A Grave Concern

Chapter 16

Bartholomew opened his eyes to darkness, and for a moment, he could not remember where he was or why he was so cold. His head pounded, but he could not raise a hand to rub it because both were tied behind his back. Gradually, his wits and his memory returned. He blinked to clear his vision, and saw the faint outline of the warehouse to his left.

No one was with him except Harold, whose hands were also bound. Unfortunately, either by design or accident, the lad was lying with his face in a half-frozen puddle. Bartholomew struggled frantically against his bonds, surprised when they came loose almost immediately – he could only assume that whoever had tied him up had not had the benefit of fur-lined gloves.

He crawled to Harold and hauled him over, but the young soldier was already dead. He sat back on his heels, shock and confusion washing over him. What was going on? Where was Tulyet? He stood on unsteady legs and began to search. Then he heard voices. He lurched into the undergrowth, to hide until he could determine whether they belonged to friend or foe, but no one appeared, and he realised the sound had come from inside the shed. Norys and the others were laughing together.

He rubbed his aching head, trying to marshal his thoughts. What should he do? Run back to the horses and ride to Cambridge for help? But the guard Tulyet had left with the animals might be in cahoots with Norys, and even if Bartholomew could overpower a professional warrior, how was he to gallop all the way home, on his own and in the dark?

Then what about the manor? He slumped in defeat. That was no good either. Tulyet had drawn attention to the fact that no one had come to investigate the sound of travellers in the middle of the night, meaning they were either involved in whatever was happening, or had been paid to ignore anything suspicious.

Norys laughed again, and there came the sound of metal goblets clinking together. Bartholomew took a deep, unsteady breath and began to inch forward, to see what might be learned from eavesdropping.

He crept all the way around the warehouse, expecting at any moment to meet a guard, but everyone was inside. Other than the door, there was only one opening – a tiny window at the back, presumably for ventilation. His medical bag was gone – lost somewhere behind the hedge – but he still had the small knife he carried on his belt. Working with infinite care, and aware that even a tiny scrape might give him away, he bored a hole in a place where the wood was rotten, twisting the blade this way and that until he had created a gap big enough to look through.

The first thing he saw was Tulyet, bound hand and foot, and with a sack over his head; his sword lay on a pile of oiled sheets nearby. There were seven men with him – the six surviving soldiers, including the one who had been left to mind the horses. And Inge.

With resignation, Bartholomew recalled Norys’s previous foray to the Fens – to investigate a sighting of the lawyer five miles east. At Quy, in other words. Bartholomew was disgusted, both with himself and with Tulyet, for failing to make the connection.

Other than people and the heap of tarpaulins, the building was empty except for a few sticks of furniture, presumably for the use of those guarding whatever was stored there, and a pair of elegantly sculpted feet. Bartholomew immediately recognised them as from the Dallingridge tomb.

He stared at the men as answers began to flood into his mind. No wonder the thieves had evaded capture for so long – they were soldiers on the very patrols that Tulyet had sent to snag them! And as the likes of Norys would be unequal to organising such an audacious scheme, Inge was the sly mastermind behind it, just as he had surmised.

The pile of oiled sheets told their own story, too: they were the kind that were thrown over carts, to protect their cargoes from inclement weather – clearly, these had covered the stolen goods during the first stage of their journey from the town, discarded now they were no longer needed. The size of the heap revealed that any number of wagons had rolled into the Fens, laden down with wares that would fetch high prices in London’s illicit markets, every one of them waved through the town gates with a nod and a wink from Norys and his associates.

He froze in alarm at a sudden rattle of footsteps on the towpath, then sagged in relief. It was Helbye. The old warrior had not been content to sit at home while his Sheriff led a potentially dangerous expedition, and had come to help. Bartholomew was about to run forward and warn him when alarm bells jangled in his mind. He sank back into the shadows, heart pounding.

Helbye had chosen the six soldiers himself, after insisting that he should lead the raid. He had also objected to Harold, who now lay dead. Then there were the patrols to catch the thieves – all unsuccessful, and all briefed by the sergeant. And who claimed to have chased a boat travelling south – a totally different direction from the one the real thieves would have taken, not to mention a different mode of transport?

