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 might 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.