A Grave Concern

Chapter 15

Bartholomew and Tulyet left St John Zachary, noting with alarm the increasing number of scholars who gathered in groups, muttering. Some were Regent masters, vexed over the fact that their new Chancellor would be one of two men they did not much like, but most were students from the hostels, who always took to the streets when trouble was brewing.

‘They will settle down after noon tomorrow, when we have a new leader,’ predicted Master Braunch, who was standing near the rubble that comprised his fallen building. The path that had been cleared was in great demand, and he was there to prevent spats over precedence.

‘I hope you are right,’ said Tulyet worriedly. ‘Because I sense mischief in the air – and you do not need me to tell you that there are townsfolk who will join in any brawls.’

‘It is the uncertainty that bothers our scholars,’ said Braunch. ‘Even Michael’s detractors admit that he represents stability, and we are all fearful of what will happen when he leaves. The hunt for that bell is not helping either. It has turned into a contest between us and the town.’

They saw what he meant when a trio of lads from Physick Hostel engaged in a furious altercation with three villainous characters from the Swan. Tulyet quelled it with a few sharp words, after which he and Bartholomew hurried on to St Mary the Great.

They arrived to find that Michael had completed his mission to the belfry, and had prevented further debate on the self-ringing bell by sending Hopeman and Suttone off in different directions. Their supporters had gone with them, while the remaining spectators, deprived of entertainment, eventually drifted away.

‘Well?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Who was in the tower? Kolvyle? He strikes me as a lad to cause trouble, just for the delight of annoying you and seeing gullible colleagues jabber about Satan.’

‘No one was up there,’ replied Michael. ‘I can only assume that the wind set them clanging.’

‘There is no wind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it would take quite a gust to make those bells chime anyway – they are heavy.’

‘Then some mischievous student found a way to tug the ropes with no one seeing,’ said Michael irritably. ‘God knows, most are resourceful enough. But never mind them. Where have you two been?’

Bartholomew gave him a brief summary of their conclusions regarding the thefts.

‘So while Inge is probably the mastermind behind the scheme,’ he finished, ‘we do not know who helped him. And he did have help, given that the missing items are too bulky for him to have carried alone.’

‘We are rapidly running out of suspects for the murders as well,’ added Michael gloomily. ‘The only ones left on my original list are Hopeman, Kolvyle–’

He broke off as an urgent clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of one of the beadles who had gone with Meadowman in pursuit of Godrich and Whittlesey. The man flung himself from the saddle and dashed towards Michael, leaving his horse lathered and trembling from the speed with which it had been ridden.

‘We found Godrich,’ he gasped. ‘In a tavern just south of Royston. He told us that Whittlesey had hurtled past on Satan a few hours earlier, going like the wind.’

‘Going where?’ asked Michael. ‘After Godrich, without realising that his cousin had stopped?’

The beadle shook his head. ‘Whittlesey believes that Godrich went north, because that is what he told him to do – slip away to live quietly in York or Chester. He does not know that Godrich ignored the advice and was aiming for France instead. You see, Whittlesey promised that if Godrich did as he was ordered, no charges would ever be brought against him.’

‘Charges?’ demanded Michael sharply. ‘What charges?’

‘Devilry,’ replied the beadle grimly. ‘Whittlesey burst in on Godrich while he was changing for the feast, and saw a horned serpent inked into his skin. He was horrified, and declared that someone bearing that sort of mark could never be Chancellor.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, while Bartholomew recalled the number that had covered Tynkell, and wondered what the envoy would have said about those. ‘And Godrich meekly agreed?’

‘They had a blazing row, during which hot words were exchanged and a bowl was lobbed – it cut Whittlesey’s hand. But then they calmed themselves, and Whittlesey issued his ultimatum: that Godrich leave or be exposed.’

‘That explains the broken pot and the argument Dodenho heard,’ said Michael. ‘But why did Godrich bide by it? He spent a fortune on his campaign, and he is not the sort of man to shrug and walk away, just because a meddling kinsman threatened to tell tales – he would just have denied the allegations.’

‘Because of the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ explained the beadle. ‘It was him who Whittlesey threatened to tell, not our scholars.’

