Bartholomew recalled Isnard’s suspicious demeanour when he himself had asked where they had been, and was sure Tulyet was right to smell a rat. He said nothing, though, unwilling to betray Isnard a second time.
‘I suspect Inge fled the town under cover of darkness,’ Tulyet went on, more concerned with the missing lawyer. ‘We watch the gates, but he could have waded across the river or the King’s Ditch. Still, the marshes are bleak at this time of year, so he will not get far.’
Bartholomew glanced up at the lowering sky and shivered, thinking he would not want to brave the Fens in such weather.
Helbye was indeed unwell. His injured arm was hot and swollen, and Bartholomew was appalled to see that Cook had applied a poultice comprising what appeared to be mud and strands of riverweed to the wound. He did his best to wash it off, but some of the smaller fragments were difficult to see in the swollen tissue, and he was far from certain that he had removed them all.
‘Cook sewed me up once before with no ill effects,’ said Helbye defensively, when Bartholomew had finished, ‘so I do not know what happened this time.’
‘Wounds are often unpredictable,’ said Bartholomew non-committally.
At that moment, there was a commotion in the bailey. Tulyet had received Rougham’s letter of complaint about Cook in the interim, and had sent Robin to bring the barber to the castle. Cook was livid, screeching his outrage so stridently that his guards were wincing.
‘You medici should have made your concerns official weeks ago,’ said Tulyet, looking out of the window at the spectacle. ‘But better late than never, I suppose. That charlatan will leave my town by nightfall or I shall arrest him for murder.’
Helbye blinked his astonishment. ‘Murder? You mean it was Cook who killed all those people – Moleyns, Tynkell, Lyng and the tomb-builders’ apprentices?’
‘No, I mean Mother Salter and Widow Miller,’ replied Tulyet. ‘His patients.’
There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Cook appeared, his face as black as thunder. He threw off the guards who held his arms and stalked towards the Sheriff – until he saw Bartholomew with Helbye, at which point he stopped dead in his tracks.
‘You trespass on my professional domain again?’ he snarled. ‘How dare you!’
Tulyet stepped in front of him. ‘Here is the “horoscope” you calculated for Yolande de Blaston. Perhaps you would care to explain why it is covered in demonic symbols.’
Cook’s eyes took on a sly cant. ‘I did not give her that – she must have bought it from some other practitioner. Rougham or Bartholomew, for example.’
‘Do not lie,’ warned Tulyet. ‘You will only make matters worse for yourself.’
‘How could you do such a terrible thing?’ asked Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Telling her she was going to die! It was cruel, and it frightened her children.’
‘It serves her right for going around telling everyone that I killed Mother Salter,’ flashed Cook viciously. ‘I was not the last medicus to see her before she died. You were.’
‘But it was you who provided the “care” that caused her demise,’ countered Tulyet. He waved the horoscope again. ‘And here is the evidence that you wilfully defrauded a townsperson – you know Yolande cannot read, so had no way to tell that she was being fobbed off with rubbish. Now, you have two choices: leave Cambridge and never return; or spend the next few months in my gaol, awaiting trial. Which will it be?’
‘Neither,’ snapped Cook. ‘I have complaints pending with the Worshipful Company of–’
‘Arrest, is it?’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘As you wish.’
‘Wait!’ Cook backed away hastily. ‘I will go, but I need time to pack. I own a lot of valuable equipment, and I am damned if I am going to leave it for the physicians to steal.’
‘You have nothing we want,’ retorted Bartholomew, unable to help himself.
Furious, Cook started forward with the clear intention of delivering a punch, but Tulyet deftly intervened by enveloping him in a grip that he often used on awkward customers. It involved one arm around the neck, which was tight enough to restrict the barber’s airflow. Panicked, Cook began to claw at it, and as he did, one sleeve fell back to reveal the skin of his forearm.
‘What is that?’ demanded Bartholomew, pointing at the symbol that was inked there.
‘A horned serpent,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Well, well, well! Our barber is a Satanist.’
‘No!’ gasped Cook, once the Sheriff had loosened his hold enough to let him explain. ‘It is a symbol to ward off evil. Lots of folk have them.’
‘So that is why you met Lyng, Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To plot with like-minded–’
‘You are mistaken!’ gulped Cook. ‘If you must know, Lyng, Tynkell and I went there to grovel to Moleyns – he liked to feel himself important, and he was a friend of the King. But there was no harm in it, and he had to have some pleasure in life.’
‘He did have some pleasure,’ said Tulyet acidly. ‘Sneaking out of the castle and depriving his wealthy friends of their money.’
Cook managed to twist around and gape at him. ‘Wait a moment! Moleyns broke into my house and took my purse? And Lyng’s charity box and the money Tynkell had saved for the Michaelhouse Choir? We did note that he was the only other person who knew about them, but we assumed he was innocent, because they disappeared at night, when he was locked up.’
There was a curious plausibility to Cook’s explanations, and Bartholomew found he was inclined to believe them. So was that all there was to the secretive meetings in St Mary the Great? A man who liked to be the centre of attention, and acquaintances who aimed to exploit his weakness to win themselves a good word at Court? Tulyet was obviously convinced, because he released the barber with a grimace of disgust.
‘You have an hour to pack,’ he said coldly. ‘You are finished here, and if I ever see your face again, I will clap you in gaol. Is that clear?’
Cook glowered, but could see that arguing would be futile. He stalked out without another word, the soldiers at his heels to make sure he did as he was ordered. They almost collided with Robin at the door. The young soldier was muddy, breathless and triumphant.
‘We have had a report of Inge,’ he told the Sheriff excitedly. ‘Five miles to the east.’
Helbye struggled to his feet. ‘Half a dozen men should be enough to run him down. Do not worry, sir. I will bring him back.’
‘Not this time, Will.’ Tulyet indicated a rough-looking soldier with short, greasy hair and a scar down one cheek. ‘Norys can go. You stay here and rest.’
A short while later, Bartholomew and Tulyet walked down the hill together, aiming for St Mary the Great, where Tulyet had agreed to meet Michael. Bartholomew was surprised to hear one of its bells clanging in the distance – he had thought they were to remain silent until the University had a new Chancellor. They had just crossed the Great Bridge when Bartholomew saw Edith again. She was talking to Rougham and he could tell just by looking that something was wrong. He hurried over to her, Tulyet at his heels.
‘Perhaps you should offer a reward for its safe return,’ Rougham was saying. ‘Like Nicholas has done for his bell. However, I wish he had advanced a more modest sum. Every student in the University is out looking for the thing, and lectures have ground to a halt.’
‘What have you lost, Edith?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
‘Oswald’s tomb-chest,’ replied Edith tearfully. ‘The whole thing – top, base and sides. Lakenham says that Petit failed to cement it to the floor properly, which rendered it easy to pick up and tote away. Petit denies it, of course.’