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.’
CHAPTER 17
Dawn was still some way off, but there was a perceptible lightening of the sky in the east. The wind had dropped, and the snow no longer swirled quite so thickly. Bartholomew peered into the gloom for the towpath. It was hidden under a billowy whiteness. It would not be easy to fight their way along it, and the going would be harder still in the open.
‘Come on,’ he said urgently. ‘It will be light by the time we reach the horses, and then we can ride the rest of the way.’
They stopped at the warehouse, where Bartholomew quickly exchanged his wet clothes for some left by the soldiers – they stank and were full of fleas, but at least they were dry. Then he and Tulyet began to plough along the path towards Quy. To take his mind off their agonisingly slow progress, he considered Cook’s claims about the killer. There were only two suspects left on the original list, and try as he might, Bartholomew could not imagine young Kolvyle intimidating the likes of Inge and Helbye. Which left Hopeman.
Did the Dominican know that Michael might try to usher Suttone in by cheating, so had devised a contingency plan by poisoning the official ring-seal? After all, if the winner died at the election, the stunned University would simply invite the runner-up to take the post instead. And Michael would be killed, too, because the Senior Proctor always wore the ring-seal during the ceremony, until it was presented to the victor.
‘Ask the secret air,’ muttered Tulyet behind him. ‘What does that mean?’
Bartholomew was panting so hard that he could barely hear, and there was an instant when he thought Tulyet had said something else. He stopped walking abruptly and whipped around. ‘Not ask the secret air – ask the secretary! That is what Moleyns mumbled. Cook misheard him – as I misheard you just then.’
‘What secretary? Moleyns did not have one.’
‘But Tynkell did – and he was the first victim.’
‘You think Nicholas is the killer?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully. ‘But he is lame.’
‘A bad leg will not prevent him from sliding a spike into someone’s heart. And although he has no tower keys of his own, he knows where Meadowman’s are kept.’
‘I did not see him among the crowd that clustered around Moleyns,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Although that does not mean he was not there – I could not identify everyone, because most folk had their hoods up. But he cannot be the culprit, Matt. He is such a mouse.’
‘Even mice have teeth. And if it was he who fought Tynkell on the roof, it explains why the spectacle went on for so long – neither were natural warriors.’
‘But why would he do such a thing?’
‘So his lover Thelnetham could be Chancellor. Which is why he killed Lyng, too – the most popular candidate.’
‘Thelnetham is involved, too?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘If he were, he would not have withdrawn – he would have battled on, to make the crimes worthwhile.’
‘Then why would Nicholas stab Moleyns?’
‘Because Moleyns knew who killed Tynkell,’ replied Bartholomew triumphantly. Aware that he was wasting time, he began to plod forward again, more determined than ever to reach Cambridge before it was too late. ‘At least, he said he did.’
‘But Moleyns told Cook to “ask the secret air” two days before he was killed. Or are you suggesting he knew in advance that someone would murder him?’
‘Why not? Perhaps the threat to their safety is what he, Tynkell and Lyng discussed in St Mary the Great.’
‘Where Cook met them, too,’ said Tulyet, then added quietly, ‘and where Moleyns was being “guarded” by Helbye.’
It was all beginning to make sense to Bartholomew, and he spoke excitedly. ‘So Nicholas unlocked the tower with Meadowman’s keys, went to the roof to fight Tynkell, then hid in the Chest Room until Michael and I had gone past on the stairs. When the coast was clear, he descended to the church, but he could not leave openly, lest he was seen. So he donned a disguise – a cloak with an embroidered hem.’
‘How do you—’ began Tulyet uncertainly.
‘Cristine had removed her cloak to ring the bells – at Nicholas’s invitation – after which it was stolen. I wager anything you like that it has an embroidered hem, and that Nicholas wore it when he went to ensure that Moleyns kept his silence.’
‘I did not see this “woman” but you did. Could it have been Nicholas?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Which means “she” was not a witness running terrified from a murder, but a man fleeing the scene of his crime. I assumed it was female, because it was wearing a lady’s cloak. It was a stupid mistake.’
‘If all this is true, then it means that Nicholas is involved in the thefts – why else would he have talked to Inge and Helbye in the church while the bell was being stolen? Yet he was distraught by its disappearance.’ Tulyet sighed as the answer became clear. ‘What better way to avoid suspicion than pretending to be a victim?’
Bartholomew stopped walking a second time as a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘What do you do to a bell? You ring it! Cook heard the killer say “ring” to Helbye and Inge, and drew his own conclusions, but he was wrong!’
Tulyet frowned. ‘I do not understand—’
‘The killer was not referring to jewellery, but to bells, which will be rung when the new Chancellor is elected. The thieves sawed through the frame to get the treble out, and I thought then that the whole thing looked precarious. Moreover, the trapdoor beneath is flimsy. And who assured us that there is no problem and that everything is safe? Nicholas!’
