The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 18

Michael was not in St Mary the Great, and his chief clerk said he had gone back to Michaelhouse. The vicars-general had returned to their accommodations in King’s Hall, where they were relaxing for a few hours before starting the long trek home to Canterbury in the morning.

‘What did they decide?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

The clerk looked away unhappily. ‘No one knows, other than them and Michael. All we can do is wait for Teofle to make his speech.’

Bartholomew and William hurried home through the teeming rain, fearing the worst. Michaelhouse’s yard was a square of liquid mud, and it was a treacherous journey across it. Bartholomew flung open the Master’s door without knocking, then stared in surprise.

Michael was entertaining Brampton and – somewhat surprisingly – Lucy. His eyes were indeed bloodshot, and he looked as though he had not slept in a week. However, his face was split by an enormous grin that told Bartholomew all he needed to know. He sagged in relief.

‘You won?’ asked William tentatively. ‘The vicars-general confirmed your election?’

Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Of course! That was never in question.’

‘Oh, yes it was,’ countered William. ‘Every scholar in the University has been on tenterhooks for days, and you have been scuttling around looking fraught and anxious.’

‘Because of other matters,’ explained Michael. ‘I was never worried about the election.’

‘What “other matters”?’ demanded William, and pointed a grubby finger at Lucy before Michael could answer. ‘And why is Donwich’s mistress here?’

‘I am not his mistress,’ objected Lucy crossly. ‘I never have been and I never will be.’ She stood. ‘And if I am to be insulted here, like I was in Clare Hall–’

‘He meant no offence,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘He is just surprised to see you here.’ He glanced at Michael. ‘So am I, to be honest. What is going on?’

Lucy sat again. ‘My befriending of Donwich was part of their plan,’ she said. ‘Michael’s and my brother’s, I mean.’

‘Do not tell me that you recruited her to compromise Donwich’s morals, and thus strengthen your own claim, Brother!’ exclaimed William. ‘That was underhand. Well done!’

Michael was indignant. ‘I would never stoop to such low tactics! I secured Lucy’s help over something far more important than who will be the next Chancellor.’

William was bemused. ‘Is there something more important than that?’

The monk’s plump face broke into another happy grin. ‘I have been negotiating an arrangement with the vicars-general – namely, that all the priests in the Canterbury Province should only be permitted to study here. Any cleric wanting to go to Oxford during the next decade must apply for a special licence and pay us compensation.’

He laughed with the sheer giddy joy of it, while Bartholomew supposed he should have guessed that Michael had been working on something huge when all three vicars-general and their retinues had arrived. Clearly, such an enormous party would not have been needed to pass judgement on the legitimacy of an election.

Brampton hastened to elaborate, also smiling. ‘It means we shall have a steady and reliable flow of students for the next ten years, not to mention the fact that our pact comes with a substantial donation from the archbishop’s coffers.’

William blinked stupidly at Michael. ‘So you have not been defending yourself to the vicars-general these last few days? And the chancellorship–’

Michael interrupted with an impatient gesture. ‘Do you really think important men like Teofle would waste time examining an election organised by me? A man they know and trust? Of course our meetings were not about that!’

‘Donwich played right into our hands by challenging Michael,’ crowed Brampton. ‘I could have kissed him! It gave us the perfect excuse to fetch them here early. Now we can recruit new students over the summer, instead of waiting for the next academic year – which we would have had to do if the vicars had come in August, as they originally intended.’

William continued to look bewildered, although Bartholomew began to appreciate why Michael had considered his work with the Archbishop’s agents more pressing than catching a killer. He was not surprised that it had caused him sleepless nights, as it was clearly one of the most significant coups the University had ever won.

‘So you knew Donwich was innocent of murder,’ surmised William, ‘but you let Matt persecute him anyway, to distract him from what you were really doing.’

The smile faded from Michael’s face. ‘No, I would never have done that – to Matt or to Donwich. Matt genuinely believed that Donwich was the most likely suspect for Aynton’s murder, and I had no reason to doubt his assessment.’

‘Unfortunately, we have just learned that Donwich has an alibi,’ said Bartholomew, and explained how the Master of Clare Hall had been shadowed home by March and the chaplains.

