‘Insult me again and I shall shoot you myself,’ came another voice from the path. The woman did not look around, but moved to one side as Wormynghalle came to stand by her side. They exchanged a brief glance, and Bartholomew saw with a sinking heart that the tanner also held a bow.
‘I might have known your motives were sinister,’ said Eu in disgust. ‘An upstart family like yours can know no honour. You are two of a kind – ambitious, greedy and cowardly.’
Wormynghalle raised his bow, his face flushed with fury, but his sister poked him with her elbow, and indicated he was to lower his weapon. Bartholomew was astonished that an aggressive, confident man like Wormynghalle should take orders from a woman, but she was most definitely the one in charge. The tanner hesitated for a moment, then trained the bow on Michael. His sister’s, meanwhile, had never wavered from Bartholomew.
‘We leave today,’ she said. ‘I can do no more in Cambridge, and it is time to go home. Now, for the last time, get in the cistern.’
Michael lifted his other leg over the wall. ‘I cannot swim.’
‘Then you will die quickly,’ she replied.
The water was now very near the top of the well, and Eu, appalled by the grim death that awaited him, decided to take matters into his own hands. Claiming that only Wormynghalles should die like rats, he grabbed the edge of the hatch and started to heave himself out, legs flailing as he fought to gain purchase. Michael scrambled out of the way as both Wormynghalle and his sister brought their bows to bear on the escaping merchant.
‘Cover Bartholomew,’ she snapped, when the physician, taking advantage of the diversion, ran several steps forward, intending to disarm at least one of them. Wormynghalle obeyed and Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the determined expression on the tanner’s face.
‘You will not kill me,’ said Eu, continuing to climb. ‘And I am weary of this charade. When I return to Oxford and report this matter to the burgesses, none of your ignoble clan will ever-’
There was a hiss and a thud. Eu gasped as the arrow struck him in the chest. He gazed down at it in disbelief, then looked up at Wormynghalle before toppling backwards. There was a splash as he hit the water and sank out of sight. Neither Abergavenny nor Polmorva made any attempt to retrieve the body, while Duraunt began to pray in a frail, weak voice. Meanwhile, Eu’s executioner snatched another missile from her quiver and set it in the bow before anyone could do more than stare in horror.
‘Who will be next?’ she asked, backing away, so she would have plenty of time to notch another arrow, if necessary. ‘Abergavenny?’
The Welshman said nothing, but clutched harder at Duraunt. Bartholomew had assumed it was to keep the old man’s head above the water, but now he realised Duraunt was being used as a shield. Duraunt, already resigned to his fate, looked as if he did not care.
‘Now move,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘Hurry, or I shall shoot you where you stand, and you will have no chance of life at all.’
‘We have none anyway,’ said Polmorva piteously, as Michael sat, very slowly, on the cistern wall and lifted the first of his large legs over it again. ‘The Archbishop’s parade will go on for hours, and every man, woman and child will be watching it. Even if someone does walk along the towpath, he will not hear us, because of the trumpets and shouting.’
Wormynghalle shrugged. ‘A small chance is better than none.’
‘You said you could do no more in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the cold eyes glittering over the veil. He felt sick when the last piece of the puzzle fell into place: he had finally recognised them. ‘But you are not talking about murder. You are talking about your scholarly work.’
‘Shut up,’ she snapped.
‘Joan,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You are not Alyce Weasenham. You are Joan Wormynghalle.’
‘You know her?’ asked Michael, astounded, moving his leg across the wall as slowly as he could.
‘It does not matter,’ she said, scowling at Bartholomew.
‘She is King’s Hall’s best scholar,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to draw her into conversation and give them more time, although he was not sure what he could do with it. ‘She will make a name for herself at the greatest universities in the world.’
‘She is a scholar?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘But she is a woman!’
‘Exactly!’ snapped Joan, rounding on the monk and leaving her brother to cover Bartholomew. ‘You think that because I am a woman I am incapable of rational thought? Well, I am not, and some of my mathematical theories have been very well received by my peers.’
‘Then why do this?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably. ‘You are as good as a man – better than most – and your prospects are endless. Why jeopardise them?’
‘I am jeopardising nothing. You are the only one who knows my secret, and you will not live to tell it. I shall return to Oxford today, and secure myself a Fellowship at a new College – Balliol this time, I think – and later I shall move to Salerno. As I told you before, as long as I am transient, and do not allow anyone to know me too well, I can continue this life indefinitely.’
‘It is all she has ever wanted,’ said her brother. ‘And I like to see her happy. She tried a term at Oxford last year, to see if she could carry it off, and was so successful that she decided to come here. As you saw for yourself, she is very convincing.’
‘I am confused,’ said Michael. ‘Is this John Wormynghalle of King’s Hall, wearing a kirtle to disguise himself as a woman? Or does Joan Wormynghalle dress like a man?’ He frowned. ‘And perhaps more importantly, have we just deduced that he . . . she is our killer?’
‘I should have guessed you two were related,’ said Bartholomew, angry with himself for not seeing something so transparently obvious. ‘I should not have fallen for your tale of choosing the name of a wealthy Oxford merchant who you thought would never visit Cambridge. You simply changed your Christian name – John for Joan.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Joan coldly. She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘But how did you recognise me? I thought my disguises were good.’
‘Your eyelashes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I am a physician, well able to tell the difference.’
Joan sneered at him. ‘Hardly! It took a grab before you were able to work it out.’
‘It could only happen in King’s Hall,’ muttered Michael, poised over the water but not making the final jump. ‘They accept anyone with money, and now it transpires that they even take females.’
‘Norton admired your skill as an archer,’ recalled Bartholomew, thinking of another reason why he should have guessed her identity – there were not many bow-wielding females in Cambridge.
‘I am an excellent shot.’ She turned to Bartholomew, and seemed to soften slightly. ‘I am sorry, Matt. You were kind to me, not revealing my secret to men who would have seen me burned as a witch. But I have no choice but to dispatch you – if I want to continue my career, that is.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Polmorva says you killed Gonerby, which means you also killed Hamecotes and Okehamptone, since they died in an identical manner. I see why you killed Hamecotes: he was your room-mate and, although you said he was not observant, he would have had to be singularly dense not to have noticed he was sharing his chamber with a woman.’
‘He was not as nice about it as you were,’ said Joan. ‘He threatened to tell the Warden.’
‘Why did you take his body to King’s Hall after it had been in the cistern?’ asked Michael.
‘Because Hamecotes was killed with metal teeth,’ replied Bartholomew, when it looked as if Joan would bring an end to the discussion by forcing the monk into the water. It was conjecture, but he hoped that even if he were wrong, she would correct him and delay their deaths until he could think of an argument that might reprieve them. ‘She did not want us to associate Hamecotes’s murder with Gonerby’s, because that would reveal an Oxford connection – and a possible link to her and her brother.’