‘You think that is what he intends to do? Crush his opponents with falling bells?’
‘Yes! When the new Chancellor gives them a tug, they will crash through the ceiling and kill everyone below – him, Michael, Hopeman and all the University’s most senior officials. Then Nicholas will step forward and recommend Thelnetham as the next Chancellor.’
‘But Thelnetham withdrew. He is no longer eligible.’
‘Nicholas will find a way around it – he knows how to manipulate the statutes, especially if Michael is not there to contradict him. And Thelnetham will be the only candidate left of the original five – Hopeman, Suttone and Lyng will be dead, and Godrich has run away.’
&
nbsp; Tulyet was still unconvinced. ‘If the bells were that unstable someone would have noticed.’
‘We did notice!’ shouted Bartholomew, beginning to surge forward again. ‘Yesterday, when one slipped, and rang of its own accord. Nicholas cleverly blamed the Devil, and the fanatical Hopeman was quick to agree.’
‘Which explains why Michael did not find anyone when he took Hopeman and Suttone up the tower,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Yet if the frame is so precarious, surely they would have mentioned it yesterday?’
‘They were looking for pranksters, not structural problems. Of course it escaped their attention. Now run! We must warn Michael, because I am not letting Nicholas kill him.’
They battled along, desperately struggling to see against the swirling flakes. The wind was bitter, and made their heads ache, while the muscles in their legs burned from their exertions.
‘Matt!’ yelled Tulyet suddenly, dropping to his knees and beginning to scoop away handfuls of snow from one drift. ‘Help me.’
‘What are you doing?’ cried Bartholomew in agitation. ‘We do not have time—’
He faltered when he saw the frozen face that Tulyet had exposed.
‘Helbye,’ said Tulyet in a choked voice.
Bartholomew swept away more snow. The sergeant had dispensed with his cloak and jerkin, and his shirt was awry, as if he had tried to remove that, too.
‘Cook’s handiwork,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Helbye was burning with fever from his festering wound, so he loosened his clothes to cool off. Then he sat down, thinking to rest for a moment, but closed his eyes and fell asleep. The cold did the rest.’
‘At least he will be spared the shame of …’ Tulyet could not finish.
They continued again, every step an agony of effort, which meant neither had the breath to talk. Bartholomew was acutely aware that it was now fully light, and that time was ticking past far too quickly. Then the path ended, and he saw with horror that the horses had gone.
‘We will walk,’ said Tulyet with quiet determination. ‘If we keep up a steady pace—’
He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm suddenly, and hauled him into the undergrowth. There were voices, some very near. With despair, they heard the sounds of people searching, converging on them from at least three separate directions.
‘The villagers,’ said Tulyet tightly. ‘The ones who are almost certainly in league with the thieves, and who will fight us if we are found.’
‘Then spin them a yarn,’ urged Bartholomew, heart pounding with tension. ‘Convince them that we are involved, too.’
‘That will not work – they know me. We must hide until they have gone. I am not sure we would have reached Cambridge in time now anyway, not in this weather. But if we are alive, we can at least ensure that Nicholas pays for what he has done.’
‘No!’ hissed Bartholomew fiercely. ‘I am not giving up. I will distract them while you run for the town. I will keep them busy for as long as I can. Go!’
He leapt up and began to plough towards the road before Tulyet could stop him. There was an immediate chorus of yells as he was spotted. The searchers howled for him to stop, but he ignored them, wading through ever deeper drifts and sincerely hoping that he was managing to draw their pursuers after him so that Tulyet could escape. Then he heard a familiar voice.
‘Doctor, wait! You are going the wrong way.’
It was Isnard. Bartholomew whipped around in confusion, then sagged with relief when he saw who was with him.
‘Cynric!’
CHAPTER 18
‘I told you he would be more than a match for thieves,’ said the book-bearer proudly, coming to grip the physician’s shoulder in a comradely gesture of affection. He turned to the men who were with him – Isnard and Gundrede, along with Robin and several soldiers from the castle. ‘He has killed every last one of them, and was coming to tell us what happened.’
‘Then why was he running towards the Fens?’ asked Gundrede doubtfully.
‘He got disoriented at the last moment,’ explained Cynric, and gestured at the uniform whiteness around him. ‘You can see why – it is a different world out here today.’
‘Is it true, Doctor?’ Isnard was agog. ‘All the thieves are dead?’
‘Probably – by now,’ replied Bartholomew shakily. ‘But we did not—’
‘The hero of Poitiers,’ interrupted Cynric with satisfaction. ‘Where is the Sheriff, boy? Did he help or did you manage alone?’
‘I helped,’ drawled Tulyet, ploughing forward to join them. ‘But only a little.’
‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘Where are the horses? We need to get to Cambridge.’