‘Pity,’ sighed Michael, ‘although I am not surprised. He is unpleasant, but I cannot see him as a killer, even so.’

‘You should have told us what you were doing, Brother,’ said William accusingly. ‘We are your friends. We might have been able to help.’

‘I wanted to, believe me,’ said Michael quietly. ‘But everyone involved in the negotiations swore oaths of secrecy – at my insistence. You see, if they had failed, I wanted to be able to deny they ever happened, so as to avoid everyone thinking that Canterbury considers our little community of scholars a poor second to Oxford.’

‘Well, it is done now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And everyone will be delighted when they hear what you have won for us.’

‘Not everyone,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘That was part of the problem. Donwich and some of his supporters feel that we are too large already. If they had learned what I was doing, they would have sabotaged my efforts.’

‘How?’ asked William, bristling at the idea.

‘By reminding the vicars-general that Oxford has a lot more to offer. And if the other place had been chosen, it would have been the end of us. We are smaller and more vulnerable, and losing all the priests in the Province of Canterbury would have seen us wither and die.’

‘But now Oxford will wither and die?’ asked William keenly.

Brampton laughed. ‘They are powerful enough to survive without Canterbury for a few years. We are not.’

‘It was the most terrifying task I have ever undertaken,’ admitted Michael. ‘The stakes could not have been higher – the very existence of the University itself.’

‘He is the only man in the whole country who could have convinced Teofle, Ely and Tinmouth that we are worthier than a foundation that is older, richer, bigger and more stable,’ said Brampton, giving the monk a shy smile. ‘You should be proud of him.’

‘Do not scowl, Father!’ chided Michael. ‘Later today, you will have the happy duty of informing your fellow Franciscans to expect a massive surge in numbers next term.’

‘They will be pleased,’ acknowledged William. ‘But you trusted Brampton and his sister before your Michaelhouse friends. That is hurtful.’

‘I am his Senior Proctor,’ said Brampton haughtily. ‘Of course he confided in me. However, he did not recruit Lucy, I did. Her remit was to prevent Donwich from bursting in on the negotiations and spoiling everything. I never told her why.’

‘It is true, Father,’ said Lucy. ‘And in return, my brother has agreed to drop his lawsuit against Narboro. Hopefully, it will not be too late for me to find another suitor.’

‘But Lucy – and you, Brampton – befriended Donwich long before he challenged Michael’s election,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘How did you know he might be a problem?’

‘Because, as Junior Proctor, I monitored all the University’s most troublesome scholars,’ replied Brampton. ‘Thus I was able to predict exactly who would need distracting when Michael began his work. It would have looked suspicious for Lucy to bewitch Donwich at the last minute, so I arranged for it to happen in advance.’

‘It is true,’ said Lucy. ‘I admit I was uncomfortable not knowing why I had to inveigle my way into his affections, but needs must. However, I am glad it is over. I did not enjoy deceiving him – he was always kind to me.’

‘She is not my only agent,’ bragged Brampton. ‘I had several other schemes in play, all designed to ensure that powerful or vocal scholars did not make a nuisance of themselves. And none did, even though some of them are very difficult characters.’

‘It is what makes you such a good proctor,’ put in Michael appreciatively.

‘I suppose Ufford and Rawby from King’s Hall knew what you were doing, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were suspiciously eager to fetch the vicars-general from Ely, and then host them extravagantly in King’s Hall.’

‘My College will benefit the most from the arrangement Michael has made,’ said Brampton smugly. ‘All the wealthiest and most influential of these new students will choose us, so yes, Ufford and Rawby were recruited to help, although, like Lucy, they did not know why. They were just told that it would be to King’s Hall’s advantage.’

Michael stood abruptly. ‘But pleasant though it is to bask in our glory, we have a killer to catch.’

‘It is too late,’ said William sullenly. ‘There are only a few hours left of term, so you will have to be content with winning hundreds more scholars for the University and being confirmed as our Chancellor.’

‘I am afraid that is not enough,’ said Michael. ‘And much can be achieved in a few hours. We have done it before, after all.’

‘You will not do it this time,’ said William. ‘You have no clues left to follow. Ergo, you will announce Gille as the culprit regardless of whether it is true. You mark my words.’

