Bartholomew flexed his elbow. The material was pinned very firmly to the wood, and he was not sure he could free it without anyone noticing. The brace creaked and Eleanor glanced sharply at him. He tried to look helpless, hoping she would not come and inspect her handiwork. ‘And you think he approves of murder?’ he asked, to distract her.
‘It is not murder,’ she said firmly. ‘It is justice.’
‘And I suppose “justice” led you to poison Herl and Flaxfleete, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The toxin is an unusual one. Did you read about it when you were trying to understand how Ursula had killed Christiana’s mother?’ Eleanor inclined her head. ‘And I suppose you murdered Herl because you learned he had duplicated the Hugh Chalice?’
She nodded a second time. ‘He tried to sell me a copy. And Aylmer was on the verge of stealing the real one–’
‘So, you stabbed him in the back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We thought it was someone who either took him by surprise or who he did not expect to hurt him. Both are true in your case. Sabina said he was killed with his own dagger. You grabbed it and knifed him before he knew what was happening.’
‘The pity of it is that Aylmer belonged to a fraternity dedicated to placing the chalice in the cathedral,’ said Michael. ‘As did Simon. Aylmer contrived to be at the Gilbertine Priory to help Simon, not to steal from him.’
‘He was holding it when I caught him,’ objected Eleanor. ‘He had taken it from Simon’s bag and it was cradled in his hands. Everyone else was in the chapel, so it looked suspicious, to say the least. And I acknowledge that this fraternity was dedicated to the chalice, but it was not selfless. Simon wanted it presented at a ceremony that would glorify him, and Flaxfleete intended to present an ostentatious reliquary at the same time. It was wrong.’
‘I know how you killed Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘The keg was not poisoned when it sat by the door of the Swan, as we assumed, but when it was still in the cellar. The inn is owned by Christiana, so she can come and go as she pleases.’
Bartholomew’s legs were beginning to shake from standing at an awkward angle, and he shifted his weight. The roof creaked, and he had a sudden memory of Michael leaning against the sapling in the Gilbertines’ garden when he was interrogating Chapman. He wondered whether he could bring down the roof. But then he and Michael would die, too. So would Spayne, who had said nothing since his sister’s murder, and who sat with his eyes glazed in helpless shock.
‘You might have killed the entire Guild,’ Michael went on. ‘Although when you poisoned Herl’s ale – also in the Swan – you were more careful.’
‘All for St Hugh,’ said Eleanor. ‘I am weary of evil men, but no matter how many I dispatch, there are always more to take their places. I started with the sinister Canon Hodelston, during the plague–’
‘Lungspee said Hodelston’s death took the feud to a new level of violence,’ interrupted Michael accusingly. ‘And I suppose next on your list was Fat William, who died eating oysters.’
‘Fat William was a glutton who ate food designated for the poor, but he was not the second or even the third. However, I have learned all I need from you now. It is time to end this.’
‘We are going to set a fire,’ chirped Hugh. ‘And you will all die in it.’
‘St Hugh would be appalled by what you have done in his name,’ said Michael. ‘It is time to stop.’
‘I cannot,’ said Eleanor. ‘Not as long as my saint’s city is infested with sinners. Shoot them, Hugh. Michael first.’
Hugh raised his bow and Bartholomew saw he could not fail to miss. He leaned as hard as he could on the post. There was a low groan.
‘The roof!’ cried Spayne, in a voice that cracked with tension and distress. ‘Do not lean on the brace – the ceiling will cave in!’
Bartholomew pushed harder and beams began to sag.
‘Stop!’ screamed Eleanor. ‘Hugh! Shoot him!’
Hugh was more interested in ducking away from the clumps of plaster that were dropping around him. He dropped his bow and scampered this way and that, like a rat in a cage. With a bellow of fury, Christiana dived for the weapon and snatched it up herself. Summoning every last ounce of his strength, Bartholomew shoved the pillar until it popped out of its holdings and crashed to the floor. It dragged him with it, so Christiana’s shot went wide.
‘Run!’ he yelled to Michael, trying to free himself.
The monk leapt to his feet as timbers fell.
‘You are a fool!’ said Eleanor to Bartholomew, standing immobile among the chaos. ‘Tonight, Christiana and I were going to tell you where we think you will find Matilde. We know you love her – your determination to find her is too strong for mere friendship.’
Bartholomew ignored her as he struggled to free himself. She staggered as a piece of plaster struck her, and the physician raised his arm to protect his head as chunks of stone began to rain down. She dropped to her knees, blood streaming from her scalp, while Christiana hurled the bow at the monk and aimed for the door. Michael reached for the old lady with his bound hands, intending to drag her outside, but she snatched up a long splinter of wood and threatened to stab him with it.
‘I will not be exiled to some remote convent when all I have done is obey the saint’s will.’
‘Get up!’ yelled Michael, backing away and turning to Bartholomew. He hauled ineffectually on the dagger that pinned the physician’s tunic to the fallen support. ‘Hurry!’
‘You killed my sister,’ said Spayne to Christiana, blocking her path. His hands and feet were still tied, but when she tried to duck past him, he launched himself forward and knocked her over with his body. She cried out in pain when she fell on her own dagger, and gazed in horror at the blood that stained her hand. Bartholomew could not see whether it was a superficial wound or a mortal one.
Eleanor turned to him in anguish. ‘I have chosen to die here, but you must save her. You see, we did not write our list – it is in her head. You must take her with you if you want to find happiness.’
Bartholomew finally ripped his tunic free and headed for Christiana, but before he could reach her, she disappeared under a billowing cloud of debris that drove him backwards. The air was full of thick, choking dust.
‘Matt!’ screamed Michael, who had gained the door. ‘The whole thing is going to fall!’
‘They do not know where Matilde went,’ said Spayne hoarsely. Bartholomew spun around and saw the mayor’s legs were trapped under a massive beam. It was too heavy to move, and he was going to die in the collapsing building. ‘No one does, except me. I am the only person she ever told about a friend in a certain city. I am sure she will be there now.’
‘Come away, Matt!’ howled Michael.
Spayne had used Christiana’s dagger to free his hands. ‘I will tell you my secret if you help me escape. If you refuse, I will throw this blade, and you will not reach the door alive.’
Bartholomew hauled on the beam with all his might, but knew it would not have budged had he been ten men. He glanced up and saw the sky through holes in the ceiling. A tile crashed into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Dizzily, he put his hands around the wood again, barely aware of what he was doing.
‘It is hopeless,’ said Spayne, his voice cracking with despair. ‘All right, come closer. I will tell you what you want to know, but only if you promise to tell Matilde I still love her.’
Bartholomew nodded, willing to agree to anything.
‘She is … ’ began Spayne. ‘No! For the love of God, no!’
His head jerked back as an arrow slapped into his throat. Bartholomew gazed at Spayne in shocked disbelief, then turned to see Cynric at the door, a bow in his hand. The book-bearer clambered across the wreckage and grabbed Bartholomew’s arm. There was another groan, and more timbers dropped