‘Tackle Kolvyle. And let us hope that one of us succeeds in shaking something loose, or the election will be upon us, and then it will be time for me to go to Rochester. I said I would not leave until the killer was caught, but I am beginning to think it is a promise I may not be able to keep.’
Dusk would come early that night, because clouds had rolled in from the north, and lamps were already lit in those houses that could afford fuel. In the rest, the residents shivered in the gloom, waiting for the daylight to fade completely so they could go to bed. The bitter cold had driven most of the bell-hunters indoors, too, although a hardy few were still out and about. Mallet and Islaye were among them.
‘I thought I told you to return to Michaelhouse at noon,’ Bartholomew said coolly.
‘We did,’ replied Islaye blithely, ‘where we ate dinner, read a bit of Maimonides, and then went out again. Two marks is a lot of money, sir, and we do not want Kolvyle to get it.’
‘Honour is at stake here,’ added Mallet. ‘Us versus him. You must understand why we are determined to win.’
Bartholomew did not have the energy to argue. He listed several texts he wanted them to learn that evening, ignoring their insistence that studying by candlelight hurt their eyes, and they parted ways. He passed the little church of St Mary the Less, where the scholars of Peterhouse were emerging from a special service at which prayers had been said for a break in the icy weather. Their petitions had evidently gone unheard, because snow was in the air.
He reached the King’s Head, and heard the rumble of conversation emanating from within. Beyond, the road curved south like a brown ribbon through the empty countryside, fringed by winter-bare trees and scrubby hedges. The Gilbertine Priory had lamps lit outside its gates, which shed a warm yellow halo, welcoming and cosy. Reluctantly, Bartholomew turned to the King’s Head, which was neither.
He was just reaching for the handle when the door opened and Isnard hobbled out, Gundrede and several scruffy cronies at his heels. All were dressed for a long journey. Those who did not own cloaks were wrapped in oiled sacks, boots had been given a liberal layer of grease to repel water, and there was a fine variety of snow-proof headgear.
‘Who blabbed to him?’ demanded the bargeman angrily, turning to glare at his friends. ‘I told you to keep your mouths shut, and now he is here to stop us from going.’
‘Going where?’ asked Bartholomew, cutting across the indignant chorus of denials.
‘To attack the thieves’ lair,’ replied Gundrede. ‘Miller here has found it.’
‘He has?’ asked Bartholomew, looking at the man in question, a puny individual who eked a meagre living from the river. ‘How?’
‘He happened across it when he was out poaching fish,’ explained Isnard, then flushed scarlet at the weary groans that followed. ‘I mean visiting his mother.’
‘His mother is dead,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Widow Miller had been one of Cook’s victims. ‘And their lair is not by her cottage, because I searched that area when I was looking for the killer’s cloak – the one that blew off the tower when he stabbed Tynkell.’
‘His other mother,’ said Isnard, blithely oblivious to the absurdity of this claim. ‘Who lives by the manor of Quy, in the Fens. We are going there now, to confront the villains, and prove our innocence once and for all.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is the Sheriff’s responsibility.’
‘But he will think we are part of their operation if we do not catch the villains ourselves,’ objected Isnard. ‘He does not believe us when we say we are not.’
‘It is too dangerous,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They have already killed Lucas, Reames and Peres. Please – just go to the castle and report what Miller has learned. The soldiers are trained in this sort of thing. You are not.’
Isnard considered carefully. ‘All right, then, but only if you come with us. Perhaps the Sheriff will agree to a joint venture – us and him, standing shoulder to shoulder against villainy.’
Bartholomew could not see it, but dared not say so, lest Isnard changed his mind.
It was a strange procession. Bartholomew walked at the front with the bargeman and Gundrede, while the remaining King’s Head’s regulars streamed at their heels. While they went, Isnard confided his plans for the choir when Michael left, speaking in bursts, because Bartholomew had set a brisk pace for a man with one leg and crutches to manage.
‘Brother Michael will be sorry,’ he vowed. ‘We shall be better than ever … and when he comes back … to tell Suttone how to be Chancellor … he will regret abandoning us.’
‘Look at them!’ sniggered Gundrede, as they passed a group of students who were exploring the Brazen George’s outhouses. ‘We will be the ones to get the two marks, because the bell is not in the town – it will be in the thieves’ lair.’
They refused to enter the castle – understandably enough, given that the previous times they had visited had been when they were under arrest – so Tulyet came out, where he listened carefully to what Miller had to say. It was a faltering, disjointed report, interspersed with a lot of asides and unhelpful details from Isnard.
‘How do you know it was the thieves you saw?’ Tulyet asked. ‘Not Fenland fishermen?’
‘Because fishermen do not use cargo barges for their trade,’ replied Miller promptly. ‘It was the felons, right enough. And besides, they looked untrustworthy.’
‘Then they must be ruffians indeed,’ murmured Tulyet, eyeing the scruffy horde that was ranged in front of him. ‘And this happened by the canal outside Quy?’
Miller nodded. ‘I watched them for ages. They have a shed full of stolen goods, although it will not be full now – I heard them say they were going to start loading everything on a boat.’
‘A sea-going vessel,’ put in Isnard. ‘Which will hug the coast to London, where you can always get higher prices for such items. Not that we know from experience, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Tulyet. ‘How many of these thieves were there?’
‘Just two – a captain and his mate,’ replied Miller. ‘However, they talked about being joined by “others” soon.’
‘Then we had better mount a raid,’ said Tulyet, and called for Helbye.
When the sergeant arrived, Bartholomew was concerned. He was clearly ill, with sweat beading his face, despite the chill of the fading day, and his eyes were fever bright.
‘Not tonight, sir,’ he said tiredly, when he heard what Tulyet intended to do. ‘It will be dark soon, and the Fens are no place to be on a cold winter night. Look – it is starting to snow.’
‘We have torches and good cloaks,’ said Tulyet briskly. ‘And we cannot wait until morning. We do not want to arrive and find the villains have sailed.’
‘But the weather,’ objected Helbye. ‘And the track – it will be hard and treacherous …’
‘Norys?’ bellowed Tulyet, and when the soldier stepped forward, he asked, ‘You travelled that road when you went to hunt Inge earlier. How was it?’
Norys drew his cloak more closely around him. ‘Miserable, sir. The wind from the Fens is like no other – a knife scything through you. I am still chilled to the bone.’
‘But the going was reasonable?’
Norys nodded, albeit reluctantly, so Tulyet issued an order for horses to be saddled.
‘I had better fetch a thicker jerkin, then,’ said Helbye without enthusiasm. ‘It is–’
‘I need you here, Will,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘The scholars are in a feisty mood, and I do not want them embroiling the townsfolk in one of their spats.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Isnard. ‘Those academics are a rough crowd.’