Bartholomew closed his eyes in disgust as more evidence of Helbye’s perfidy crashed into his mind. First, there was Inge’s escape from the Griffin – the lawyer would have been caught with ease if Helbye had not waded into the fray, trailing bandages. Second, Helbye had mounted a foolish and noisy raid on the King’s Head at the exact time that Holty’s pinnacles had gone missing – clearly, it had been a diversion. And third, Helbye had been at pains to accuse Isnard and Gundrede of the crimes: of course he had – it took eyes away from the real culprits.

But why had Helbye turned traitor? Bartholomew knew the answer to that question, too: for money, because retirement on half-pay would be bleak, and it was clear that the sergeant was about to be put out to pasture. Bartholomew also knew how Helbye had been recruited: he had escorted Moleyns – and Inge – to Cambridge from Nottingham, which had allowed the lawyer plenty of time to befriend a bitter and anxious old man.

Voices drew Bartholomew back to the hole he had drilled. Helbye had entered the hut and was stamping snow from his boots. A second man was with him, but he was so deeply huddled inside his cloak that Bartholomew could not see his face.

‘I offered to come out here instead,’ Helbye told Inge; Tulyet’s head snapped around at the sound of his sergeant’s voice. ‘But he would not let me. Where are Harold and Bartholomew?’

‘Out back,’ replied Norys. ‘They know enough to hang us, so they will have to die. So will he.’ He nodded towards Tulyet.

‘Good,’ muttered the man in the cloak. There was something familiar about his voice, but Bartholomew needed more than a single word to place it. The fellow went to sit near the window, in a place where nothing could be seen of him but his legs.

Helbye’s face was cold and hard, and Bartholomew saw the battle-honed warrior who had claimed countless lives during his long military career. There was no kindness in it, and no remorse that he had betrayed a man who had offered him friendship and trust. Then he swayed slightly, one hand to his arm, and Bartholomew noticed again the signs of fever. Unless he had medical help soon, he would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his deceit.

Bartholomew moved away from the warehouse and took cover in the undergrowth, his mind racing with questions, solutions and worries. The snow was falling in earnest now, a thin white veil that was blown almost horizontal by the wind. He peered along the towpath, and saw that Helbye had brought two more soldiers with him – they were standing a short distance away, blocking the route to the horses.

Bartholomew was close to despair. How could he rescue Tulyet from eight soldiers, Helbye, Inge and the man in the cloak? The only good thing about his situation was that he had not tried to make his way back to Cambridge, and so had avoided running directly into Helbye – he had the strong sense that he would not have survived such an encounter.

That thought gave him an idea. The Quy side of the towpath was obstructed by Helbye’s guards, but what about the side that ran deeper into the Fens? He knew that the Roman engineers, who had constructed the many canals and dykes in the region, had arranged them in a grid pattern to facilitate ease of transport. Many had paths running along them, so perhaps he would be able to take three right turns, and rejoin the main road.

But what about Tulyet? He could hardly leave him, knowing what the thieves planned to do. He put his eye to the hole again. Helbye was dozing fitfully in a corner, the soldiers were dicing, and the cloaked man was still invisible except for his legs. Tulyet sat motionless with the sack over his head, although his tense posture suggested he was awake and alert.

Bartholomew leaned his forehead against the wall, struggling to think. He hated the notion of abandoning his friend, but challenging eleven men would help no one. Nor would continuing to lurk uselessly behind the building. There was only one real option open to him – he had to run home as fast as he could, and fetch help in the form of Michael and his beadles.

With a heavy heart, he left the warehouse, and eased through the undergrowth until he was sure he would not be seen. Then he scrambled up to the towpath and began to trot along it, heading deeper into the Fens. There were already footsteps in the snow, which told him two things: first, that the ones he was leaving would not give him away; and second, that someone had had a good reason to walk in that direction, which gave him hope that there might be something there that he could use to his advantage.