‘A shrewd move,’ said Michael grudgingly, and explained to Bartholomew and Tulyet. ‘The Archbishop would demand to see Godrich’s mark, and the truth would be out. Then, as no prelate can be seen condoning witchery, he would have to disown Godrich. The rest of the family would inevitably follow suit, cutting Godrich off without a penny.’

‘Right,’ said the beadle. ‘So Godrich had no choice but to do as Whittlesey ordered – unless he wanted to live in penury for the rest of his life, shunned by his kin.’

‘Godrich confided all this willingly?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

The beadle grinned. ‘Of course not! We told him that we had orders to hang him for Chancellor Tynkell’s murder, and Meadowman posed as a priest to hear his last confession. Godrich was livid when he realised he had been deceived, but it could not be helped. We did not have time to devise a different plan.’

‘But he did not admit to murder?’ asked Michael, smirking at the thought of the haughty Godrich quailing in terror at the prospect of summary execution.

‘He assured “Father” Meadowman that he was innocent of those. He owned up to a lot of other nasty things, though – including not pressing for justice when he found out that Inge and Egidia had murdered Peter Poges. Oh, and he also said that he was with Whittlesey when Tynkell died, so if he is not the culprit, Whittlesey is not either. It pained him to say it, though.’

‘Because he wanted Whittlesey in trouble, I suppose,’ surmised Michael. ‘And resented being the one who would prove his innocence.’

The beadle nodded. ‘And because he thought Whittlesey might be guilty of dispatching Moleyns. He received a letter, you see, from Bishop Sheppey, warning him that Whittlesey was dangerous. He kept a careful eye on him afterwards, lest Whittlesey did something to lose him votes.’

‘Which explains why he tried to keep Whittlesey close,’ sighed Michael. ‘It was not for the kudos of having an influential churchman at his side, as Whittlesey believed. But we can ask him all this when he comes back. I assume Meadowman is bringing him?’

The beadle shook his head. ‘We locked him in the tavern’s cellar, and I will fetch him tomorrow. Meadowman and the others have gone after Whittlesey.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You just told us that he is not the killer.’

‘Because once Godrich learned that his cousin had also raced off in the middle of the night, he kept saying that it was suspicious. We agreed: that envoy is up to something untoward. So we decided we had better try to find out what …’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘But let us hope it does not take them too long. I need them here.’

‘Kolvyle and Hopeman,’ said Bartholomew a short while later, when Tulyet had gone to supervise the increasingly fraught search for the woman in the cloak with the fancy hem, who he thought represented their best chance of answers. ‘We should speak to them again – and soon. I have a bad feeling that unless we do something quickly, the killer will strike again.’

‘Yes, with Suttone likely to be the next victim,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric will do his best, but … Do you really think the culprit is one of those two?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Neither has given us a reason to think otherwise.’

They began to hurry to the Market Square, where they could hear Hopeman making another speech. The Dominican had a powerful voice, and Bartholomew hoped he would not win the election, if for no other reason that it would be taxing to hear it at every turn.

‘I hate to admit that I was wrong,’ said Michael as they went, ‘but I wish I had nailed my colours to Thelnetham’s mast. He is by far the most able candidate, and I am sure I could have devised a way to keep him in line. It is a pity he withdrew.’

‘Can you persuade him to re-enter the race? Most of our colleagues would welcome a third option now that Lyng and Godrich are unavailable. And it might serve to calm the trouble that is brewing – the Regent masters feel cheated as matters stand.’

‘The statutes forbid it.’

‘Then perhaps Hopeman is right to suggest they be scrapped. They are meant to serve us, not the other way around.’

Michael did not bother to argue. They reached the Market Square, where the Dominican had attracted a small but fervent gathering of like-minded zealots.

‘Suttone does not care what happens to the University,’ he was bawling, ‘because he thinks we will all be dead of the plague in a few months. But before he goes, he intends to sample every woman in Cambridge, and encourages us to do likewise.’

Michael marched towards him, and Hopeman evidently knew he would not win a public battle of words with the monk, because he jumped down from the trough on which he had been standing, and indicated that one of his acolytes was to take his place.

‘What do you want, Brother?’ he demanded. ‘Hurry up! I am busy with God’s work, and cannot afford to squander time with you.’

‘Did God tell you to murder Tynkell in order to force an election?’ asked Michael baldly. ‘And then dispatch Lyng, because he was the candidate most likely to win?’

