said he had been hit on the head. You did not say the blow had taken his skull from his shoulders.’
Michael took a cautious peep and backed away hastily. Bartholomew inspected the rest of the body, and then covered it again with the cloth. There were no other injuries. He thought about what Tulyet had said – that Egil was a Fenman who knew his way around the area. If Egil had not been lying injured for two days – and there was nothing on what remained of his corpse to suggest that he had – then where had he been? And what had he been doing? Bartholomew wondered if Egil had somehow stumbled on an outlaw lair, and had been fleeing from them when he had his fatal encounter with the aggressive Julianna.
‘Who could have done this?’ asked Stanmore, looking at the corpse with a shudder. ‘Do you think the mutilation might be related to some satanic ritual?’
‘Well, I think we know who did it,’ said Michael, his face pale. ‘Some of these Fenland smugglers – such as that Alan of Norwich and his men. What we do not know is why, although I cannot believe the answer lies in witchcraft.’
They were silent, and the only sounds were the apprentices shuffling and whispering outside, daring each other to sneak a look through the window. One, bolder than his fellows, hauled himself up onto the sill, his feet scrabbling against the wall. Stanmore pursed his lips and closed the shutters firmly.
‘Youthful curiosity,’ he said, shutting the door as well. ‘And Rob is always the first.’
‘He looks familiar,’ said Bartholomew, the young man’s long, thin nose and hooded eyes ringing the same bell of recognition he had experienced the last time he had seen him in Stanmore’s yard. He shook his head. ‘I have probably seen him working here.’
‘Probably not,’ said Stanmore. ‘He is more often at my shop in Ely, although business has not been good there and I have had him here for the past few weeks. He is Robert Thorpe’s boy.’
Bartholomew and Michael looked blankly at him. ‘Robert Thorpe,’ repeated Stanmore. ‘The disgraced Master of Valence Marie. The elder Thorpe took to teaching when his wife died, and he left his son in the care of relatives. They apprenticed him to me when he declared he did not want to follow in his sire’s footsteps and become a scholar.’
‘Who can blame him, given what happened to his father,’ said Michael. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes. There is a resemblance now that you mention it – around the eyes and nose.’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew suddenly, his raised voice making the others jump. ‘That is not it. I remember where I saw him before.’
He walked briskly to the door and flung it open. The group of apprentices was startled into silence as Bartholomew strode purposefully towards Rob Thorpe. Thorpe stood his ground, looking insolently at Bartholomew, but his nerve failed him at the last moment, and he made a sudden dart towards the gate. Bartholomew was anticipating such a move, however, and reacted quickly. He dived after the young man and had a good handful of his tunic before he had reached the lane.
Stanmore ran towards them, followed by the others.
‘What is happening?’ he demanded. ‘Matt! Leave him alone! You are frightening him.’
‘I know exactly where I have seen you before,’ said Bartholomew, not relinquishing his hold on Thorpe’s clothes. ‘You were standing behind Grene at Bingham’s installation. You helped me carry his body to the chapel.’
‘Not me!’ protested Thorpe, struggling free of Bartholomew’s grip. He brushed himself down indignantly, small eyes flicking from Bartholomew to Stanmore. ‘I was here all night.’
The other apprentices, who had clustered round to watch the excitement, nodded, although Bartholomew noted not all did so with conviction.
‘You were not,’ he said firmly. ‘You were at the installation, wearing a light blue tabard and serving wine at the high table.’
Thorpe brandished a handful of his dark green tunic at Bartholomew with a sneer. ‘Does this look light blue to you? And before you ask, I have another and that is green, too. You can go and look if you want.’
‘Matt!’ said Stanmore, trying to pull Bartholomew away. ‘The lad is telling the truth. You know that all my apprentices’ tunics are this colour. It helps me to keep an eye on them in a crowd.’
Bartholomew grabbed Thorpe by the scruff of the neck. ‘We are going to see Harling.’
‘Whatever for?’ said Stanmore, indignant for his apprentice. ‘You have heard what Rob has to say. He has done nothing wrong.’
‘If he has done nothing wrong, why did he try to run away from me?’ demanded Bartholomew.
‘I would have run if I had seen you bearing down on me like something from hell!’ retorted Stanmore, becoming irate. He tried to prise Bartholomew’s fingers from his apprentice’s collar. Bartholomew pushed him away, and took a few steps towards the gate, the wriggling Thorpe firmly in his grasp.
Edith blocked his way. ‘Matthew, let him go!’ she ordered, incensed. Startled by the fury in her voice, Bartholomew obeyed. ‘Rob has told you he was here on Saturday night and the other apprentices have supported his claim. They have no reason to lie. Do you think I would not have noticed one of our lads serving at the installation? Or Oswald?’
She had a point. Bartholomew backed away, and Stanmore ushered the apprentices out of the yard and back to work.
The merchant turned to Bartholomew, his temper only just under control. ‘I suppose you are still thinking about that accusation of Father Philius’s – that he came here to see one of my apprentices die? Well, I hear Philius is dead himself – murdered in fact – and so it is quite clear that he is involved in all this foul business, and was lying to you. Look to him and to his acquaintances for your poisoner, but leave my lads alone! Rob is a good boy. If you cannot bring yourself to believe your own family, then you can ask the priests at St Botolph’s Church; he does odd jobs for them in his spare time and they think very highly of him.’
Bartholomew had rarely seen Stanmore so enraged and certainly never with him. He looked at Edith, standing with her hands on her hips and regarding him furiously. Edith had always taken a close interest in the apprentices, and she watched over them like a mother hen. Her instinct to protect one of them now was apparently stronger than her trust in her brother’s accusations. Bartholomew glanced over her head to where Thorpe walked with his friends towards the kitchens. The apprentice twisted round and favoured Bartholomew with a triumphant sneer that was anything but innocent.
‘He is the deposed Master Thorpe’s son, and he was at the installation,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into making rash accusations by Thorpe’s gloating. ‘He is the killer of poor James Grene!’
Edith and Stanmore gaped at him.
‘That seems to represent something of a leap in logic,’ remarked Michael, his eyebrows almost disappearing under his hair in his astonishment. He leaned over and whispered in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Have a care, Matt. You are distressing your sister.’
‘Rob is seventeen years old!’ said Edith hotly. ‘How can you accuse a young lad of so vile a crime? First, he was here all night and nowhere near Valence Marie. Second, he has alibis to prove it. Third, how would he come by poisoned wine with which to kill anyway? Fourth, Oswald and I would have seen him had he been at the installation – which he was not. And, fifth, since you seem to believe that wicked Father Philius rather than Oswald, you imply that our household is involved in something sinister.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘I only–’
Edith cut across his words. ‘I think it would be best if you left us now, Matthew. Go and catch your poisoner. But you will not be welcome in our house again if you come only to make horrible accusations. And if I see you anywhere near Rob Thorpe, I will tell Tulyet to arrest you for assaulting a child!’
She turned on her heel and stalked across the yard to the kitchen. After a moment, Stanmore followed. The door slammed, and Bartholomew and Michael were left standing alone in the yard.
‘You handled that well,’ remarked Michael, beginning to walk away.
Bartholomew was rooted to the spot. ‘She believes I am trying to implicate Oswald in all this,’ he whispered, appalled.
Michael took his sleeve and steered him out of the yard. ‘She spoke in anger,’ he said soothingly. ‘She will come to her senses in a day or two. And anyway, you
‘I have never seen her so fierce,’ said Bartholomew, still shocked.
‘I have,’ said Michael, with a wry smile. ‘And so have you if you allow yourself to admit it – only last week, in