Bartholomew escorted Brampton and Lucy out of the College, while a resentful William gave Michael a more detailed account of what had transpired in Clare Hall. As they went, Brampton confided that when the vicars-general had first arrived in Cambridge, they had already decided to favour Oxford, and had only agreed to listen to Michael’s arguments as a favour to an old friend. None of them had expected Michael to change their minds.

‘So now you must solve these murders,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘Because if you fail, it will take the shine off his victory.’

‘You do it then,’ retorted Bartholomew, resenting the man’s presumption. ‘You are Senior Proctor.’

Brampton looked startled by the notion. ‘But I would not know where to start! My skills lie in other areas.’

‘I have something that might help you, Matthew,’ said Lucy, and withdrew a piece of parchment from the purse at her waist. ‘I found it when I washed Martyn’s corpse.’

‘When you did what?’ blurted Bartholomew.

‘He had no family or College,’ explained Brampton, ‘so it fell to me, as Senior Proctor, to organise his burial rites. However, the crone who came to prepare him was drunk, so I dismissed her and told my sister to do it instead.’ He glanced slyly at her. ‘Another favour in exchange for dropping my suit against Narboro.’

‘But I searched Martyn’s body,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if Brampton could be trusted to keep his end of the bargain when it so obviously suited him to have her at his beck and call. ‘I do not believe I missed anything.’

‘You probably did not pull the brim off his hat, though,’ explained Lucy sheepishly. ‘I did not mean to, but I grabbed it too roughly, and it came away in my hand. This note was tucked into the lining, suggesting he intended to keep it very safe. It was soaking wet, so the ink has run, but I have dried it as well as I can.’

She started to pass it to Bartholomew, but Brampton snatched it from her first. He turned it this way and that, then screwed it into a ball and tossed it away. ‘It is illegible. What a pity. From the way you spoke, I thought it would be a vital clue. But we cannot stay gossiping here all day. Come along, Lucy. We have much to do.’

Lucy’s jaw dropped in dismay at his cavalier treatment of something with which she had evidently taken considerable pains, but he grabbed her arm and steered her through the gate before she could voice her objections. She managed to shoot Bartholomew an apologetic glance over her shoulder, then she and her brother were gone.

Bartholomew bent to retrieve the crumpled parchment. It was wet all over again, which darkened the faint marks that had once been letters, so that one or two words could still be made out. He ducked into the porter’s lodge to examine it out of the rain.

He felt his pulse quicken when he recognised the spidery scrawl – all scholars were familiar with their chancellors’ writing. So Aynton had given Martyn a letter to deliver, perhaps a twin of the one he had entrusted to Huntyngdon. But excitement was quickly followed by disappointment, because Brampton was right: most of it was illegible. One word stood out though – Baldok. He frowned. Did it refer to the village that lay to the southwest of Cambridge, or the burgess who had been murdered on the bridge a few weeks earlier?

He peered at it again, and made out Hunty, which he assumed would have read ‘Huntyngdon’. Then yet so in the middle of a sentence, which was meaningless without the rest. And at the top, y f-d Teof.

‘My friend Teofle?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Aynton was writing to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s vicar-general?’

But if so, why was the message in the vernacular, when Latin was the language of choice for communicating with high-ranking churchmen? Or had Aynton and Teofle known each other well enough to dispense with such formality? After all, Bartholomew did not always use Latin when jotting notes to Michael, and Teofle had mentioned a long-standing friendship with Aynton when he and his retinue had first arrived in the town.

He continued to stare and to think, and the more he did, the more he became convinced that Aynton had written to Teofle with information about Burgess Baldok. Had he learned the identity of Baldok’s killer? It was a crime that had never been solved, despite Tulyet’s best and continued efforts, and surely, it could not be coincidence that the sender of both letters and their bearers had been murdered themselves?

Hopeful for the first time in days, he hurried to discuss his idea with Michael.

The monk was sitting alone with his eyes closed and an expression of intense concentration on his face. William had gone to inspect the sluices again, dragging a reluctant Zoone with him – the engineer had no desire to be out in the pouring rain – still concerned about flooding.

‘I am reviewing all you told me about the murders,’ said Michael, opening his eyes. ‘Hoping to spot something that you have missed.’