‘My conversations with the Lord are private,’ declared the friar, then gave a grin that verged on the malevolent. ‘You will never convict me of those crimes, so go to Rochester and forget about them. Your time here is done.’

‘Was that a confession?’ asked Michael, as the priest strutted away, bristling defiance in every step. ‘It sounded like one.’

‘It was a challenge, certainly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But you need evidence. Accusing him without it will achieve nothing – the Dominicans will defend him, just because he is one of them, regardless of what they really think. And then he will claim that you arrested him just to make sure your candidate was the only one left.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘That will be difficult to deny, even though it would be a lie.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘So you cannot arrest him until you have real evidence of his guilt – hard facts or material proof.’

‘Then go and find me some,’ ordered Michael. ‘Try the King’s Head. It is a good place for gossip, and the patrons will talk to their medicus more readily than me.’

‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the monk must be desperate indeed if he was resorting to that sort of tactic.

‘Tackle Kolvyle. And let us hope that one of us succeeds in shaking something loose, or the election will be upon us, and then it will be time for me to go to Rochester. I said I would not leave until the killer was caught, but I am beginning to think it is a promise I may not be able to keep.’

Dusk would come early that night, because clouds had rolled in from the north, and lamps were already lit in those houses that could afford fuel. In the rest, the residents shivered in the gloom, waiting for the daylight to fade completely so they could go to bed. The bitter cold had driven most of the bell-hunters indoors, too, although a hardy few were still out and about. Mallet and Islaye were among them.

‘I thought I told you to return to Michaelhouse at noon,’ Bartholomew said coolly.

‘We did,’ replied Islaye blithely, ‘where we ate dinner, read a bit of Maimonides, and then went out again. Two marks is a lot of money, sir, and we do not want Kolvyle to get it.’

‘Honour is at stake here,’ added Mallet. ‘Us versus him. You must understand why we are determined to win.’

Bartholomew did not have the energy to argue. He listed several texts he wanted them to learn that evening, ignoring their insistence that studying by candlelight hurt their eyes, and they parted ways. He passed the little church of St Mary the Less, where the scholars of Peterhouse were emerging from a special service at which prayers had been said for a break in the icy weather. Their petitions had evidently gone unheard, because snow was in the air.

He reached the King’s Head, and heard the rumble of conversation emanating from within. Beyond, the road curved south like a brown ribbon through the empty countryside, fringed by winter-bare trees and scrubby hedges. The Gilbertine Priory had lamps lit outside its gates, which shed a warm yellow halo, welcoming and cosy. Reluctantly, Bartholomew turned to the King’s Head, which was neither.

He was just reaching for the handle when the door opened and Isnard hobbled out, Gundrede and several scruffy cronies at his heels. All were dressed for a long journey. Those who did not own cloaks were wrapped in oiled sacks, boots had been given a liberal layer of grease to repel water, and there was a fine variety of snow-proof headgear.

‘Who blabbed to him?’ demanded the bargeman angrily, turning to glare at his friends. ‘I told you to keep your mouths shut, and now he is here to stop us from going.’

‘Going where?’ asked Bartholomew, cutting across the indignant chorus of denials.

‘To attack the thieves’ lair,’ replied Gundrede. ‘Miller here has found it.’

‘He has?’ asked Bartholomew, looking at the man in question, a puny individual who eked a meagre living from the river. ‘How?’

‘He happened across it when he was out poaching fish,’ explained Isnard, then flushed scarlet at the weary groans that followed. ‘I mean visiting his mother.’

‘His mother is dead,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Widow Miller had been one of Cook’s victims. ‘And their lair is not by her cottage, because I searched that area when I was looking for the killer’s cloak – the one that blew off the tower when he stabbed Tynkell.’

‘His other mother,’ said Isnard, blithely oblivious to the absurdity of this claim. ‘Who lives by the manor of Quy, in the Fens. We are going there now, to confront the villains, and prove our innocence once and for all.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is the Sheriff’s responsibility.’

‘But he will think we are part of their operation if we do not catch the villains ourselves,’ objected Isnard. ‘He does not believe us when we say we are not.’

