my services?’ she asked pertly, continuing the ongoing battle in which she and Michael attempted to embarrass each other. To her great astonishment, she succeeded, and he blushed and studied his feet in abashed silence. Matilde looked at Bartholomew with a startled grin.

‘This is Dame Pelagia from Denny Abbey,’ said Bartholomew, hiding his amusement, and gesturing to the elderly nun. ‘She is Brother Michael’s grandmother and needs somewhere to stay for a few days.’

For the first time since he had known her, Matilde was at a loss for words.

‘We wondered whether we might impose on your generosity for a brief while,’ Bartholomew continued, still doubtful about thrusting the two women together. Despite her dubious past, Dame Pelagia was still a nun, and Matilde, for all her courtliness and grace, was still a prostitute.

Matilde recovered her poise and her customary charm returned. ‘Of course,’ she said, holding out a welcoming hand towards Dame Pelagia. ‘Please come in. May I offer you some ale?’ She looked appraisingly at the old nun. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer strong French wine?’

Dame Pelagia’s beatific features broke into a acquisitive grin, looking so much like her grandson that the effect was disconcerting. She elbowed Michael out of the way and followed Matilde into the house. While Michael solicitously helped her to a chair, Bartholomew perched on a stool and edged closer to the fire. The biting Fen wind had chilled him just from walking the short distance from Stanmore’s house to Matilde’s, and he wondered again how he would manage the rest of the winter without his cloak.

While Michael gave a brief, and not wholly truthful, explanation as to why an elderly nun was seeking refuge in the house of a prostitute, Bartholomew reconsidered the matter of the poisoned wine and the smugglers. He could see that the two might well be related, but since Michael had barely started to investigate the deaths of Armel, Grene and Isaac, he did not understand why someone should try to kill them because of it. He wondered whether they should interpret the incident in the Fens as a warning, and abandon the investigation altogether. But then, as Michael had pointed out to Stanmore, they would constantly be looking over their shoulders, waiting for the next attack. Bartholomew would not even be able to answer summonses from his patients without his suspicions being aroused.

‘Julianna, did you say?’ Matilde was asking. ‘The niece of Deschalers the grocer?’

Bartholomew dragged himself away from his thoughts, and concentrated on the conversation between Matilde and Michael.

‘The very same,’ said the monk. ‘How do you know her?’

‘Through the usual means,’ said Matilde, referring to the way in which she and the other prostitutes provided each other with information, so that they were almost as well informed of events in the town as was Stanmore from his spies. ‘I have heard she is a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it.’

‘That is certainly true,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘She knew how to wrangle herself an escape from Denny Abbey, although I suspect she did not enjoy the journey.’

Matilde seemed amused. ‘You do not like her, do you?’

‘Am I so transparent?’ he asked, unsettled that she should read his feelings with such ease.

‘Sometimes,’ said Matilde, regarding him with eyes that twinkled with mischief.

‘Like most men,’ put in Dame Pelagia with a wink, and the two women laughed uproariously together. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a look of incomprehension. When he had first thought of leaving Dame Pelagia with Matilde, Bartholomew’s concerns had been whether the elderly nun would find Matilde’s occupation offensive. But now he felt more anxious that Dame Pelagia might have a corrupting influence on Matilde. He regarded the nun again, impressed at the way she was gulping the potent claret without grimacing – as he had done – and reappraising her sharp green eyes and intelligent face.

‘How long have you been a nun, Dame Pelagia?’ he asked.

Matilde and Michael seemed startled at his question from out of the blue, but Dame Pelagia did not seem surprised at all. She looked him up and down shamelessly.

‘Since before you were born,’ she said, deliberately vague. ‘I led a somewhat different life before that.’

‘Really?’ asked Matilde with interest. ‘Do tell.’

‘Not now,’ said Michael quickly. ‘Matilde, what do you know about Julianna?’