‘And have you?’

‘No.’ Michael winced before blurting, ‘I cannot tell you what agony it was, watching you struggle, but being unable to help. I am more sorry than I can say.’

‘Are the negotiations the reason why Aynton resigned so suddenly?’

Michael nodded. ‘He thought they should be led by a strong Chancellor, not a weak one with a Senior Proctor whispering in his ear. I disagree – it would have been easier with two of us. But what is done is done, and I shall honour his memory by helping you catch his killer.’

Bartholomew showed him the letter. ‘You can make out part of the names Huntyngdon and Baldok, part of my friend Teofle, and the words yet so.’

Michael squinted at it through the glass that Bartholomew had given him some years ago, when he had started to complain about everyone else’s illegible handwriting.

‘But why would Aynton write to Teofle and Narboro – of all people – about a murdered burgess?’ he asked, bemused.

‘Because he knew the identity of the culprit,’ replied Bartholomew.

‘Then why not tell the Sheriff – the man who was investigating the crime? Or me, if the culprit is a scholar?’

Bartholomew had no answer. ‘Time is passing, and we cannot sit in here all day. Where do you want to start?’

‘At Peterhouse,’ said Michael, standing abruptly. ‘Martyn taught there on occasion, and he was friends with Gayton and Stantone. Perhaps he talked to them about his mission.’

‘Why would he?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling it was a waste of time they did not have. ‘Huntyngdon never did, and they were both discreet, trustworthy men.’

‘Can you think of a better idea?’ demanded Michael. ‘No? Then let us go.’

The moment they left Michael’s quarters, they became aware that something bad had happened. Urgent footsteps hammered in the lane outside, and there was a lot of agitated shouting. The other Fellows were with William, who was speaking in a frantic gabble. Students and servants were running towards them, eager to find out what was going on.

‘The crisis will come tonight,’ William was yelling. ‘And it cannot be averted, because the sluice gates are jammed and not even Zoone knows how to unlock them.’

‘Poor Peterhouse and Valence Marie,’ said Aungel. ‘They will suffer the worst–’

‘Never mind them!’ William raved on. ‘If the gates give way under the pressure, a great wall of water will race down the river, destroying everything in its path, including our pier! Most of our revenue comes from that, and if we lose it, we shall be destitute again.’

‘William is right,’ said Zoone soberly. ‘Our pier will be smashed beyond repair when the gates burst – and I say when, not if, because they will certainly tear apart unless either they are opened or the river stops rising. And as we are set for forty days of rain …’

Michael was pale. ‘There must be something we can do to save it.’

Zoone considered. ‘I suppose we could build a breakwater next to it, to absorb the brunt of the impact. It will not be easy, but–’

‘Do it,’ ordered Michael. ‘We cannot lose our best source of income.’

Zoone nodded briskly. ‘Then I shall need sacks filled with sand, a boat, a large net, and as many willing hands as we can muster.’

There was an immediate clamour as all those listening volunteered their services. The students were ordered to dig sand, Walter was told to find a net, the Fellows and Agatha were ordered to collect sacks, Cynric offered to locate a boat, and Clippesby was given the task of taking all the College’s animals and birds to the stables, where they would be safe.

Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. He could not help Zoone if he was to catch Aynton’s killer in the next few hours, but nor could he disappear and leave his colleagues to do all the work. Michael was similarly torn.

‘My College or a murderer,’ he muttered, taut with indecision. ‘You hunt for him, Matt. I will remain here with Zoone.’

But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The case needs fresh eyes. You go; I will stay.’

The monk was not happy, but he hurried away into the town.

The rest of the day was simultaneously wretched and anxious for the Michaelhouse men. The rain belted down harder than ever, making their task more difficult and dangerous with every passing hour. Water poured off the fields upstream and gushed into the Cam, threatening to wash them away as they struggled to follow Zoone’s anxious instructions.

Heavy rain was not normally a problem for the town – the dams controlled the flow of the river, and excess water could be diverted into a series of channels and bogs to the west. But now that the East and Middle sluices were locked, and the West Dam was only open just enough to drive Morys’s mill, the land to the south was beginning to flood.