He did not have far to go before the lode met a much wider waterway, which stretched away to his left and right until it disappeared into the darkness. Reeds grew at its ice-encrusted edges, but he knew instinctively that its middle was deep. A sturdy pier ran along the bank, and tethered to it was a barge – a sea-going one, as Isnard had predicted. It had two masts and its deck was covered in oilskins. It was low in the water, suggesting a heavy cargo.

Bartholomew crept towards it, glad of the light cast by the lamp hanging from the foremast, which allowed him to see that no one was outside on watch. The only sounds were the wind hissing in the reeds and snoring – the crew were fast asleep in the cabin at the stern. With infinite care, Bartholomew climbed aboard, and lifted the nearest tarpaulin, although he already knew from the domed shape what lay beneath it. The bell gave a muffled ding as he covered it again.

He lifted another sheet to see a slab of pink stone. There was a partially obliterated horned serpent in one corner, which told him that it was part of Oswald’s tomb. He stared at it, recalling Edith’s distress when it had gone. Gradually, the numb despair that had dogged him since he had woken next to Harold’s body began to give way to a dark, cold anger. Perhaps the thieves would escape with their ill-gotten gains, but he was damned if he was going to make it easy for them.

But what could he do? The boat was clearly ready to leave at first light, and that would be that. Then he had an idea.

He jumped back on the pier, glad the crew was slovenly and had only used one mooring rope. He struggled to unhitch it with fingers that were clumsy with tension. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a slit of black water appeared between boat and wharf. The gap grew larger as the current caught the barge and tugged it away from the bank. Yes, the crew could sail it back again, but not without inconvenience. It was revenge of sorts.

Unfortunately, Bartholomew’s hopes of finding an alternative route home were quickly dashed. There was no towpath to his right, and he was on the wrong side of the lode to take the one to his left. The only way to reach it would be to swim, which would be suicide in such weather – he would freeze to death long before he reached the road.

Reluctantly, he returned to the warehouse. Perhaps the two guards would have gone inside with their cronies, and he could sneak past them unseen. But both were still out, vigilant and with weapons at the ready. Cursing softly, he ducked back into the undergrowth and crawled through it until he reached the window again.

Helbye was awake, shivering and clearly in pain. Inge was watching the soldiers dice, while Tulyet was as he had been earlier – stiff, alert and angry, but alive. Bartholomew shifted positions to look at the last man, and saw that the fellow had made himself comfortable by loosening his cloak. Underneath, he wore an aqua tunic – the same colour as the thread from the murdered Peres’ fingernail.

‘Tulyet has never afforded me the respect I deserved,’ Inge was saying sourly to no one in particular. ‘He forgets that I am a lawyer, not a criminal.’

‘I thought they were one and the same,’ quipped Norys. His cronies guffawed.

Inge ignored them. ‘And he failed to protect Moleyns. It is his fault that my only client is dead. Moleyns would have repaid my loyalty tenfold when the King pardoned him, and Tulyet’s incompetence has deprived me of a comfortable future.’

Helbye frowned. ‘I thought you killed him. You were right next to him when he died, and you had good reason – you dutifully shared his imprisonment, but he treated you like dirt. Besides, I thought our business here was to earn you enough money to ditch the man.’

‘It was so I would not have to rely on him for life’s little luxuries,’ corrected Inge. ‘But leaving him was never part of the plan – not after investing three years of my life in him. We would have done great things together once he was free.’

‘So who did kill him then?’ pressed Helbye. ‘Egidia? There was no love lost between them, and I was under the impression that she preferred you.’

‘She does,’ said Inge smugly, ‘but neither of us wanted him dead. I suppose the culprit was one of the crowd that gathered when he fell.’

‘Aye, but which?’ mused Helbye. Then his expression hardened. ‘You should have told me that Yevele let him out to steal. Not knowing made me look stupid – got the lads thinking that I am too old for my duties.’

Norys and his ruffians exchanged the kind of glances that suggested they still did.

