‘Do not worry,’ said Michael. ‘He knows what he is doing.’
‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But that is not the point.’
‘But we need answers. Earlier, when you were blowing up Meryfeld’s garden, Batayl Hostel marched on Bene’t College, claiming they were going to avenge Gib. Gonville joined in, and the resulting altercation was the most difficult to quell yet.’
‘What does that have to do with Cynric raiding Chestre?’
‘The hostels cannot promote Gib as a martyr if we prove he and his cronies were involved in something untoward. In other words, without one of its figureheads, the trouble might simmer down into something manageable.’
‘It will not,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘The Colleges will still have Jolye to rally around.’
‘But the hostels are unlikely to react to the challenge if their hero is discredited. Unless you have a better idea – in which case, please share it with me – this is our best chance of averting a crisis.’
It seemed to Bartholomew that Cynric was gone for an age, although they made rapid progress with the trebuchet. Once the throwing arm had been disengaged, the great machine was very quickly disassembled, and the soldiers began the laborious task of ferrying the pieces up Castle Hill. It was not long before the last section was being eased through the door, at which point the onlookers began to disperse. It was now very late, and most of the town had been asleep for hours.
‘Dick! Say something to make Chestre stay,’ hissed Bartholomew in alarm, seeing Kendale move towards home, students at his heels. ‘Cynric is not back – they will catch him!’
‘They will not fall for such a ploy,’ said Michael, equally worried. ‘The Sheriff is not in the habit of encouraging folk to stay out after the curfew, and Kendale will see through any attempt to make him do so. Worse, it may warn them that they should not have left in the first place, and then Cynric really will be in danger.’
‘I am going there,’ determined Bartholomew. Michael seized his arm. Bartholomew tried to disengage it, but the monk was a strong man, for all his lard, and the physician could no more break free from him than he could fly to the moon.
‘You may do more harm than good,’ snapped Michael. ‘Just wait for–’
‘There!’ whispered Tulyet, pointing into the darkness. ‘Here he comes.’
Bartholomew sagged in relief when the book-bearer sidled into the Guildhall, his dark features alight with excitement and satisfaction. He was carrying a small chest, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen him look so pleased with himself.
‘I have everything you want and more,’ Cynric declared. ‘It was hidden under Kendale’s bed, which was almost the first place I looked. The man is a fool to store it in so obvious a location.’
Eagerly, Michael seized the box. It was an unattractive piece, carved – rather oddly – with illustrations of girdles, which Bartholomew assumed was a play on the Latin word for Chestre.
‘I had to break the lock,’ said Cynric. ‘But I think you will agree it was worth it. Look inside.’
Michael obliged. It contained several letters, a signaculum and a packet containing powder. He shoved the box at Tulyet to hold, and began to read the letters.
‘They are from Drax,’ he said, scanning them quickly. ‘Threatening legal action unless Chestre agrees to pay more rent. The tone is rude, confrontational and bullying, and I am not surprised Kendale took umbrage. I would have done, too.’
‘This is Gyseburne’s signaculum!’ exclaimed Tulyet, snatching it up. ‘He was proud of it, and once showed me how he had adapted the pin to make it stronger – he was worried about it falling off his cloak. It is his badge without question.’
‘And I may be mistaken,’ said Bartholomew soberly, having taken the packet and sniffed at its contents, ‘but I believe this is wolfsbane.’
‘The substance that dispatched Alice and almost killed Odelina?’ asked Tulyet.
Bartholomew nodded.
Tulyet slapped his hand on the box. ‘I knew it! Here is ample evidence that Chestre is responsible for all the evils that have plagued our town ever since that yellow-headed villain raided Emma’s home a week ago.’
Michael agreed. ‘These letters explain why Chestre dispatched Drax, the wolfsbane tells us they poisoned Alice, and Gyseburne’s signaculum tells us they are badge thieves, too. We have our answers at last. Now all we have to do is arrest them and try to think of a way to cancel the camp-ball without a riot.’
‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘I do not trust this – it is too neat. We could not have had better evidence had we put it under Kendale’s bed ourselves.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Tulyet, staring at him. ‘That Cynric planted this box?’
‘Now just a moment,’ said Cynric, shocked and angry. ‘I would never–’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But we should take time to consider–’
‘We do not have time,’ snapped Michael. He brandished the box. ‘This is all the evidence we need, and it is time to act on it. I will assemble my beadles. Are you coming, or will you go to the castle to make sure the trebuchet is not rebuilt back to front?’
‘My engineers can manage now, thank you,’ said Tulyet, a little stiffly. ‘Do you want me to come to Chestre with you?’
Michael shook his head. ‘Not unless we want the University screaming that the town was involved in raiding one of their foundations. That would precipitate trouble for certain.’
‘Then send me word the moment you have a confession,’ said Tulyet. He glanced up at the sky. ‘I have no idea of the time, but I doubt I will be sleeping tonight. Frevill will not be the only townsman itching to bloody a few academic noses, especially once it becomes known that scholars really are behind all this mischief.’
‘I thought catching Chestre would calm troubled waters,’ said Cynric, crestfallen.
‘It will – if we can present them as a rogue foundation acting without the support or blessing of the rest of the University,’ said Michael. ‘But it will take time for the rumours to take hold.’
‘I shall help, by setting my soldiers to spread the tale now,’ said Tulyet. ‘They can pass it to anyone they happen to meet on their patrols.’
‘I doubt they will encounter anyone of significance out and about at this hour,’ said Michael.
‘Then you do not know this town very well,’ said Tulyet tartly. ‘Excitement is running high about tomorrow, and even if folk are asleep now, they will rise early, so as not to miss anything. I anticipate Cambridge will be awake and waiting long before dawn.’
Bartholomew tried again to explain his misgivings to Michael, but the monk was too distracted to listen. He assembled his beadles, and led them and Cynric towards Chestre, issuing instructions, orders and contingency plans as he went. It was clear he expected the hostel to fight, and Bartholomew hoped this little army would be able to subdue Kendale before too much blood was spilled.
He followed them through the dark streets. It was bitterly cold, and a mist had rolled in from the Fens. It reeked of the marshes – of rotting vegetation, stagnant water and wet grass. It was a smell he had known all his life and it was as familiar as sunshine or April rain, but there was nothing comforting in it that night – it felt dangerous and wild, and so did the town. Shadows flitted, and he saw Tulyet was right to say not everyone was sleeping peacefully in their beds.