Matilde looked disappointed, but the old nun gave her a glance that indicated Matilde was in store for quite a story once Bartholomew and Michael had left. Matilde gave her a quick smile, and began to answer Michael’s question. ‘She is betrothed to Edward Mortimer.’

‘To Edward Mortimer – son of the baker who was greedy with his lemons?’ asked Michael, scratching at a spot on his face. ‘No wonder Deschalers is taking such an interest in him! Poor Julianna! Edward Mortimer is a pathetic specimen of manhood – there is no backbone to him.’

‘Apparently she feels the same way,’ replied Matilde. ‘Rumour has it that she prefers the attentions of another who lives in Cambridge.’

‘I suppose that is why she was so keen to escape from the abbey,’ said Michael. ‘To return to the arms of her paramour. Do you know the name of this fortunate fellow?’

‘Not for sure,’ said Matilde. She would not meet Michael’s eyes.

‘It would be helpful to know,’ pressed Michael. ‘It might help us with our investigation.’

‘I am not sufficiently certain to tell you,’ protested Matilde, uncharacteristically indecisive.

‘Please Matilde,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘We will be discreet.’

She leaned forward and touched him on the knee. ‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘I am only reluctant to tell you because it may lead you down a false trail, and make you waste time, when it seems to be important that you solve this business quickly. I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you.’

Bartholomew looked up sharply, but Matilde was staring down at her hands, long and graceful, which were folded demurely in her lap.

‘The rumour is that it was Ralph de Langelee, Michaelhouse’s new Fellow of philosophy, who took her fancy before she was sent away to Denny,’ she said reluctantly.

‘Langelee?’ exclaimed Michael in disbelief. ‘That great, stupid brute?’

‘He is a handsome man,’ said Matilde, fixing him with her steady gaze. ‘And he has not yet taken any vows of chastity that might put him out of a woman’s reach.’

She and Michael exchanged a look that Bartholomew found impossible to interpret. Surely the monk would not have availed himself of Matilde’s services, he thought suddenly. For some reason, the notion disturbed him.

‘But Langelee is aggressive and arrogant,’ he said, forcing the unpleasant image of Matilde and Michael dishabille from his mind.

‘So is Julianna,’ Matilde pointed out. ‘I imagine they would be rather well suited.’

‘But you said she was betrothed to Edward Mortimer,’ said Michael, ‘so there can be no future in her yearnings for our loutish philosopher.’

‘Yearnings are not so easily cast aside,’ said Matilde. ‘Especially when one is young.’

‘Why does she not like Edward?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He seems comely enough to me.’

‘But you are not a young woman of twenty-two, Matthew,’ said Matilde. ‘Edward is three years younger than Julianna, and probably seems like a baby to her. Given the choice, I would take Ralph de Langelee over Edward: Edward has not seen enough of the world to make him interesting, and he had been too long under the thumb of his father. Julianna doubtless wants to cast her net wider.’

Did Matilde know Edward and Langelee so well? Bartholomew wondered, regarding her with renewed curiosity. Matilde’s customers were a subject that, by mutual consent, they did not discuss. He doubted she would have told him even if he asked. Not for the first time in their friendship, he found himself wishing she had chosen another profession, and that she was someone he might ask to walk with him in the meadows by the river, or take to the mystery plays in St Mary’s Church.

The last time he had invited her to spend some time with him, she had felt obliged to disguise herself as an old woman to protect both their reputations. Despite the fact that they had laughed about it since, Bartholomew regretted that he had been unable to enjoy her company without her resorting to subterfuge and heavy cosmetics. He wondered what his sister would say if he took Matilde to Trumpington, so that they might see the early-born lambs together, or she might sit with him in the kitchen stealing hot cakes from the griddle.

Reluctantly, he forced his thoughts away from Matilde, and began to consider Julianna. She was evidently not all she seemed. Could she be involved in the smuggling, perhaps escaping from Denny to warn her uncle that Dame Pelagia had incriminating evidence against him? Deschalers claimed he had discovered a way of storing lemons in his cellars that kept them fresh. But what if he were lying, and his lemons came from the illicit trading routes through the Fens, as Stanmore believed?