‘You do understand why he did it, do you not?’ asked Inge. ‘To punish Tulyet for denying him his rights and privileges when we first arrived. When he was back at Court, he was going to tell everyone that Cambridge Castle’s security is a joke.’

Bartholomew could see Tulyet’s hands clenched tightly behind his back.

‘The witness in the embroidered cloak will tell me who killed Moleyns,’ said Helbye. ‘Then I will stick a knife in the bastard’s gizzard for you.’

‘Speaking of killing, when shall I dispatch the prisoners?’ asked the man in the aqua tunic, strolling towards the pile of sheets and picking up Tulyet’s sword.

Bartholomew did not know whether to be gratified, angry or sorry when he saw it was Cook, although he was certainly not surprised. With hindsight, evidence of the barber’s involvement shone out like a beacon. First, Helbye had almost certainly injured his arm doing something criminal – not chasing a suspicious barge, as he had claimed – and Cook had rushed to tend him lest he blurted something incriminating. And second, Cook had also joined the fray at the Griffin, which had allowed Inge to escape. As if on cue, the barber began to brag.

‘You would all be hanged by now, were it not for me,’ he said, swishing the sword from side to side, although so clumsily that Bartholomew could tell he was no warrior. ‘Lucas had guessed the truth, and was going to sell it to the Senior Proctor, while that ridiculous Reames would certainly have betrayed us if the Sheriff had questioned him a second time.’

‘He nearly betrayed us the first,’ said Inge with a shudder, and ran his fingers lightly over Dallingridge’s feet, no doubt anticipating the price they would fetch. ‘The fool went to the castle with lead stains all over his hands! I was sure Tulyet would put two and two together.’

‘I dashed out Reames’ brains to keep you safe,’ boasted Cook. ‘And I stabbed Peres, because he caught me prising Cew’s brass off the wall. Do you hear that, Sheriff? I killed them, and you had no idea! You are stupid, and I shall be glad to leave your nasty little town. I am only sorry that you and Bartholomew will not be alive to tell everyone how I bested you.’

‘You do not like Cambridge?’ asked Helbye, surprised. ‘I would have thought it was the perfect place for you, with no other barber-surgeon to compete for business.’

Cook grimaced. ‘I like cutting hair, but what I really wanted was another patient like Dallingridge. Unfortunately, Bartholomew watched me like a hawk, so I dared not risk it.’

‘Dared not risk what?’ asked Inge, frowning. Then his jaw dropped. ‘You mean Dallingridge’s claims were true? He really was poisoned?’

‘I slipped a little something into his drink on Lammas Day,’ replied Cook airily. ‘And then I earned a fortune by providing the necessary medical care afterwards, although I was disappointed when he failed to remember my devotion in his will.’

‘That resin you swallowed,’ said Helbye to Inge, shooting Cook a wary glance. ‘How did it splash in your mouth, exactly? Was it when he happened to be holding the bucket?’

‘Poor Helbye has a fever,’ said Cook quickly to the lawyer. ‘But I have a potion that will quell these wild delusions. Of course I did not splash the resin in your face on purpose.’

‘I bet he did,’ countered Helbye sullenly. ‘And I bet he did something bad to my arm. There must be some reason why it hurts so much.’

There was, thought Bartholomew bleakly, and the reason was that Cook aimed to have the sergeant’s share of the profits as well as his own. Perhaps he intended to have Inge’s, too.

‘It hurts because it is mending,’ said Cook shortly, and held out a small phial. ‘Here, drink this. It will soon make you well again.’

Wisely, Helbye declined. Inge had been quaffing wine, but he set down his cup quickly, giving Cook a suspicious glance as he did so. Then he became businesslike, clearly unwilling to challenge the barber when their association was almost at an end anyway.

‘We will all travel to London on the barge at first light,’ he determined. ‘Except Helbye, who must direct any patrols away from this part of the Fens until we are clear. When the hue and cry has died down, he can join us in the city.’

‘What about Egidia?’ asked Helbye. ‘You cannot leave her in gaol.’