At noon, Cynric arrived with the alarming news that still no one had been able to work out what Morys had done to the gates, and that all three dams, along with the road bridges that ran across the top of them, were now in serious danger of being washed away as more and more water backed up behind them.

Zoone and his helpers laboured on with their breakwater, and Bartholomew was sure he had never been so physically exhausted. Every bone and muscle ached, but he dared not stop, because it was now obvious even to a non-engineer that the pier would be swept away unless the breakwater was finished.

Disturbing news arrived throughout the afternoon: the Gilbertine Priory, built on a rise, had become an island, accessible only by boat; Coe Fen was submerged completely; the Hall of Valence Marie had been evacuated; and Peterhouse was moments away from inundation. On a more positive note, every book from both Colleges had been safely stored in the tower of St Mary the Less.

‘And the Spital is lost,’ gasped Meadowman, who had come to find Michael. ‘The only building you can see is the chapel, and everyone who lives there is sitting on its roof.’

‘I told you so,’ shouted William to anyone who would listen. ‘I said the blocked sluices would cause problems, but did anyone believe me and do something about it? No! You all thought I was deranged.’

‘He is deranged,’ muttered Zoone. ‘Unfortunately, he is also right. I do not know what Morys thought he was doing, but it will spell disaster for the town – one from which it may never recover. What a pity after all Michael has done for us this week.’

‘We have had heavy rains and floods before,’ gasped Bartholomew, struggling with a long piece of wood. ‘We will survive.’

‘That was when the sluices were working,’ said Zoone grimly. ‘But now they are not.’

It was dusk by the time the engineer finally declared that the breakwater should be strong enough to protect the pier from the imminent surge, at which point Bartholomew was not the only one who reeled with fatigue. Every Fellow, student and servant had given his all, and there was a concerted sigh of relief at Zoone’s announcement.

‘Now what?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely.

‘We wait,’ replied Zoone tersely. ‘Ah, here is the Master.’

He hurried forward to make his report to Michael, while Bartholomew tended to an assortment of cuts, scratches and bruises on those who had worked with more haste than care. The moment he had finished, he ran to hear how Michael had fared with their investigation.

‘Nothing,’ spat Michael, all his earlier jubilation leached away. ‘I spent an age in Peterhouse, asking all manner of desperate questions about Martyn, and I searched every inch of his room in the Cardinal’s Cap, but I learned nothing.’

Bartholomew was not surprised. ‘Did you speak to Narboro?’

‘No, because he was out, and no one knows where he had gone. He did tell Gayton that he would be home by nightfall, though.’

‘It is almost dark now,’ said Bartholomew. All he wanted to do was pull off his dirty, wet clothes and lie down, but he knew he would not rest easy if he did. ‘We could go and see if he is back.’

‘We could, but what can he tell us that you have not already asked?’

‘Probably nothing,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But I imagine Aynton, Huntyngdon and Martyn would want us to try anyway.’

Bartholomew forced himself into a brisk walk, Michael puffing at his side. People were everywhere, running and shouting. Tulyet had ordered the evacuation of all the houses along the river and the King’s Ditch. Some residents refused to go, afraid of looters. Others darted back and forth with their precious belongings – pots, pans, furniture, animals, bedding, clothes. The rain pounded down harder than ever.

Dickon was everywhere, and Bartholomew wondered if his spell in gaol had imbued him with greater authority, because there was no question of anyone disobeying his orders. He set soldiers to stand guard over the refugees’ possessions, commandeered St Bene’t’s Church as an emergency shelter, and meticulously cleared the alleys that led to the river, which were predicted to flood at any moment.

The Trumpington Gate was above water, but the roads that ran to its east and west were submerged and impassable. The Mill Pond lapped at the tops of the Small Bridges, while the banks of the King’s Ditch had collapsed near the Barnwell Gate, allowing it to spew its vile contents into the grounds of the Franciscan Priory and the Round Church’s cemetery.

Once past the harried sentries, Bartholomew and Michael hastened to Peterhouse. Its scholars were in a clamouring cluster around the gate, some carrying travelling packs.

‘They want permission to leave, Brother,’ explained Gayton. ‘It is not only Cambridge that will flood if it rains like this for the next forty days, and they are anxious to get home before the weather traps them here all summer.’