‘Deschalers might have made a worse match for Julianna than Edward,’ he said, standing and placing his unfinished wine on the table. ‘Old Master Cheney has been looking for a young wife ever since his own died during the plague. Julianna is lucky her uncle does not press Cheney on her.’

‘But Cheney knows about her past,’ said Matilde, rising to see him to the door. ‘Julianna was sent to Denny because Langelee was just one in a line of alliances completed within a matter of weeks that impresses even me.’

Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised to hear that Julianna had made the most of her time in Cambridge, and realised that Michael had been right – living in Michaelhouse was blinding him to the ways of the world. He smiled at Matilde and thanked her for her hospitality. Michael glanced at his grandmother, who appeared to be asleep, and made no move to leave.

‘Your grandmother has a habit of pretending to doze when she is fully awake,’ said Bartholomew tartly, reluctant to leave the fat monk alone with Matilde. ‘I would not tarry here if I were you, Brother.’

Michael sighed, and levered his massive bulk from Matilde’s best chair to follow Bartholomew out into the street. As Matilde stood on the doorstep to bid them farewell, Bartholomew saw Dame Pelagia snap awake and reach for the wine he had left in his cup.

‘Thank you for looking after my grandmother,’ said Michael. ‘You will find she will be no trouble, and will know when to make herself scarce.’

Matilde looked through the half-open door at the old lady, who had drained the remains of Bartholomew’s wine, and was now looking to see if the other cups were empty. ‘I will enjoy the company,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have a feeling she has a great many fascinating stories to help pass the long winter evenings.’

Bartholomew, watching the old lady settle herself comfortably by the fire with a cup in either hand, was sure she had.

The rest of the day was spent at Michaelhouse, teaching in the chilly hall. Great grey clouds that threatened more rain had rolled in, and the room was dark and gloomy. In one corner, a student of Alcote’s strained his eyes to read Cicero’s Rhetoric in a flat monotone to a group of first years, while Alcote himself was relaxing by the fire in his own sumptuous quarters, having declined to grace the dismal hall with his presence. In another corner, Father William ranted about the Devil being in unexpected places to his little band of similarly fanatical Franciscans in a voice sufficiently loud to be heard in the High Street. At regular intervals, the other Fellows asked him to moderate the volume so that they could concentrate on their own teaching, his rabid diatribes distracting even the tolerant Master Kenyngham.

In front of the empty hearth, Ralph de Langelee strutted back and forth, waving his meaty arms around as he expounded Aristotle to three bemused students who would fail their degrees if they repeated his peculiar logic in their disputations. John Runham was giving a lecture on the Corpus juris civilis in the conclave, a smaller and far more pleasant room at the far end of the hall, but since he had at least fifteen students hanging on his every word, there was no space for any of the other Fellows to share it with him. Bartholomew was not the only one who resented being excluded from the conclave: it was the only room in Michaelhouse with glass in the windows, and therefore was by far the warmest place in the College and easily the most popular spot after the kitchen.

Like Alcote’s students, Michael’s Benedictines were obliged to manage without him – he was with Vice-Chancellor Harling at St Mary’s Church discussing the ambush and composing a message to inform the Bishop of what had happened – and they sat quietly in the middle of the room analysing one of St Augustine’s Sermons in low voices, although occasional laughter and a good deal of grinning made Bartholomew suspect their conversation had wandered somewhat from the original topic. Bartholomew’s own students sat in two lines on wall benches under the unglazed windows, shivering in the draught and wrapped in an odd assortment of cloaks and blankets.