‘She confessed, so she must live with the consequences,’ said Inge, showing that Cook was not the only one with a ruthless streak when dealing with accomplices. He pointed at Dallingridge’s feet. ‘We shall load these now, and be ready to sail at dawn. You had better start back to the castle, Helbye, before you are missed and have awkward questions to answer.’

‘And I shall dispatch the prisoners,’ declared Cook, grinning his delight. ‘What a coup – Bartholomew and Tulyet on the same night! That will teach them to annoy me.’

Bartholomew ducked back into the undergrowth as the thieves emerged from the warehouse. Inge turned towards the barge, holding aloft a lantern that illuminated all eight soldiers toting Dallingridge’s feet. Helbye started back towards Quy, while Cook remained inside with Tulyet. Bartholomew tensed in an agony of indecision. Was there any point in running after the sergeant, to remind him of Tulyet’s affection and trust in the hope of winning an ally?

But when he peered back through the hole, he saw he would not have time. Cook was testing the edge of Tulyet’s sword for sharpness. Frantically, Bartholomew stumbled towards the door, slowed by drifting snow and the bitter cold that had numbed his legs. He drew his little knife with frozen fingers. It was not much of a weapon, but it might be enough to save Tulyet’s life. He flung open the door, holding the blade ready to lob.

And lowered it in astonishment.

Tulyet was free. The ropes that had bound him lay on the floor, along with the sack from his head. He held the sword, and Cook was pressed against the wall with its tip at his throat.

‘It seems no one ever taught Norys how to tie proper knots,’ he explained, when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Even you seem to have slipped them. Where is Harold? He will not be part of this unsavoury affair.’

‘Drowned,’ whispered Bartholomew, glaring at Cook.

‘He cannot be!’ cried Cook. ‘But if he is, it had nothing to do with me.’

‘He will be avenged,’ declared Tulyet hotly.

Bartholomew closed the door quickly. Cook and Tulyet were all but yelling, and sounds carried at night. Still, with luck, there would be some consternation when the others discovered that their boat was not where they had left it. It might keep them occupied for a while.

‘You cannot believe anything you just heard,’ bleated Cook. ‘I lied, to gain their confidence, so that I could save you.’

‘Do not treat me like a fool,’ snarled Tulyet. ‘Or I will kill you where you stand.’

Cook could see he meant it. ‘Please! I will tell you everything. It was all Inge’s idea. His and Helbye’s.’

‘Helbye,’ said Tulyet coldly. ‘You have murdered him, because even I can see his wound has turned bad. You did it deliberately.’

‘Yes, but he betrayed you. I have done you a favour.’

‘Keep him quiet, Dick,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘His cronies will come back if–’

‘We did not stab Moleyns, Tynkell and Lyng,’ interrupted Cook loudly, clearly aiming to make as much noise as possible. ‘But I know who did. I will tell you, but only if–’

‘Do not listen to him,’ interrupted Bartholomew, then cocked his head in alarm. Had he heard voices outside?

‘Who killed them?’ demanded Tulyet, all his attention on Cook.

‘Stoke Poges,’ replied Cook tauntingly. ‘That is the key to the mystery.’

‘No, it is not,’ snapped Bartholomew, aiming to bring an end to the discussion before it alerted Cook’s accomplices. ‘Stoke Poges is irrelevant, although the killer has been happy for us to think otherwise.’

‘It is not irrelevant,’ argued Cook, shooting Bartholomew a furious glance. ‘One of the jurors was Godrich, who is now murdered himself.’

‘You see?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘He knows nothing – Godrich is alive.’

‘The killer is a scholar,’ said Cook, ignoring him and continuing to address Tulyet. ‘I heard him bragging about his evil deeds to Inge.’

‘You heard him?’ echoed Tulyet sceptically.

Cook nodded earnestly. ‘At four o’clock on Monday morning, in St Mary the Great. We were getting ready to remove the bell, and I heard him boast that he had stabbed his victims in full view of you, the Senior Proctor and half the town.’

Bartholomew went to the door and peered out. The path appeared to be deserted, but for how much longer? Seeing it open, Cook began to speak in a bellow, causing Bartholomew to shut it again hastily.