‘They aim to go now?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘In the dark?’

‘Some live many miles away,’ explained Stantone. ‘So every hour counts.’

Michael made his decision. ‘All those who have more than a day’s ride may leave now. The rest will remain until tomorrow, although I shall bring the graduation ceremony forward to dawn and announce the end of term immediately afterwards.’

‘You heard him,’ shouted Gayton. ‘Those who are eligible, off you go and God’s speed. The rest, back inside. I want everything carried upstairs – furniture, rugs, everything.’

‘Has Narboro returned yet?’ asked Michael, as the scholars ran to do as they were told.

‘An hour ago,’ replied Gayton in disgust. ‘We asked him to help us carry our library to safety, but he refused. He is in Hoo Hall, packing up his own belongings.’

Bartholomew was not surprised. Peterhouse had opted not to renew Narboro’s Fellowship, so why should he put himself out for colleagues who did not want him? Then Stantone approached. He glanced around to make sure no one else could hear, and began to speak in a confidential whisper.

‘The Sheriff has hidden Morys’s body in our charnel house. We were not very happy about it, but he overrode our objections. He told us not to tell anyone, but I feel you have a right to know, Brother.’

Michael was bemused. ‘Did he say why he feels the need to secrete corpses on University property while the town teeters on the brink of disaster?’

‘Because there have been attempts to seize it and string it up in revenge,’ replied Stantone. ‘Word is out that Morys tried to steal the bridge money, while everyone knows our current crisis is his fault for meddling with the dams. Tulyet wants us to keep it safe.’

‘Have you remembered anything new since we last talked?’ asked Michael, far more concerned with his investigation than the security of Morys’s mortal remains.

‘Just one thing,’ said Stantone. ‘Narboro gossiped to us several times about Baldok, apparently fascinated by the fact that he was murdered on the bridge. But Aynton was murdered on the bridge, too, and as you say he tried to send Narboro a letter …’

‘We must corner Narboro again at once,’ said Bartholomew urgently to Michael. ‘I have said from the start that Aynton’s letters hold the key. We know the one he gave Martyn was about Baldok, and if Huntyngdon’s – intended for Narboro – contained the same information, we may have our connection.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael cautiously. ‘Although it is only a significant connection if Narboro knows something about Baldok that the rest of us do not. If he just likes nattering about another man’s violent end …’

‘Which is probably all it is,’ put in Stantone warningly. ‘I seriously doubt that empty-headed fool knows anything important.’

‘I will take my chances,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run.

The only way to reach Hoo Hall now that Coe Fen was under water was via the lane. However, they had not taken many steps along the Trumpington road towards it when they were hailed by Tulyet, soaking wet and muddy from his fruitless battle with the sluices.

‘Do not go too far, Matt,’ he warned. ‘We will need you soon. When the river breaches the dams, it will flood everything between it and Milne Street. Some folk refuse to leave their homes, so there will be injuries and drownings for certain.’

‘Why not just smash the sluice gates?’ asked Michael. ‘Then all the excess water can be safely channelled away.’

‘Zoone says that breaking them now will allow the water to rush through so fast that it will destroy everything in its path anyway – houses, jetties and our expensive new bridge. The only way to avert disaster is to crank them open slowly, but Morys’s selfish tampering has stolen that option away from us.’

‘Perhaps Zoone will think of something else,’ said Bartholomew hopefully.

‘There is nothing else,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘But now your breakwater is finished, he has agreed to stay at the Mill Pond and monitor the situation. I begged Shardelowe to do likewise, but he refuses to leave the bridge.’

‘He is still working on it?’

‘Creating “starlings” to funnel the worst of the water to either side of the piers. But never mind that. I need you two to retrieve Morys’s body from Peterhouse and put it somewhere dry.’

‘We cannot,’ objected Michael. ‘We are too–’

‘Please, Brother,’ said Tulyet hoarsely. ‘I cannot trust my men with this – they know his tampering with the sluices has put their town in danger. Dickon offered to do it, but you will appreciate why I cannot have him associating with headless corpses.’

‘Why does Morys need to be dry?’ demanded Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is not as if he will drown.’

‘No, but he might float away, and I shall need a body to exhibit when the crisis is over, or folk will say he escaped justice and we shall have a riot. Please do it. Here is a lamp.’

