urged, making almost as much noise as they did when they sold their wares at the market. Beyond the bridge, the road rose in a muddy trail to the churches of St Giles and St Peter, standing almost opposite each other, and then to the mighty castle beyond.
Michael complained bitterly about the exercise, although the hill was neither steep nor tall, and by the time they reached the top, the fat monk’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat and his scanty supply of patience had evaporated. When a pardoner sidled up to them and invited them to look at his goods, Michael’s face assumed such an expression of anger that the man scuttled away as fast as his legs would carry him.
‘That was unnecessary, Brother,’ said Bartholomew reprovingly, watching the pardoner run. ‘He needs to make a living and life is not easy for itinerants in the winter.’
‘He should know monks do not buy pardons,’ retorted Michael, unrepentant. ‘And anyway, I have sworn a vow of poverty and have no money to spend on such foolishness.’
‘That is not what you told Walter,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘What of these silver candlesticks from the Holy Land and your illustrated manuscripts?’
‘I possess no such things!’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Really, Matt! Do you believe everything I say? What I do have, however, is important documents and writs. I cannot have that good-for-nothing porter not bothering to protect my room because he thinks I own nothing of value. Now he believes I own a veritable treasure trove, he will be more careful.’
That was probably true, thought Bartholomew. Walter would not wish to risk being held responsible for the loss of Michael’s fictitious treasures – although he would care nothing for scrolls – and would doubtless make more of an effort to ensure the monk’s chamber was secure from now on.
The castle, dominating the town from its hill, was a collection of squat, grey buildings surrounded by a sturdy curtain wall. The curtain enclosed a wide expanse of muddy ground that was nearly always active with some kind of military training, and was overlooked by the great round keep at the far end. Tulyet’s office was on the first floor of this austere Norman tower, the jagged crenellations of which pierced the white winter sky like blackened teeth.
Unusually, the bailey was almost deserted. There was a sergeant at the gate, and one or two archers lounged around the wall-walk, but the bulk of the garrison was out, attempting to hunt down the outlaws. It was an almost impossible task: the daylight hours were few, and the Fenlands to the north and the great forests to the south provided excellent cover for thieves and robbers. The sergeant, who had admitted Michael to the castle on many occasions, let them in and left them to find their own way to the Sheriff’s office. Hearing their voices as they climbed the newel stair, Richard Tulyet came to greet them.
‘Cynric told me about your experience with these outlaws,’ he said without preamble, waving them to seats on a bench that ran the length of two of the walls. ‘He was able to give me an excellent description of them, which will be useful, but I am concerned that they so shamelessly strutted into the town and had a drink at the Brazen George before leaving on their murderous mission.’
Bartholomew sat on the bench nearest the fire. Michael might be hot and sweaty from his exertions, but the physician was frozen to the bone. ‘They were confident,’ he agreed. ‘And well-organised.’
‘So Cynric said,’ said Tulyet, sitting at his desk and leaning back in the chair. ‘I have a strong suspicion that the outlaws I have been hunting this winter and the men who attacked you are one and the same. It is unlikely that there are two well-run criminal bands operating in the same area. At least, I hope not!’
‘Did you know about the smuggling that takes place in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And I know it has become far more prevalent this year because the mild winter has kept the waterways open.’
‘So, you think these smugglers are also responsible for the burglaries in the town and the robberies on the roads of which Sir Oswald Stanmore has been complaining?’ asked Michael.
Tulyet picked up a quill and began to chew the end. ‘I do. But speaking of Stanmore, what about the deaths of his men – Egil and Jurnet? Have you told him about that yet? It is not a task I envy you; Stanmore is protective over the people who work for him.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘We told him yesterday. Alan of Norwich killed Jurnet and Julianna did away with Egil.’
Tulyet looked up sharply and Michael gave a sigh. ‘Ignore him, Dick,’ said the monk in a voice that bespoke long suffering. ‘I saw the grip Egil had around Matt’s throat, and so did Cynric. I would have brained the man myself had he been within my reach. Julianna saved Matt’s life.’
‘Did you not recognise Egil as you fought?’ asked Tulyet of Bartholomew.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The moon was in and out, and it was difficult to see clearly. I imagine the poor man had been wandering in the Fens for the previous two days and, quite reasonably, assumed that anyone on the highway in the dead of night, walking as furtively as we were, was up to no good. He attacked without trying to discover who we were.’
‘I spoke with Egil when he first arrived in Cambridge,’ said Tulyet, frowning. ‘I interview any stranger who stays here longer than a week – we cannot be too careful with strangers these days – and he told me that he knew the Fens around Ely like the back of his hand.’
‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, uncertain of the point the Sheriff was trying to make.
‘So if he knew the Fens so well, he would not have wandered for two days before finding the road again,’ said Tulyet impatiently.
‘True,’ said Michael, thinking hard. ‘Oswald Stanmore said that Egil preferred the Fens to the town, and often went fishing there. And he certainly knew where the Ely causeway went when it disappeared underwater on our outward journey. No, Matt. Egil would not have been lost.’
‘Perhaps he was injured,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and left for dead by the smugglers.’
‘Possibly,’ said Tulyet. ‘But we will know that for certain when you examine the body properly. I take it Stanmore has gone to fetch it back?’
Bartholomew nodded, wondering whether it was worth protesting at Tulyet’s cavalier assumption that he would act as coroner for him.
‘I arrested Thomas Bingham – the University’s newest Master – for the murder of James Grene this morning,’ said Tulyet, almost casually. ‘We have him locked in a room upstairs.’
Michael leapt to his feet. ‘What? Bingham? On what evidence?’
‘On the evidence we all saw,’ said Tulyet. ‘Grene was poisoned at Bingham’s installation. Apparently, his Fellows began their own investigation when Vice-Chancellor Harling told them you had been called away, and Father Eligius came to me and made a case for his arrest earlier today. Essentially, he pointed out that someone killed Grene, and the only person to benefit from his death was Bingham. And perhaps even more damning was the fact Grene confided he was in fear of his life from Bingham shortly before his death to Eligius and to two other Valence Marie Fellows.’
‘Grene confided his fear to
‘You were busy investigating the outlaws’ attack on St Clement’s Hostel, and could not be found. And Harling thought Bingham would be safer with me than in the Proctors’ gaol. Despite the fact that no one much cared for Grene while he was alive, sympathy for him dead has exceeded the bounds of all reason, because so many people witnessed his murder. Harling was afraid Grene’s supporters might march against the less-secure Proctors’ prison, and try to lynch Bingham.’
Michael puffed out his cheeks. ‘Harling is probably right. And it is all down to this damned relic of Valence Marie’s!’
‘The relic found last year?’ asked Tulyet, startled. ‘What is that to do with Grene’s murder?’
‘Because since we returned from Denny, I have lost track of the times that I have been asked when the Chancellor plans to reinstate that wretched hand to Valence Marie. People believe Grene died for the thing – and that Bingham is leading a sinister plot to discredit it.’
‘How can people be so gullible?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I thought we had exposed that horrible thing as a fake – and, perhaps even more importantly, proved that the saint it was said to have come from was no more a martyr than I am.’
‘There speaks a man of science,’ said Tulyet, grimly amused. ‘People do not need facts to whip them up into