‘Inge believed this man was telling the truth, because he eased away – he was obviously afraid the same would happen to him. I could tell he was dangerous, just by looking, so I kept to the shadows.’

‘So you did see him,’ pounced Tulyet. ‘Describe him to me.’

‘I cannot. The lamps were turned low for obvious reasons – we did not want them spotted by passing beadles, who would have come to investigate. All I saw was a man in a cloak.’

‘Dick!’ hissed Bartholomew. ‘We are wasting time. Come away, before–’

‘Then what did he sound like?’ Tulyet was unwilling to give up.

‘Educated, clever and confident. He made sneering remarks that put Inge in his place, and a bit later, he bludgeoned Helbye into diffidence. He said there will be trouble at the election – trouble that will result in the deaths of the new Chancellor and the Senior Proctor.’

Bartholomew stared at him. Was this another lie, to keep their attention until he could be rescued? Or was Cook telling the truth, and he and Tulyet needed to learn as much as they could before racing back to Cambridge to intervene?

‘What sort of trouble?’ he demanded.

‘He did not say, but it was to the effect that he had organised a “special surprise” that would change everything, and that the University could look forward to a future without Michael and Suttone. Oh, and he mentioned a ring.’

‘A piece of jewellery?’

‘I imagine he meant a seal. Perhaps he has impregnated it with poison.’ Cook smirked. ‘What a pity you were not nicer to me, Matthew. Then I might have told you all this sooner, and you could have saved Michael. Now he will die without ever wearing his bishop’s mitre.’

‘You bastard,’ snarled Tulyet, and the sword began to bite.

‘There is one more thing,’ squeaked Cook, gloating turning quickly to panic. ‘Moleyns had an inkling that he might die, and said that if he did, I was to ask the secret air.’

Tulyet’s eyes narrowed. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It was two days before he was killed, and we were in the castle. He leaned towards me, and said just that: that if anything were to happen to him, I should ask the secret air.’

A sudden crack made Tulyet glance around quickly, and Cook seized his momentary inattention to push him away and lob a knife. Bartholomew gaped in horror as it thudded into Tulyet’s chest. The Sheriff stumbled, and then Bartholomew himself was thrown backwards as Cook sprang at him.

The skirmish did not last long. Bartholomew stunned Cook with a punch, and turned quickly to see what could be done for Tulyet. But a sound from behind made him whip around again. Cook was on his feet and he held another dagger. Appalled, Bartholomew watched him take aim, cursing himself for not hitting the man harder. Then there was a thump, and Cook toppled backwards with a sword through his throat. The knife slid from his nerveless fingers.

‘Christ God, Matt!’ swore Tulyet crossly. ‘Never turn your back on an enemy until you are sure he is dead. Did you learn nothing at Poitiers? He almost killed you!’

‘I thought he had killed you,’ replied Bartholomew shakily.

‘Armour,’ explained Tulyet, pulling aside his tunic to reveal a breastplate. ‘Standard practice when the town is uneasy.’

Bartholomew took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I heard a crack before Cook attacked …’

‘Just the building creaking in the cold. I should not have let it distract me.’

Tulyet went to the door and peered out, while Bartholomew knelt next to the barber. Unlike his victims, Cook had died quickly and cleanly. Tulyet came to retrieve his sword, then looked at Bartholomew with haunted eyes.

‘Helbye has been my right-hand man for years. I would never have imagined …’

Bartholomew knew no words of comfort. ‘Mourn him later. We need to go.’

Tulyet nodded once, then became businesslike. ‘We must stop the barge from leaving, or the villains will escape and never face justice.’

‘I do not care about them. We have to rescue Michael.’

‘Not tonight,’ said Tulyet. ‘We must wait for daylight and an easing of the blizzard, or we will get lost. And you know what happens to those who lose their way in the Fens.’

‘It is a risk I must take. Michael is my friend.’

‘And mine, but we will be of no use to him dead. We must wait, Matt. To do anything else would be certain suicide, and that will help no one. The election is not until noon, anyway – there is plenty of time yet.’