Bartholomew resented the waste of time, but he understood why it had to be done. The moment he and Michael turned back towards Peterhouse, Tulyet took off at a run, yelling for Dickon to check the water levels round the houses in Luthborne Lane.

‘You find Narboro, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I will see to Morys.’

‘You cannot carry his body on your own,’ said Michael. ‘And I doubt Narboro will have answers anyway, despite your near-frantic optimism.’

Bartholomew set off towards the charnel house, stomach churning in agitation. It was already surrounded by calf-deep water, and they opened the door to find Morys partly submerged: Tulyet was right to fear him bobbing away.

‘His killer was deranged,’ said Michael, recoiling anew at the sight. ‘No one should feel safe as long as that madman walks free.’

Bartholomew was too exhausted to think about it. There was a bier leaning against one wall, so he laid it on the floor and took hold of Morys’s shoulders, indicating that Michael was to grab the feet. As they lifted, something caught his eye – something that glinted near the stump of Morys’s neck. He plucked it out and inspected it more closely. It took a moment to identify, but when he did, it answered several questions and raised others.

‘A shard of glass,’ he breathed, holding it up for Michael to see. ‘Reflective on one side and painted on the other.’

‘So?’ asked Michael blankly.

‘It is part of a mirror – a lover’s mirror! And I know of only one person who has one.’

Michael regarded him uneasily. ‘You think that shard came from Narboro’s? But how did it get inside Morys?’

‘We had better find out,’ said Bartholomew, a small flame of hope igniting within him. ‘Come on!’

‘But what about Morys?’ asked Michael.

‘We shall put him on the highest shelf and retrieve him when the waters recede. He will not float away if we lock the door, and he cannot get any wetter than he is already.’

The rain continued to hammer down, and even while they had been inside the charnel house, the situation had changed. The Mill Pond, Coe Fen and the river were now one continuous sheet of water, so it was impossible to see where one began and another ended. Lamps had been lit in order to monitor the rising flood, and their reflections shimmered across its surface.

The lane down to Hoo Hall was becoming impassable, and the flood was knee-deep in places. At one point, Michael accidentally veered off to one side, and yelped in alarm when he found himself in water up to his thighs. Bartholomew hauled him out, and they struggled on.

‘We should wait,’ Michael gasped, when they passed the last of the houses and were faced with a lake. The lane was invisible beneath it, rendering the rest of the journey to Hoo Hall precarious, to say the least. ‘Narboro will not be going anywhere tonight.’

But Bartholomew shook his head. He had not slept properly in days, and had spent most of the last week chasing his own tail over the murders or the flux. Every bone in his body burned with fatigue, but new energy surged through him at the prospect of answers at last. He refused to listen to the voice of reason at the back of his mind that warned him against heaping so much hope on a piece of glass. He ploughed on, feet aching with the cold.

‘This is madness,’ snapped Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm to wrench him to a standstill. ‘Even if we do manage to reach Hoo Hall, we will not get out again – the flood is rising by the moment, and the only way to escape will be by boat.’

Bartholomew knew the monk was right, because he could feel the tug of a current around his legs – more water was flowing into Coe Fen with every minute that passed. But a sort of madness had seized him at the prospect of a solution, so he shook off the monk’s restraining hand and forged ahead. He would not give up now!

They waded on. Michael was silent and Bartholomew knew he was worried – the monk could not swim, and had always been afraid of drowning.

‘Thank God!’ he breathed, when they finally reached the house. He stretched unsteady hands to touch the wall in relief. ‘We made it.’

They ploughed towards the door to find water pouring through it – Bartholomew had forgotten that the bottom floor was below ground level. He raised the lamp and saw tables and benches floating around inside, some still piled with the food that had been stored there. Then he almost lost his footing as the force of the water increased all of a sudden, almost certainly as a result of some blockage breaking free upstream. For the first time, he appreciated the danger his reckless single-mindedness had put them in.

‘We should abandon this foolery and go back,’ said Michael unsteadily, more alarmed than ever. ‘Narboro must wait.’

‘We cannot,’ said Bartholomew, staggering again as the water surged faster still. ‘It is too late. You were right – we should not have come.’