Michaelhouse Fellows had a choice as far as teaching in the hall was concerned: they could close the shutters and sit in the dark, or they could open the shutters and have daylight – along with the full force of the elements that blasted in through the glassless tracery. Since reading was difficult in the dark – and Michaelhouse finances did not stretch to providing candles during the night, let alone in the daylight hours – wintertime lectures were usually given to rows of pinched, frozen faces poking out from improbable collections of bed covers, extra clothes and even rugs.

The disputations for students of medicine had been scheduled for the next afternoon and, feeling a huge sense of urgency that his class should succeed, given the chronic shortage of qualified physicians since the plague, Bartholomew grilled the would-be healers relentlessly, firing questions in rapid succession that had them reeling.

When the bell rang to announce the end of the morning’s teaching, so that the hall could be cleared and made ready for the midday meal, the students heaved sighs of relief, and escaped from their demanding master as quickly as they could. Bartholomew, however, was worried. While not even in his wildest dreams did he imagine Deynman would be successful, he had expected Bulbeck, Gray and the others to do well, and was perturbed that their answers to his questions were hesitant and incomplete.

While the Bible Scholar stumbled his way through some incomprehensible genealogy from the Old Testament as they ate, Bartholomew toyed listlessly with his boiled barley and soggy cabbage, his appetite waning further still when he discovered a well-cooked slug among the greens. The more he thought about it, the more he resented losing two valuable days to the ambush in the Fens when he should have been concentrating on his work.

After Kenyngham had ended the meal by reading grace, Bartholomew rounded up his students, and marched them off to the conclave for some additional lessons, abandoning his own plans to work on his treatise on fevers that afternoon. He taught until the light faded and the young men were no more than dark shapes with voices that were hoarse with tiredness, and then he continued until he became aware that at least two of them were asleep, exhaustion and the dark taking their toll. Reluctantly, he released them and went to his room, feeling far more anxious about their impending examinations than they were. He sat at his table and lit a vile-smelling tallow candle, intending to write a paragraph or two about contagion before he retired to bed.

He heard one of Michael’s room-mates snoring in the chamber above him, and the slap of sandals on the wooden floor as someone moved around. Agatha’s favourite cockerel crowed once in the darkness, and somewhere in the town a group of people was singing at the tops of their voices. Firelight flickered temptingly from the kitchen, and Agatha’s raucous laughter wafted across the yard as she sat chatting with the other servants. And then it was silent. He wrote three sentences and promptly dozed off, waking abruptly when he almost set his hair alight as his head nodded towards the candle. With a sigh, he doused the flame, and groped his way over to the bed, wrapping himself in his blanket and shivering until he fell asleep.

He awoke the following morning feeling refreshed and far more hopeful about his students’ chances of passing their disputations than he had been the day before. He went with Father Paul to prepare the church for the morning service, ate a hearty breakfast of warmish oatmeal and grey, grainy bread, and set about his teaching with renewed enthusiasm. By the time the bell rang to announce the end of the day’s lessons, he was pleased with the progress his students had made, and felt that all but Deynman should do his hard work justice – Deynman’s was a case beyond all earthly help.

He visited three patients with a recurrence of the winter fever that he was certain was caused by drinking from the well in Water Lane. Because it was easier and quicker to use the Water Lane well than the one in the Market Square, people were still becoming ill and, short of sealing it up, Bartholomew did not know how to stop them: claiming that invisible substances were seeping into it from the river was not a sufficiently convincing reason to make them change the habits of a lifetime.

When he had finished with the winter-fever patients, Bartholomew then went to St John’s Hospital to tend a man with a palsy. On the way back, he met Michael, who had been investigating a burglary in nearby St Clement’s Hostel – the outlaws had struck again.

Since they were close, Bartholomew persuaded Michael to walk up Castle Hill to see Sheriff Tulyet and describe to him, first hand, their experiences with the outlaws on the Cambridge to Ely causeway. Michael regarded the hill with apprehensive eyes, but agreed that it would be courteous to visit the beleaguered Sheriff, to see if their personal account of the ambush in the Fens might help him to catch the men who were terrorising the public highways and attacking property in the town.

