‘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 three Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘That is damning. But why did you arrest Bingham? This is a matter for the Proctors, not the Sheriff. It is a crime against the University, committed on University property.’
‘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 a fanatical frenzy about something, Matt. If you made a convincing case that cows could fly, you would find people willing to believe it – and even to die for it – despite what their experience and common sense dictates to them.’
‘I am concerned that Grene expressed fears for his safety to three Valence Marie Fellows,’ said Michael, gnawing on his lower lip. ‘This is beginning to look very bad for Bingham.’
‘Can we be sure all three are telling the truth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What if they are the same three who voted for Grene in the election, and this is no more than College politics running wild?’
‘Are you suggesting that Father Eligius is lying?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘He is one of the University’s foremost scholars.’
‘No one saw Bingham give Grene the poisoned wine,’ said Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace. ‘And murdering him would be a foolish thing to do in front of half the town. I cannot believe Bingham did it.’
‘Then who did?’ asked Tulyet, watching him move back and forth across the small room. ‘Who else might gain?’
‘Father Eligius himself,’ suggested Michael quietly.
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration. ‘He was offered the Mastership and he did not want it. He has no motive for wanting Grene dead.’
‘He has no motive that we know about,’ corrected Michael. ‘But there is always the relic that he feels so strongly about. Perhaps Grene’s death is somehow connected to that.’
‘I suppose he was very quick to accuse Bingham of Grene’s murder,’ admitted Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘That might be significant.’
‘But so were you,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If you recall.’
‘Only to you,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘But what of these other two Fellows who say Grene professed he was in fear of his life? Why did they wait for Eligius to instigate an investigation before telling their stories? It all strikes me as very odd.’
‘Do you think Bingham is guilty?’ Michael asked Tulyet.
Tulyet shrugged. ‘As you say, the installation was a foolish place to dispatch a rival. But people are often foolish and live to regret their actions. I see plenty of evidence to suggest his guilt, and none to support his innocence. He claims he is blameless, of course. Do you want to speak to him?’
Michael nodded, and Tulyet led them up to the second floor, where a sleepy guard unlocked the door of a small chamber set in the thickness of the wall. The room was gloomy – only a narrow slit allowed the daylight to filter in – but was reasonably comfortable. The remains of a sizeable meal lay on the table, and Bingham had been provided with better, warmer blankets than the ones Bartholomew had at Michaelhouse.
Bingham recognised Michael and came towards him, his face haggard. ‘I did not kill Grene,’ he began immediately, his voice a throaty whisper. ‘I did not like the man, but I did not kill him.’