‘I like him well enough,’ replied Cynric. ‘He is a soldier, like me – honest and uncomplicated. But he is protective of his mother-in-law, and you will find it easier to work when he is not there.’
Bartholomew was not sure he would have described Heslarton – or Cynric, for that matter – as honest and uncomplicated. He reached the back gate, and stepped through it.
He was surprised to find the yard busy, with horses saddled and a cart loaded with chests and furniture. A number of servants moved around them, although none spoke. One stumbled in the gloom, and he wondered why they did not light torches, because Emma could certainly afford them. Cynric jerked him roughly into the shadows.
‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew demanded, freeing himself irritably. ‘There is no need to–’
‘None of Emma’s family have mentioned a journey,’ hissed Cynric urgently. ‘So why are they loading up so softly and secretly – and in the dark? Moreover, all the servants seem to be up, so why are there no lamps lit in the house?’
‘Perhaps they do not want to disturb Emma,’ replied Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Her fever–’
‘No,’ whispered Cynric, doggedly determined. ‘It is something more. We should leave.’
‘I cannot leave,’ objected Bartholomew, pulling away from him and beginning to walk towards the rear of the house. ‘The pus from Emma’s rotting tooth has finally…’
He faltered when someone materialised in front of him, carrying a lantern. It was Heslarton, but what caught Bartholomew’s attention was the garment he wore. The lamplight showed it to be dark red, and the last time he had seen it was on Edith, when she had donned it for Drax’s funeral. Later, it had been stolen from the Gilbertines’ chapel, and her signaculum with it.
He gazed in shock, as clues and fragments of evidence collided together to form answers at last. Heslarton stared back, then moved fast, and Bartholomew felt himself grabbed by the throat. He struggled hard, dimly aware of Cynric racing to his assistance.
But they were in a yard filled with Heslarton’s retainers, and it was not many moments before they were overpowered. He opened his mouth to shout, knowing that Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were out in force – they would hear him if he yelled loudly enough – but there was a sharp, searing pain in his head, and then nothing.
When Bartholomew’s senses began to return, he found himself lying on a cold stone floor with Cynric hovering anxiously over him.
‘Thank God!’ muttered the book-bearer shakily, as Bartholomew opened his eyes. He crossed himself, then clutched one of his amulets. ‘I thought they had killed you.’
Bartholomew’s vision swirled as he sat up, and he gripped his head with both hands, seized with the illogical conviction that it might split in half if he let it go. It ached viciously, and he felt sick. He explored it tentatively, and discovered a lump at the back, where it had been struck.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘Locked in Heslarton’s stable,’ replied Cynric. ‘It is just past dawn, and I have been trying to wake you for hours.’
‘Not hours,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It was already growing light when we were summoned.’
But Cynric was not interested in listening to reason. ‘I told you something odd was going on here,’ he said accusingly. ‘You should have listened.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I am sorry, Cynric. You were right.’
‘What made you start fighting Heslarton in the first place?’ asked Cynric. He sounded exasperated. ‘You should have controlled yourself, because to attack a man who was surrounded by his retainers … well, it was reckless, boy.’
‘I did not attack him.’ Recollections came in blinding flashes. ‘He was wearing Edith’s cloak. I should have pretended not to notice, but it took me by surprise. And he knew exactly what conclusions I had drawn from it.’
‘That he was the one who stole it? And if he took that, then he must be guilty of all the other crimes, too, including murder?’ Cynric swallowed hard. ‘So we are being held captive by a killer.’
‘But he cannot be the villain, because he has an alibi for Drax’s death.’ Bartholomew’s head ached more when he tried to think. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Oh, it is simple enough,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘The villain is Emma. She poisoned her own daughter, and murdered Drax, Gib and Yffi. She probably told Heslarton to kill Poynton on the camp-ball field, too. And she is behind the theft of the pilgrim badges. She only pretended to be a victim of the yellow-headed thief, and she has been the real culprit all along.’
‘She is an old lady,’ objected Bartholomew. He recalled why he had been going to see her in the first place. ‘With a fever.’
‘She did not have a fever until today,’ said Cynric. ‘Besides, she is quite capable of sending others to do her dirty work. Heslarton may not have killed Drax, but she has a whole house full of retainers at her beck and call, and some of them are fearsome louts.’
Bartholomew started to object further, but the words died in his throat. Emma certainly possessed the resources to stage such an elaborate deception. She was already wealthy, but that did not mean she would overlook an opportunity to become more so, and some of the pilgrim badges were very valuable. Moreover, she was devious and ruthless enough for such a venture, sitting in her solar like some vile black spider, dispatching minions to do her bidding.
Yet that did not make sense.
‘Why did she summon me, then?’ he asked. ‘She would not have wanted us anywhere near her, if she is this cunning mastermind.’
‘I told you – she only started her fever today,’ said Cynric. ‘If we had gone to the front of the house, like you wanted, you would have cured her, and we would be safe at home by now. But we went to the back, where her servants are arranging for her to flee with her ill-gotten gains. This is as much my fault as yours.’
‘But why would she be fleeing?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was exhaustion or concussion that had turned his wits to mud. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. ‘No one has the slightest inkling that she is behind all this chaos, so she has no need to abandon the empire she has so painstakingly assembled.’
‘Because Brother Michael is on her trail,’ said Cynric with a shrug. ‘He always catches his villains, and she knows it. She is leaving while she is still able.’
‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘On our way here, we decided the culprit had to be someone local, rather than a stranger, because there had to be reasons for poisoning Alice and dumping Drax in Michaelhouse. Emma’s motive for killing Alice is obvious: they did not like each other–’
‘And she dumped Drax in Michaelhouse to discredit us, so she would not have to finish paying for our roof,’ finished Cynric, although Bartholomew was unconvinced by that argument.
‘Moreover, a stranger would not have known there were pilgrim tokens in her stolen box – he would have opted for a jewelled candlestick or a gold goblet.’ Bartholomew rubbed his head, wishing it would stop aching. ‘Or is that a reason to assume she is not the villain? I cannot think properly…’
The door opened suddenly. Cynric rose to his feet fast, but the two men standing there had bows and arrows at the ready, and indicated he was to sit back down again.
‘Very good,’ said Heslarton, entering behind them. ‘You have guessed a lot, although you are still a long way short of the whole story. I was hoping to spare you – you did save Odelina, after all – but I am afraid that is impossible now. You are simply too dangerous.’