They walked towards the Great Bridge, and paid the toll to be allowed to cross it. They trod carefully, wary of the rotten timbers that had crumbled away to reveal the swollen, stinking river below, and of the low sides, where the stone had been plundered to repair buildings in the town. Carts creaked across it, horses picking their way cautiously and stumbling as their hooves turned on the uneven surface. Their owners yelled, cajoled and urged, making almost as much noise as they did when they sold their wares at the market. Beyond the bridge, the road rose in a muddy trail to the churches of St Giles and St Peter, standing almost opposite each other, and then to the mighty castle beyond.

Michael complained bitterly about the exercise, although the hill was neither steep nor tall, and by the time they reached the top, the fat monk’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat and his scanty supply of patience had evaporated. When a pardoner sidled up to them and invited them to look at his goods, Michael’s face assumed such an expression of anger that the man scuttled away as fast as his legs would carry him.

‘That was unnecessary, Brother,’ said Bartholomew reprovingly, watching the pardoner run. ‘He needs to make a living and life is not easy for itinerants in the winter.’

‘He should know monks do not buy pardons,’ retorted Michael, unrepentant. ‘And anyway, I have sworn a vow of poverty and have no money to spend on such foolishness.’

‘That is not what you told Walter,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘What of these silver candlesticks from the Holy Land and your illustrated manuscripts?’

‘I possess no such things!’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Really, Matt! Do you believe everything I say? What I do have, however, is important documents and writs. I cannot have that good-for-nothing porter not bothering to protect my room because he thinks I own nothing of value. Now he believes I own a veritable treasure trove, he will be more careful.’

That was probably true, thought Bartholomew. Walter would not wish to risk being held responsible for the loss of Michael’s fictitious treasures – although he would care nothing for scrolls – and would doubtless make more of an effort to ensure the monk’s chamber was secure from now on.

The castle, dominating the town from its hill, was a collection of squat, grey buildings surrounded by a sturdy curtain wall. The curtain enclosed a wide expanse of muddy ground that was nearly always active with some kind of military training, and was overlooked by the great round keep at the far end. Tulyet’s office was on the first floor of this austere Norman tower, the jagged crenellations of which pierced the white winter sky like blackened teeth.

Unusually, the bailey was almost deserted. There was a sergeant at the gate, and one or two archers lounged around the wall-walk, but the bulk of the garrison was out, attempting to hunt down the outlaws. It was an almost impossible task: the daylight hours were few, and the Fenlands to the north and the great forests to the south provided excellent cover for thieves and robbers. The sergeant, who had admitted Michael to the castle on many occasions, let them in and left them to find their own way to the Sheriff’s office. Hearing their voices as they climbed the newel stair, Richard Tulyet came to greet them.

‘Cynric told me about your experience with these outlaws,’ he said without preamble, waving them to seats on a bench that ran the length of two of the walls. ‘He was able to give me an excellent description of them, which will be useful, but I am concerned that they so shamelessly strutted into the town and had a drink at the Brazen George before leaving on their murderous mission.’

Bartholomew sat on the bench nearest the fire. Michael might be hot and sweaty from his exertions, but the physician was frozen to the bone. ‘They were confident,’ he agreed. ‘And well-organised.’

‘So Cynric said,’ said Tulyet, sitting at his desk and leaning back in the chair. ‘I have a strong suspicion that the outlaws I have been hunting this winter and the men who attacked you are one and the same. It is unlikely that there are two well-run criminal bands operating in the same area. At least, I hope not!’

‘Did you know about the smuggling that takes place in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And I know it has become far more prevalent this year because the mild winter has kept the waterways open.’

‘So, you think these smugglers are also responsible for the burglaries in the town and the robberies on the roads of which Sir Oswald Stanmore has been complaining?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet picked up a quill and began to chew the end. ‘I do. But speaking of Stanmore, what about the deaths of his men – Egil and Jurnet? Have you told him about that yet? It is not a task I envy you; Stanmore is protective over the people who work for him.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘We told him yesterday. Alan of Norwich killed Jurnet and Julianna did away with Egil.’

