A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22)

by Susanna Gregory

  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 m
ight 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 cab
in 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.