‘Even so, we still cannot tackle the thieves. Not alone.’

‘We have the element of surprise. And do not underestimate my soldiering skills.’

‘Then do not overestimate mine. I am a physician, not a warrior.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘Believe me.’

Bartholomew was far from happy as he followed Tulyet along the towpath towards the barge, although it soon became clear that the Sheriff was right about waiting for the blizzard to ease before setting off for Cambridge – even struggling the short distance to the pier took an age, with snow now blowing directly into their faces. Following a track by the side of a lode was one thing, but crossing the Fens was another, and they would get lost for certain.

They slowed when they heard voices, and approached more cautiously, alert for guards. The barge had been sailed back to the wharf, and was moored again. This time it had been secured with three ropes, each tied with care. Everyone was on board, and the boisterous nature of the conversation suggested that they were celebrating their imminent departure with a drink.

‘I thought it would be more difficult to manoeuvre the thing back,’ muttered Bartholomew bitterly. ‘I should not have bothered.’

‘On the contrary,’ Tulyet whispered back. ‘It kept them busy while we spoke to Cook.’

They inched forward again, then climbed aboard. There was more light this time, as lamps were lit in the cabin. A crack in the door revealed the soldiers lounging in an attitude of ease, legs stretched in front of them and beakers in their hands. Inge was perched uncomfortably on a pile of rope near two sailors, one of whom wore a cap and was obviously in charge. Then Norys began to sing. The others joined in the chorus, although Inge remained silent.

‘It is lower in the water than it was earlier,’ whispered Bartholomew.

‘Of course it is,’ Tulyet murmured back. ‘They have loaded it with more stolen goods.’

‘I doubt Dallingridge’s feet made that much difference, which means they have miscalculated what it can carry. I believe it is sinking!’

‘That is wishful thinking, Matt. The crew will know their business. Now stay here and keep watch while I reconnoitre. We need something to give us an edge when we attack.’

‘Attack?’ gulped Bartholomew. ‘I hardly think–’

But Tulyet had gone. Bartholomew glanced along the barge in agitation. Then he narrowed his eyes. Just moments ago, the deck had been the same height as the pier, but now it was a finger’s width lower. He was right – it was going down!

‘The villains!’ muttered Tulyet when he returned. ‘Wilson’s lid, Stanmore’s tomb, lead from Gonville, Holty’s pinnacles, bits of scaffolding, brass plates, boxes of nails … I cannot believe how much they have filched. Perhaps you are right to wonder if the boat is overloaded.’

‘It is overloaded,’ Bartholomew whispered back fiercely. ‘Now help me.’

He hurried to the nearest bollard, and began the tortuous business of unshipping a rope that was tight, frozen hard and slippery with snow. It was far more difficult than it had been earlier, and Tulyet swore under his breath as he wrestled with the second. Both stopped in alarm when the singing ceased abruptly, but there was a hoot of laughter from Norys, and the racket started up again.

Bartholomew and Tulyet exchanged an agonised glance and returned to their labours. Tulyet’s rope came free first, and Bartholomew’s plopped into the water shortly after. They worked together on the third. Then Inge opened the cabin door and peered out into the swirling flakes. Bartholomew and Tulyet crouched down in alarm, waiting for the howl that would tell them they had been spotted. But there was a click, and they looked up to see the door closed again. Frantically now, they wrestled with the last rope. There was a splash as it fell.

They retreated to the shadows to watch. At first, nothing happened. Was it too heavy to drift now it was loaded with Dallingridge’s feet and nine passengers? Or grounded, perhaps? But then it began to move, slowly at first, then faster as it was caught by the current. The singing faltered into silence, after which came voices raised in fright. It was difficult to make out words, but it seemed that water was seeping into the cabin.

‘We are unshipped again,’ howled the captain, hurtling out of the cabin to peer over the side in horror. ‘It must have been your barber – I told you to go and find out what was taking him so long. Now we are going down, and I cannot swim!’