‘Horses are no good,’ said Cynric disdainfully. ‘The drifts are too high. Yours are safe though. We took them to—’
‘Michael is in danger,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘We have to warn him.’
‘What sort of danger?’ demanded Isnard, protective of the man who ran his choir.
Tulyet explained in a few terse words, then asked, ‘How did you get here if the roads are blocked?’
‘By the only proper mode of transport,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘Barge. Now come with me. I do not know if we can reach the town by noon, but we shall certainly try.’
He swung off down a track, remarkably surefooted on the treacherous surface. It was not far to the river, where several vessels were moored. He chose the smallest. Bartholomew, Tulyet and Cynric scrambled in after him, but he raised a hand to stop the others.
‘The lighter we are, the faster we shall move.’
‘We will put our time here to good use by rooting out the guilty villagers,’ said Robin, helping the bargeman to cast off. ‘Two have already confessed to turning a blind eye to mysterious comings and goings.’
The boat eased away from the bank, slowly at first, then faster as Isnard deployed a combination of pole and sail. He adapted constantly to the shifting wind and currents, and for the first time, Bartholomew began to appreciate the true extent of his skill.
‘You should have taken me with you last night, boy,’ said Cynric accusingly. ‘You know I like an adventure, and it was cruel to leave me out.’
‘You were guarding Suttone.’ Bartholomew glanced at him in alarm. ‘Is he—’
‘Mallet and Islaye are with him,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘Do not worry.’
Isnard explained how they had come to be there, taking a respite from his exertions when a lucky breeze set them skimming along a wide stretch of open water.
‘I was uneasy from the start about being sent home, and I said as much to Cynric. So we decided on a foray of our own. Then we met Robin. He insisted on coming with us, because Helbye was missing and he was worried.’
‘Then thank God for your suspicious minds,’ murmured Tulyet.
It was an agonising journey for the occupants of the little boat, through a landscape that was unrecognisable under a thick blanket of white. Isnard was soon scarlet-faced with effort – the others had been allowed one turn at the pole, but he had snatched it back furiously when they had failed to reach what he considered an acceptable speed.
‘I will not see Brother Michael dead, just because you cannot punt,’ he gasped. ‘How much longer do we have before the ceremony?’
Bartholomew squinted up at the sky. ‘More than three hours, but less than four. Probably.’
‘Then it will be tight,’ panted Isnard, and turned all his attention to his labours.
Sitting immobile in a wind that still carried the occasional icy flurry was unpleasant, and Bartholomew wondered if he, Tulyet and Cynric would be capable of movement when they arrived. The boat slid silently across the glassy water, and the whole country seemed dead and still. Trees were weighted down with great clods of snow, while bushes and shrubs were mere humps in an undulating white sea. No birds sang, and the only sounds were the rhythmic splash of Isnard’s pole and his ragged breathing.
‘So tell me, Isnard,’ said Tulyet, during a spell in which the bargeman was abl
e to use the sails again, ‘where did you go when you disappeared with your barge? I know it was not to help Inge with his stolen goods.’
‘It is all right, boy,’ said Cynric, when Isnard looked as if he would refuse to answer. ‘These two can keep a secret.’
Isnard sighed. ‘Very well, but they had better not blab, or I shall be cross, because it will ruin the surprise.’
‘What have you done?’ asked Bartholomew with considerable unease, knowing from experience that not all the bargeman’s surprises were pleasant ones.
‘We have been collecting supplies to mend Michaelhouse’s damaged pier,’ explained Isnard. ‘We know Master Langelee does not have the money to fix it up again, although he would sooner die than admit it, so the choir decided to help. It will be our gift, to thank the College for all that free bread and ale.’
‘But they had to sail a long way south to find a place where the odd bit of wood would not be missed,’ explained Cynric. ‘So it took them a lot of time.’
‘That Benedictine envoy followed us once,’ said Isnard, pursing his lips. ‘He automatically assumed we were up to no good, which was not very nice.’
Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that they had been up to no good – stealing was a crime, no matter what the culprits’ motive.
‘He aimed to embarrass you, Sheriff, by presenting you with the “thieves” himself,’ Isnard went on indignantly. ‘But he fell over and cut his leg, and had to beg us for help. We picked him up and offered to ferry him home – on condition that he did not tell.’
Bartholomew smiled wanly. ‘He kept his promise – he never breathed a word, even though he knew I did not believe his tale about falling down the stairs.’
‘Master Lyng was party to the secret as well,’ Isnard went on. ‘Because Gundrede let it slip during a confession. I think he and the envoy talked about it.’
They had, thought Bartholomew – a whispered conversation on which Richard Deynman had tried, unsuccessfully, to eavesdrop.
‘It is a pity you did not confide in me,’ said Tulyet tiredly. ‘It would have saved us all a lot of bother. I might even have given you supplies from the castle.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 39