Tulyet looked up sharply and Michael gave a sigh. ‘Ignore him, Dick,’ said the monk in a voice that bespoke long suffering. ‘I saw the grip Egil had around Matt’s throat, and so did Cynric. I would have brained the man myself had he been within my reach. Julianna saved Matt’s life.’

‘Did you not recognise Egil as you fought?’ asked Tulyet of Bartholomew.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The moon was in and out, and it was difficult to see clearly. I imagine the poor man had been wandering in the Fens for the previous two days and, quite reasonably, assumed that anyone on the highway in the dead of night, walking as furtively as we were, was up to no good. He attacked without trying to discover who we were.’

‘I spoke with Egil when he first arrived in Cambridge,’ said Tulyet, frowning. ‘I interview any stranger who stays here longer than a week – we cannot be too careful with strangers these days – and he told me that he knew the Fens around Ely like the back of his hand.’

‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, uncertain of the point the Sheriff was trying to make.

‘So if he knew the Fens so well, he would not have wandered for two days before finding the road again,’ said Tulyet impatiently.

‘True,’ said Michael, thinking hard. ‘Oswald Stanmore said that Egil preferred the Fens to the town, and often went fishing there. And he certainly knew where the Ely causeway went when it disappeared underwater on our outward journey. No, Matt. Egil would not have been lost.’

‘Perhaps he was injured,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and left for dead by the smugglers.’

‘Possibly,’ said Tulyet. ‘But we will know that for certain when you examine the body properly. I take it Stanmore has gone to fetch it back?’

Bartholomew nodded, wondering whether it was worth protesting at Tulyet’s cavalier assumption that he would act as coroner for him.

‘I arrested Thomas Bingham – the University’s newest Master – for the murder of James Grene this morning,’ said Tulyet, almost casually. ‘We have him locked in a room upstairs.’

Michael leapt to his feet. ‘What? Bingham? On what evidence?’

‘On the evidence we all saw,’ said Tulyet. ‘Grene was poisoned at Bingham’s installation. Apparently, his Fellows began their own investigation when Vice-Chancellor Harling told them you had been called away, and Father Eligius came to me and made a case for his arrest earlier today. Essentially, he pointed out that someone killed Grene, and the only person to benefit from his death was Bingham. And perhaps even more damning was the fact Grene confided he was in fear of his life from Bingham shortly before his death to Eligius and to two other Valence Marie Fellows.’

‘Grene confided his fear to three Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘That is damning. But why did you arrest Bingham? This is a matter for the Proctors, not the Sheriff. It is a crime against the University, committed on University property.’

‘You were busy investigating the outlaws’ attack on St Clement’s Hostel, and could not be found. And Harling thought Bingham would be safer with me than in the Proctors’ gaol. Despite the fact that no one much cared for Grene while he was alive, sympathy for him dead has exceeded the bounds of all reason, because so many people witnessed his murder. Harling was afraid Grene’s supporters might march against the less-secure Proctors’ prison, and try to lynch Bingham.’

Michael puffed out his cheeks. ‘Harling is probably right. And it is all down to this damned relic of Valence Marie’s!’

‘The relic found last year?’ asked Tulyet, startled. ‘What is that to do with Grene’s murder?’

‘Because since we returned from Denny, I have lost track of the times that I have been asked when the Chancellor plans to reinstate that wretched hand to Valence Marie. People believe Grene died for the thing – and that Bingham is leading a sinister plot to discredit it.’

‘How can people be so gullible?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I thought we had exposed that horrible thing as a fake – and, perhaps even more importantly, proved that the saint it was said to have come from was no more a martyr than I am.’

