‘Do not paddle away from the walls! The water is deeper in the middle than at the sides.’
Bartholomew coughed. ‘It makes no difference when we cannot touch the bottom at either place. I think I can keep going longer this way than by staying still.’
‘But I do not like it!’ protested Michael. ‘Water is going in my ears.’
‘Well, you will just have to put up with it,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what happened with Eudo and Boltone.’
‘They wanted to kill us. And it was your fault. I tried to stop you from interrogating Eudo, because I could see the way it was going to end. He grabbed that hammer as soon as you came close to guessing what had happened to Chesterfelde, and I knew we would be hard pressed to defeat him once he was armed. You should have followed my lead, and …Matt, we are going under!’
Bartholomew struggled to lift him. Time was ticking past, and he began to accept that help was not coming after all. The sun started to set, sending orange-red rays across the cistern wall, and he saw it would soon be night. He could not stay afloat much longer, and then he and Michael would be finished. Michael had been right: it was an ignominious way to die, and not one he would have chosen, especially given that he had spent most of his professional life warning people about the dangers of water – the diseases it harboured and the risks associated with swimming. He thought about the body he had found, hoping to distract himself from the agonising ache in his limbs. Had Eudo and Boltone put it there, after they had cut its throat? Or was there another killer?
‘You mean in here with us?’ asked Michael. ‘Who is it?’
With a shock, Bartholomew realised he must have spoken aloud. ‘I did not recognise him,’ he said, bracing himself for the panicky flailing he was sure was about to begin.
‘Another of Eudo and Boltone’s victims?’ Michael showed admirable self-restraint, however, and, although the pincer-like grip on Bartholomew’s arm increased, he held himself in check. ‘It must have been. They are using this cistern as their personal charnel house.’
Bartholomew barely heard him, although he sensed the monk was talking; the voice was a buzz in the back of his consciousness. Then, just when he thought he was truly doomed and could continue paddling no longer, a silhouette appeared in the rectangle of darkening sky above.
‘God’s blood!’ breathed Tulyet. Dickon stood behind him, still gripping his tiny bow. ‘What are you two doing down there?’
Tulyet was a decisive, resourceful man, and it was not long before he had organised the merchants and scholars from Merton Hall to form a rescue team. With the help of a rope, they hauled first Michael, then Bartholomew to safety. Duraunt, too elderly and frail to assist with the physical labour, dropped to his knees and prayed for their well-being, while the three merchants, Spryngheuse and Polmorva managed the heavy work.
By the time Bartholomew and Michael were out of the cistern and on to solid ground again, they were covered in the green ooze that coated the walls. It stank foully, and Polmorva made a point of telling them so, adding as an aside to Bartholomew that only a fool would willingly leap into such a place, no matter how honourable his intentions. He jumped away in alarm when the physician rounded on him with a murderous expression in his eyes.
‘There is a bucket,’ said Tulyet, thrusting a leather pail at Polmorva with one hand, while he held Bartholomew back with the other. ‘Bring water from the river to wash Michael’s face. Matt, this is no time for fighting. See to your friend.’
Giving Polmorva one last, furious glower, Bartholomew went to where Michael, exhausted by his ordeal, lay with his eyes closed and an unnatural pallor to his face. The physician was alarmed, seeing the incident had had a more serious effect on him than he had appreciated, and began to consider the unpleasant prospect of a seizure. When Polmorva handed him the bucket, he carefully dribbled water over Michael’s cheeks, rubbing away the more stubborn marks with his hand. Wordlessly, he shoved the pail back at Polmorva, indicating he was to fill it a second time. Polmorva obliged, but when he returned, he up-ended the pail over Michael himself. The monk shot upright, spluttering and gagging, while Bartholomew launched himself at Polmorva. This time, Tulyet could not stop him, and he managed to land two solid punches before Polmorva sat down hard on the ground with his legs splayed in front of him. It was a satisfying moment, and Bartholomew was surprised at the depth of feeling that had festered for so many years.
‘Enough, Matthew,’ said Duraunt, standing between them. Intervention was no longer necessary, though, because Bartholomew’s anger had dissipated the moment Polmorva had toppled backwards in an inelegant sprawl. ‘He meant no harm.’
‘I was trying to help,’ said Polmorva resentfully, raising one hand to his split lip. ‘And I did. Your friend is sitting up now, having regained his wits. You could have dabbed delicately all night and not had the same effect.’
‘I did not want him to leap up like that,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘Sudden shocks are bad for the heart after this kind of event, especially in the obese. You might have killed him.’
‘Well, I did not,’ said Polmorva, gesturing to where Michael was being helped to his feet by the three merchants. They struggled under his immense weight, and at one point he managed to haul all three down on top of him. Tulyet stepped in and offered to show them the method he employed for raising pregnant mares. ‘He is perfectly all right.’
‘You lied to us, Polmorva,’ said Bartholomew, aware that the strain of the last few hours was depriving him of his self-control. ‘First, you said you had all slept deeply the night Chesterfelde died, and only later admitted that you had enjoyed some claret. But we have since learned that you were all so intoxicated that the sounds of your merriment could be heard on the far side of the river.’
‘I was not inebriated,’ said Polmorva indignantly.
‘Not you, perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately not looking at Spryngheuse. ‘But everyone else was. You included.’ He rounded on Duraunt.
The elderly Warden was taken aback. ‘We had a sip of wine, but we were certainly not drunk!’
Bartholomew did not know whether to believe him. Tulyet was not a man given to exaggeration, but he claimed to have heard the revelry, and Bartholomew knew they were unlikely to have made such a racket had they been sober. So, was Duraunt lying about the amount he had imbibed, and if so, why? To protect his own reputation, or because he did not want Oxford men accused of murder in a rival University town? Meanwhile, Spryngheuse refused to meet his eyes. Was it because he had overstated the extent of their sottishness, or was he was afraid his tale-telling would annoy his colleagues? Or was he simply appalled by the blunt interrogation, since Michael had promised discretion?
‘Do not try to pit your meagre wits against killers, Bartholomew,’ said Polmorva disdainfully, still fingering his damaged mouth. ‘Stay with what you know best – examining urine and lancing boils – and leave the investigation of crime to those who know what they are doing.’
‘This bitterness between you two must stop,’ said Duraunt, stepping forward to take their hands in his own. ‘The affair with the Benedictines and the metal teeth is long forgotten, and it is time you ended this ridiculous feud.’
‘I have not forgotten it,’ said Polmorva frostily. ‘He accused me of bringing about a death.’
‘But you did bring about a death,’ argued Bartholomew, equally cold. ‘You knew the teeth were making men ill, but you continued to rent them to the greedy and gullible. Had you stopped when I asked, none of those monks would been laid low and the sub-prior would not have died from a surfeit of beef.’