Michael’s face was white in the lamplight. ‘Then I sincerely hope you have a plan to keep us safe, because if I drown, I shall haunt you for eternity.’

Bartholomew nodded towards the stairs on the far side of the hall. ‘We have to reach those and go up to the dormitory. We should be safe there, and Narboro can answer questions while we wait for rescue.’

‘You mean swim?’ gulped Michael in horror. ‘But you know I cannot!’

‘It is not very deep yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We can wade. Come on.’

He climbed down the steps into icy water that covered his knees, then his thighs, then his waist. By the time he was on the floor, it was up to his chest, although the gushing flow from the door suggested it would not stay that way for long.

‘Quickly,’ he ordered Michael. ‘Just follow me.’

He held the lantern high with one hand, and shoved aside the furniture that bobbed in their way with the other. The water was agonisingly cold, and yet again, he realised that his frantic desire for answers had been stupid. Then something flashed ahead of him – another lantern. Narboro was coming down the dormitory stairs. He carried a saddlebag and wore a travelling cloak.

‘You are not going anywhere,’ called Bartholomew. ‘You are a murderer!’

For a moment, the only sounds in Hoo Hall were the hiss of the flood rushing through the door and Michael’s agitated breathing. The water now reached their shoulders, and if it rose by more than the length of a man’s hand, the monk would drown, because he would no longer be able to touch the floor with his feet. Bartholomew continued to plough towards the stairs, pulling Michael with him.

‘We know you killed Morys,’ he told Narboro as he went. ‘We found part of your mirror in his body. You used a piece of it to saw off his head. Lyonnes’, too.’

‘I never did,’ shouted Narboro, although he drew a dagger, which did nothing to convince them of his innocence. ‘But come any closer and I will stab you.’

‘Hoo Hall is surrounded by water,’ said Bartholomew, aware that behind him, Michael was beginning to panic. ‘You cannot escape, so you may as well confess.’

‘Stop!’ snarled Narboro, drawing a second blade. ‘One more step and I will lob these – one for each of you. Now back away, against the far wall, at once!’

With alarm, Bartholomew saw he meant it. Reluctantly, he began to do as he was told, although the water was now up to his chin, and it was easier to swim than to walk. His arm ached from holding the lamp, but he dared not drop it, because if Narboro retreated back to the dormitory, he and Michael would be trapped in a flooded room in the dark, an outcome that did not bear thinking about.

‘Keep moving!’ shouted Narboro. ‘Right across to the hearth.’

Bartholomew was loath to comply, because that would leave him too far away to launch any kind of attack, but Narboro took aim with his blade, so he quickly did as he was told. He helped Michael to a place where the monk could cling to the top of the fireplace, then turned his attention back to Narboro.

‘You lied about your reason for paying Morys,’ he called, as his teeth started to chatter from the cold. ‘It was to buy his silence about you beheading Lyonnes. I suppose he kept demanding more, so you killed him, too.’

Narboro peered towards the main door, gauging the distance. ‘What reason could I possibly have had for dispatching Lyonnes?’ he asked, although he sounded distant, his mind on escape. ‘I barely knew the man.’

Bartholomew had no answer, but was not about to admit it. ‘The shards of your mirror were sharp – you showed them to me – but it still must have taken some serious hacking to decapitate him. You got the idea from Dickon, who had threatened to cleave Lyonnes’ head from his shoulders after a row. You knew everyone would think he did it, thus deflecting the blame from you.’

‘What nonsense!’ cried Narboro, most of his attention still on the door.

‘Dickon is a child,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘What sort of man lets a boy suffer for a crime he has committed himself?’

Narboro sneered. ‘He may be young, but the Devil sired him, and no one other than his father was sorry when he was arrested.’

Bartholomew was painfully aware that Michael was beginning to run out of handholds as the water lifted them ever higher. His own legs ached from staying afloat, while his arms burned with the effort of holding the lamp aloft.

‘You are a liar,’ he went on, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. ‘You do know what Aynton wrote in the letter that saw Huntyngdon murdered. And that led you to dispatch Lyonnes and Morys.’

‘He did not kill them,’ came a voice from the door. ‘I did.’

Lucy Brampton was in the doorway, paddling a coracle.