‘There speaks a man of science,’ said Tulyet, grimly amused. ‘People do not need facts to whip them up into a fanatical frenzy about something, Matt. If you made a convincing case that cows could fly, you would find people willing to believe it – and even to die for it – despite what their experience and common sense dictates to them.’

‘I am concerned that Grene expressed fears for his safety to three Valence Marie Fellows,’ said Michael, gnawing on his lower lip. ‘This is beginning to look very bad for Bingham.’

‘Can we be sure all three are telling the truth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What if they are the same three who voted for Grene in the election, and this is no more than College politics running wild?’

‘Are you suggesting that Father Eligius is lying?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘He is one of the University’s foremost scholars.’

‘No one saw Bingham give Grene the poisoned wine,’ said Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace. ‘And murdering him would be a foolish thing to do in front of half the town. I cannot believe Bingham did it.’

‘Then who did?’ asked Tulyet, watching him move back and forth across the small room. ‘Who else might gain?’

‘Father Eligius himself,’ suggested Michael quietly.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration. ‘He was offered the Mastership and he did not want it. He has no motive for wanting Grene dead.’

‘He has no motive that we know about,’ corrected Michael. ‘But there is always the relic that he feels so strongly about. Perhaps Grene’s death is somehow connected to that.’

‘I suppose he was very quick to accuse Bingham of Grene’s murder,’ admitted Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘That might be significant.’

‘But so were you,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If you recall.’

‘Only to you,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘But what of these other two Fellows who say Grene professed he was in fear of his life? Why did they wait for Eligius to instigate an investigation before telling their stories? It all strikes me as very odd.’

‘Do you think Bingham is guilty?’ Michael asked Tulyet.

Tulyet shrugged. ‘As you say, the installation was a foolish place to dispatch a rival. But people are often foolish and live to regret their actions. I see plenty of evidence to suggest his guilt, and none to support his innocence. He claims he is blameless, of course. Do you want to speak to him?’

Michael nodded, and Tulyet led them up to the second floor, where a sleepy guard unlocked the door of a small chamber set in the thickness of the wall. The room was gloomy – only a narrow slit allowed the daylight to filter in – but was reasonably comfortable. The remains of a sizeable meal lay on the table, and Bingham had been provided with better, warmer blankets than the ones Bartholomew had at Michaelhouse.

Bingham recognised Michael and came towards him, his face haggard. ‘I did not kill Grene,’ he began immediately, his voice a throaty whisper. ‘I did not like the man, but I did not kill him.’

‘Then how did the poison find its way into his cup?’ asked Michael harshly. ‘It is strange that only he was stricken at the installation, would you not say?’

‘I do not know!’ said Bingham, in the weary tones of a man who had said as much many times before. ‘I was as shocked by his death as was everyone else. I did not kill Grene and I have no idea how poison came to be in his wine. When he died, I assumed it had been simple gluttony that had brought about a seizure. The serving lad behind him had been filling his cup all night.’

Bartholomew had never been good at ascertaining whether people were telling the truth, but Bingham was convincing. It would have been difficult for him to pass a poisoned bottle to Grene without having it intercepted or seen by another person – unless he had an accomplice, of course. But then, surely the accomplice would be working to quell the allegations that Bingham was the murderer – for his own sake as much as Bingham’s – and yet no one was speaking in Bingham’s defence. The tall, willowy figure of Eligius sprung into Bartholomew’s mind again. But what was his motive? Eligius did not want to be Master, so why should he want Bingham convicted of Grene’s murder? Was it to promote the relic in some bizarre way – slaying one of its proponents to make people believe it was worth dying for?

A commotion in the bailey drew Tulyet over to the narrow window. He threw open the shutter and leaned out.

‘Let him in,’ he yelled to the sergeant on the gates. Moments later, feet pounded on the newel stair, and Cynric burst breathlessly into the room.

‘Thought I would find you here,’ he gasped, ignoring the Sheriff and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Master Colton of Gonville asks that you come immediately. Father Philius is dead!’