‘It is too dangerous,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They have already killed Lucas, Reames and Peres. Please – just go to the castle and report what Miller has learned. The soldiers are trained in this sort of thing. You are not.’

Isnard considered carefully. ‘All right, then, but only if you come with us. Perhaps the Sheriff will agree to a joint venture – us and him, standing shoulder to shoulder against villainy.’

Bartholomew could not see it, but dared not say so, lest Isnard changed his mind.

It was a strange procession. Bartholomew walked at the front with the bargeman and Gundrede, while the remaining King’s Head’s regulars streamed at their heels. While they went, Isnard confided his plans for the choir when Michael left, speaking in bursts, because Bartholomew had set a brisk pace for a man with one leg and crutches to manage.

‘Brother Michael will be sorry,’ he vowed. ‘We shall be better than ever … and when he comes back … to tell Suttone how to be Chancellor … he will regret abandoning us.’

‘Look at them!’ sniggered Gundrede, as they passed a group of students who were exploring the Brazen George’s outhouses. ‘We will be the ones to get the two marks, because the bell is not in the town – it will be in the thieves’ lair.’

They refused to enter the castle – understandably enough, given that the previous times they had visited had been when they were under arrest – so Tulyet came out, where he listened carefully to what Miller had to say. It was a faltering, disjointed report, interspersed with a lot of asides and unhelpful details from Isnard.

‘How do you know it was the thieves you saw?’ Tulyet asked. ‘Not Fenland fishermen?’

‘Because fishermen do not use cargo barges for their trade,’ replied Miller promptly. ‘It was the felons, right enough. And besides, they looked untrustworthy.’

‘Then they must be ruffians indeed,’ murmured Tulyet, eyeing the scruffy horde that was ranged in front of him. ‘And this happened by the canal outside Quy?’

Miller nodded. ‘I watched them for ages. They have a shed full of stolen goods, although it will not be full now – I heard them say they were going to start loading everything on a boat.’

‘A sea-going vessel,’ put in Isnard. ‘Which will hug the coast to London, where you can always get higher prices for such items. Not that we know from experience, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Tulyet. ‘How many of these thieves were there?’

‘Just two – a captain and his mate,’ replied Miller. ‘However, they talked about being joined by “others” soon.’

‘Then we had better mount a raid,’ said Tulyet, and called for Helbye.

When the sergeant arrived, Bartholomew was concerned. He was clearly ill, with sweat beading his face, despite the chill of the fading day, and his eyes were fever bright.

‘Not tonight, sir,’ he said tiredly, when he heard what Tulyet intended to do. ‘It will be dark soon, and the Fens are no place to be on a cold winter night. Look – it is starting to snow.’

‘We have torches and good cloaks,’ said Tulyet briskly. ‘And we cannot wait until morning. We do not want to arrive and find the villains have sailed.’

‘But the weather,’ objected Helbye. ‘And the track – it will be hard and treacherous …’

‘Norys?’ bellowed Tulyet, and when the soldier stepped forward, he asked, ‘You travelled that road when you went to hunt Inge earlier. How was it?’

Norys drew his cloak more closely around him. ‘Miserable, sir. The wind from the Fens is like no other – a knife scything through you. I am still chilled to the bone.’

‘But the going was reasonable?’

Norys nodded, albeit reluctantly, so Tulyet issued an order for horses to be saddled.

‘I had better fetch a thicker jerkin, then,’ said Helbye without enthusiasm. ‘It is–’

‘I need you here, Will,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘The scholars are in a feisty mood, and I do not want them embroiling the townsfolk in one of their spats.’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Isnard. ‘Those academics are a rough crowd.’

‘You can stay, too,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Go back to the King’s Head and leave this to us. Here is a shilling for ale.’

It was a generous sum, and an excellent way to keep Isnard’s companions where they belonged. Eyes lit up, although the bargeman was dismayed.

‘But we want to watch them caught! We deserve it after all we have been through.’

‘If Miller’s report is accurate, you will see them when we bring them back in chains. If he is sending us on a fool’s mission, it will be you lot in my gaol. So, I ask you once more, Miller: are you sure about what you saw?’

‘Yes,’ replied Miller firmly. ‘Go to Quy manor, then take the track that runs by the lode. Shortly before the lode meets the river, you will find a great big warehouse. That is where the villains keep their loot.’

