‘I should have noticed that,’ said Polmorva feebly. ‘Every time the tanner provided wine, someone died. But why kill Okehamptone?’
‘He overheard us talking the night he arrived in Cambridge,’ replied Joan. ‘He promised to say nothing, but we killed him anyway, just to be sure. While I disguised the wound on his body, my brother gave the meddlesome Rougham a good fright. He fled to Norfolk, I hear.’
‘Is that why you attacked me at Stourbridge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To make sure I did not reveal your secret, even though I gave you my word that I would not?’
‘Men break oaths all the time,’ said Joan. ‘Eu and Abergavenny swore to avenge my husband’s death, but were happy to forget their pledge once he was dead. None of you can be trusted.’
‘These teeth,’ said Bartholomew, removing them from his bag. ‘How did you come by them?’
‘I gave them to my predecessor at Merton,’ said Duraunt, barely audible. ‘He used them for years, but he died recently. Then I kept them in my room, but one of my students stole them.’
‘You,’ said Bartholomew to Joan. ‘You studied in Merton – you took them.’
‘They fascinate me,’ admitted Joan. ‘And I knew no one would guess I had killed my husband if I used the fangs to dispatch him. But they disappeared from my chamber this morning, and I wondered where they had gone. It was you, was it?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Clippesby had managed to do it without being seen.
‘Well, give them back,’ ordered Joan. ‘Be careful when you toss them over. I keep them very sharp.’
Bartholomew pulled back his arm and hurled them into the trees as hard as he could. Joan pursed her lips in annoyance.
‘It does not matter,’ said Wormynghalle. ‘We have completed our business here, and it is time to return to a more civilised city. Now, jump in the water, monk.’
Michael began to slide with infinite slowness into the cistern. His face was as white as snow, but he refused to submit to the indignity of begging for his life. When he had gone, Bartholomew looked from Joan to her brother in despair. He suspected he could overpower the tanner, who was overly confident, but Joan was a different proposition. She had approached the problem of loose ends with the same precision she applied to her studies, and would never risk her safety by exercising mercy.
‘Eudo,’ he blurted, desperately trying to think of some way to delay the inevitable. ‘You told him what to write in his proclamation. You chose carefully, so something in it would be certain to incite unrest.’
Joan gave a tight smile. ‘I only want the beadles and the Sheriff distracted until we have left. We probably do not need a diversion with the Visitation, but there is no point in being careless.’
‘Joan,’ Bartholomew began. ‘I-’
‘No more talk,’ said Wormynghalle, pulling back his arm as he aimed his arrow.
Bartholomew willed himself to keep his eyes open and fixed on the man who would kill him. Neither Wormynghalle nor Joan showed remorse or distaste for what they were about to do, and he supposed it was such coldblooded ruthlessness that had allowed their family to prosper so abruptly.
‘Spryngheuse’s soul will never let you rest,’ he shouted, resorting to desperate tactics. ‘He is there, in the trees, watching you sell your soul to the Devil.’
Joan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Wormynghalle paled, and his bow wavered. Then there was a loud crack, and he toppled backwards. Without waiting to see how or why, Bartholomew launched himself at Joan, wrenching the weapon from her hands while she watched her brother stagger. She saw instantly that Bartholomew would overpower her with his superior strength, so she abandoned her attempts to retrieve the bow, and grabbed a knife from her belt. She stabbed wildly, and the physician leapt away. With a gasp of horror, he lost his balance and toppled into the cistern, bowling over Michael, who was halfway out.
For a moment, Bartholomew’s eyes and ears were full of water. Then he surfaced, gagging and choking. He looked around, anticipating that the lid would be slammed down and he and the others would drown. The level of water was now so high that the heads of anyone inside would be forced under as soon as it dropped, and he braced himself for a final ducking as Joan completed her work. But the hatch remained open, and he was aware of someone thrusting him roughly out of the way to reach the rectangle of light that represented air and life. It was Polmorva, kicking and punching others in his determination to escape.
As Polmorva hauled himself out, Bartholomew expected him to be shot, but nothing happened, so he grabbed Michael, who was floundering nearby, and shoved him to where he could reach the hatch. The monk was strong, despite his lard, and his powerful arms propelled him upward as though he were on fire. Bartholomew saw him glance around quickly before leaning into the cistern to help the others. Duraunt went first, followed by Abergavenny, and Bartholomew last.
Of Joan, there was no sign, and Polmorva had also gone. While Michael hunted for them among the trees, Bartholomew knelt next to Duraunt, who was shivering in a crumpled heap on the ground.
‘I recognised her,’ the old man said in a whisper. ‘As soon as she started talking about her crimes, I recognised her as my brilliant young student who disappeared after a term. She looked different here – her hair is longer and darker. But it was she who stole the teeth from me.’
‘Damn those things!’ said Bartholomew. ‘They have caused problems from the moment they were made.’
‘My predecessor had twenty years of pleasure from them,’ objected Duraunt. ‘Do not be so quick to condemn new ideas, Matthew. One day, many ancients may own devices like those, to make their final years more enjoyable.’
‘Never,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘No one will want foreign objects in his mouth while he eats.’
‘It is a case of what you are used to,’ said Duraunt. ‘Your fat friend will not decline a set when he wears out his own and he wants to continue to devour good red meat.’
‘What happened to the tanner?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting they could argue all day and not agree. He was angry with Duraunt for keeping something that should have been destroyed, and for lying to him about the poppy juice. He felt betrayed, but told himself that Duraunt was just a man, not a saint, and that men had human failings.
‘There,’ said Abergavenny, pointing.
Bartholomew scrambled towards him, but could see Wormynghalle was dead. There was a graze on the side of his head, where something had struck his temple. It was not a fatal wound, though: the tanner had died because the chain of his sheep’s-head pendant had caught on the cistern’s pulley and was tight around his neck. He had been stunned, then had hung unconscious while his jewellery deprived him of air. Bartholomew recalled the sharp crack before he had fallen, and glanced around uneasily, wondering whether his words about Spryngheuse’s soul had been prophetic. He was not normally given to superstition, but whatever had happened to Wormynghalle had been uncannily timed. He looked up as someone knelt next to him. It was Clippesby, with Michael looming behind him.
‘You threw me the teeth as I watched what was happening from the trees,’ Clippesby explained. ‘I knew exactly what you wanted me to do. Unfortunately, I missed Joan and hit her brother instead. You probably did not intend me to throw them quite so hard, and I am sorry I killed him.’
‘Well, I am not,’ said Michael fervently. He clapped Clippesby on the shoulder. ‘You and Matt saved us with your quick thinking.’
‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he should have guessed Clippesby was somewhere close by, doing what he did best as he listened to a conversation undetected.
‘Do not be modest,’ said Clippesby. ‘I would not have known what to do without your prompt. I was beginning to think I might have to watch you die, because I have no idea how to confront people with loaded weapons. Such folk are beyond my understanding.’