‘These manmade channels are not very deep,’ said Inge. ‘Do not worry. We shall wade–’

‘This is not a manmade channel,’ shrieked the captain, his voice shrill with terror. ‘It is a natural one. And it is deep – four fathoms at least.’

‘Then hoist the sails,’ snapped Inge, alarmed at last. ‘Take us back towards the pier, like you did the first time.’

All was a whirl of activity, but fright turned the captain and his crewman clumsy, and the soldiers made matters worse by trying to help. They got in the way, and hauled too roughly on the wrong ropes. The barge eased ever further from the shore, and then the lamps winked out in the cabin as they were doused by inrushing water. Three soldiers promptly leapt overboard in panic. Only one bobbed to the surface.

‘This is your fault,’ screamed the captain at Inge. ‘I told you that she could not take the last few pieces. But, oh, no, you had to have the lot. Well, your greed has killed us all!’

‘We risked our lives to get those things,’ snarled Inge. ‘They are too valuable to–’

He broke off with a yelp as the vessel listed violently, hurling him against a rail. Tulyet emerged from the trees and went to stand on the pier, sword in his hand.

‘Surrender, and we will help you to safety,’ he bellowed. ‘Or stay where you are and die.’

‘We surrender!’ howled Norys. ‘Please, Sheriff, sir! Help us!’

Inge released a petrified shriek as the barge began to roll. Two more soldiers toppled into the water, along with the crewman. Inge was left clinging to the foremast.

‘Here!’ Bartholomew had found a coil of a rope on the pier, and he threw it towards the stricken vessel. ‘Catch it and–’

But the barge tilted even further, and the captain disappeared with a wail of terror. There was a faint white splash where he hit the water, and then he was gone. Bartholomew reeled the empty rope back quickly, and tossed it out again.

‘Grab it!’ hollered Tulyet. ‘Hurry, or the boat will take you with it when it goes.’

It was not the right thing to say to panicky men. Frantically, Inge seized the rope and began to wrap it around himself, but Norys leapt forward with a roar of rage and wrested it from him. There was a brief tussle, which Norys appeared to win. But the rope was caught under the bell, and he could not pull it free. There was a muffled rumble as the cargo shifted, and the barge jerked savagely to port. Water fountained up all around it, and then it slid out of sight. The rope tore through Bartholomew’s hands.

He could see heads bobbing in the black, ice-frosted water, and looked around desperately for something else to throw. There was nothing, but a coracle was tethered nearby, an unwieldy craft that threatened to tip him into the river when he jumped into it.

He paddled out as fast as he could, and reached a half-submerged body. It was the captain, eyes closed in death. Bartholomew grabbed the crewman next, but the fellow kicked and thrashed so frantically that it was impossible to haul him aboard. He was lost when one of his flailing feet struck the coracle and sent it spinning away – by the time Bartholomew had sculled back again, there was no sign of him.

Meanwhile, two soldiers had reached him. They clung to the side, so determined to be rescued first that they began to punch each other away. The resulting fracas saw them both disappear, and although Bartholomew fished about with his paddle for several minutes in the hope that one would grasp it, neither did. He looked around wildly, wondering if they had been caught by the current and pulled downstream, but the water there was black, glassy and empty.

‘Come to this bank,’ Tulyet was yelling, and Bartholomew glanced around to see three soldiers staggering unsteadily up the opposite one. ‘You will die over there – there is no shelter.’

Then Bartholomew heard a muffled groan, and turned to see Norys floating nearby. He managed to pull him halfway into the little craft, and rowed for all he was worth to the dock, where Tulyet was waiting to help. But Norys had been knifed, probably by Inge during the tussle for the rope, and he did not live long, despite Bartholomew’s best efforts.

‘No,’ said Tulyet, gripping Bartholomew’s arm as he aimed for the coracle again. ‘It is too late. You will only be retrieving corpses, and it is not worth the risk.’

‘The men who swam to the other shore,’ said Bartholomew hoarsely, appalled by what had happened. ‘What about them?’

‘They are soaking wet in a raging blizzard,’ replied Tulyet sombrely. ‘And there is nothing over there but bogs. They will be dead long before morning.’