‘A warehouse?’ asked Tulyet, sceptical again. ‘All the way out there?’

‘It is a convenient spot for smugglers,’ said Miller, with the authority of one who knew. ‘There is a good road to Quy, and canals that run north and east.’

‘Let me lead the raid, sir,’ begged Helbye plaintively. ‘I know the area better than you. I was born up there.’

‘You are not well enough,’ said Bartholomew quickly, lest Tulyet weakened. ‘Let me see your arm. You seem to be–’

‘It itches,’ interrupted Helbye shortly, waving away his concern, ‘which means it is getting better. Cook said so.’

‘I hardly think we can trust his opinion,’ spat Tulyet in disgust. ‘Now go and pick me six good men, Will. We leave as soon as they are ready.’

Helbye limped away, shoulders slumped. However, when more snow floated down, Bartholomew suspected he was secretly glad to stay at home.

‘If we cannot come, we want him to represent our interests out there,’ said Isnard, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘To make sure everything is done properly.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet, although Bartholomew opened his mouth to protest. ‘There is always room for the hero of Poitiers.’

Bartholomew shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Take Cynric. He will be far more useful.’

‘He is needed to guard Suttone. God’s blood, man – do not give him that one!’ Tulyet’s last remark was directed at Robin, who was in the process of presenting Bartholomew with the reins of an enormous black stallion. ‘It will have him off before we leave the Barbican.’

With considerable trepidation, Bartholomew climbed atop a brown mare instead, hoping she would not buck and prance, as horses invariably did when he was on their backs. He winced when the wind whipped a flurry of snow into his face, and was grateful when Isnard removed his own cloak and handed it up to him – it was thick and warm, and far more suitable for a jaunt to the Fens than his threadbare academic one – along with a leather hat and a pair of fur-lined gloves.

‘Stay back if there is any skirmishing,’ instructed Isnard in a low voice. ‘I know what Cynric says about you, but you do not have the temperament to be a good warrior. Let the Sheriff do the killing.’

‘Hopefully, there will not be any,’ said Bartholomew, more unhappy than ever about being included in the venture.

‘I am afraid there will,’ said Isnard, ‘because Helbye has picked the castle’s fiercest warriors to go with you – men who would far rather fight than take prisoners.’

Bartholomew glanced towards them and saw what Isnard meant. Their leader was the loutish Norys, while the other five were hard-bitten soldiers in functional armour, all of whom sported a terrifying arsenal of well-honed weapons. Then he noticed there was a seventh – a young lad with an eager grin and a brand-new jerkin.

‘Not you, Harold,’ snapped Helbye. ‘Get off that horse at once.’

‘Let him come,’ countered Tulyet, when Harold’s face fell in dismay. ‘He needs the experience.’

And with that, he wheeled his mount around and set off, his troops streaming at his heels.

It was a miserable journey. Tulyet rode harder than Bartholomew thought was safe in the failing light, especially as the track was slick with ice. The occasional flurry of snow soon became a regular fall that drilled directly into their faces, making it even more difficult to see where they were going. Bartholomew was obliged to cling hard to the pommel of his saddle, and not for the first time wished he had paid more heed to the riding lessons he had been given as a child.

‘You do realise this is a waste of time?’ said Tulyet, coming to trot next to him. He was able to speak only because that part of the road was heavily rutted, forcing them to slow down. ‘There will be nothing to find at Quy.’

Bartholomew frowned in confusion. ‘I thought you believed Miller’s story.’

‘I am sure he saw thieves, but I doubt they are the ones who took Stanmore’s tomb, Dallingridge’s feet, the University’s bell, and the rest of it. And Miller’s rogues will not be at Quy now anyway. Not in this weather.’

‘Then why are we going?’ demanded Bartholomew crossly.

‘I am going because Helbye would not have countenanced me giving the command to anyone else. And you are going because you put me in that position by telling me that I can no longer use him as my second.’

‘I had not taken you for a petty man.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘The excursion will do you no harm, and will give you a fine tale to tell your colleagues at the election tomorrow. Besides, your inclusion placated Isnard – I suspect he would have followed if I had refused to let you come, and I do not want his “help”.’

‘But the weather …’

‘A bit of snow should not bother a seasoned old campaigner like you. It will not settle anyway – the wind will whisk it away.’

‘The wind will whisk it into drifts,’ argued Bartholomew.

‘We will be home long before then,’ said Tulyet dismissively. ‘I have reached Quy in less than an hour in the past. Granted, it was not in the dark …’

Eager to be done with the foolish mission as soon as possible, Bartholomew jabbed his heels into the mare’s sides. She snickered angrily, warning him not to do it again.

‘We must hurry,’ he said, when Tulyet regarded him enquiringly. ‘You saw for yourself that the University is uneasy tonight, and I may be needed. Moreover, Michael is expecting me to provide him with information about the murders – which have to be solved by the day after tomorrow, as that is when he leaves for Rochester.’

‘I imagine the killer is Kolvyle. Langelee locked him in a cellar earlier, to keep him out of mischief, but just before you came to the castle, I had word that he had escaped.’

Bartholomew regarded Tulyet in alarm. ‘Running is not the act of an innocent man.’

‘Quite.’

Bartholomew reined in. ‘Then I should go back and help Michael to–’

‘His beadles are more than capable of laying hold of that silly youth.’ Tulyet grabbed Bartholomew’s bridle and urged the mare into a trot. ‘Did I tell you that I am closing in on the woman in the cloak with the embroidered hem, by the way?’

‘No – that is good news.’

‘She was seen taking it off in a tavern shortly afterwards. The witness who saw her is away today, but will be back tomorrow, and I am confident that he can take us to her. Then she can tell us who murdered Moleyns – Kolvyle, in all probability.’

‘Surely you want to be there when all that happens – not chasing about in the Fens?’

‘I can do both. We will be home long before dawn.’

‘We had better be,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I have to vote for Suttone at noon, because my colleagues will never forgive me if I miss it, and he loses by one.’

Tulyet spurred his horse on when the track became firmer, and then it was all Bartholomew could do to keep up with him.

After what felt like an age, the physician bumping and lurching uncomfortably in the saddle, they reached Quy, which comprised a church surrounded by a few cottages, and a winding track that led to the manor. Lights gleamed in some houses, but no one came out to see why travellers should be passing at such an hour.

‘They have been paid to look the other way,’ surmised Tulyet. ‘Well, well! Perhaps these thieves of Miller’s will be worth catching after all.’

The lode lay to the east of the village, a long, arrow-straight canal cut centuries earlier to connect with the River Cam. A towpath ran along its side, just as Miller had said. It was too narrow for horses, so Tulyet ordered them tethered to a tree. He detailed one soldier to guard them, and ordered the rest to continue on foot.

The track was fringed by a line of scrubby trees, intended to act as a windbreak from the flat, boggy Fens on the other side. Unfortunately, it was badly positioned for when the wind blew from the north, and Bartholomew grumbled under his breath about the Sheriff’s reckless assumptions regarding drifts – snow was already beginning to pile up against the hedge, and he hoped they would not reach the end of the path, only to find they could not get back again.

They walked for some time, and just when he was beginning to fear that Miller had spun them a yarn after all, a building loomed out of the darkness. Tulyet squeezed through the hedge, and led his troops through the marshes, so as to approach it from behind. They edged closer cautiously.

The ‘warehouse’ was huge for the middle of nowhere, and had been carefully constructed so that its roof was lower than the surrounding trees, thus ensuring that it could not be seen from the road. It was unusually sturdy, and had clearly been built for one purpose and one purpose only: to store goods ready for smuggling through the Fens.

‘It has clearly been here for years,’ whispered Tulyet, peering at it through the swirling snow. ‘Inge must have remembered it from his youth, and decided to put it to good use.’

‘Regardless, it is abandoned now,’ said Norys, his voice shockingly loud in the silence of the night. ‘Miller was lying, just like we thought. We should leave and go home before–’

He flinched when Tulyet whipped around with a glare, warning him to keep quiet. Then the Sheriff indicated that everyone was to stay hidden while he crept forward to reconnoitre by himself. He was gone for a long time, and Bartholomew grew increasingly concerned. Eventually, he could stand it no longer.

‘Something is wrong,’ he whispered. ‘He should have been back by–’

He stopped speaking abruptly when Norys removed a cudgel from his belt. The last thing he heard before all went black was a shriek of pain from Harold.