Still clutching Bartholomew’s hand, Paul lifted his face to the sky. ‘It is beginning to rain; you are about to go out and you are not wearing your cloak.’
‘And how do you know all that?’ asked Bartholomew, laughing. He knew the friar relished playing such games, showing off his superior skills of detection.
‘The rain is simple,’ said Paul, showing an upturned palm. ‘I know you are going out because I heard Michael grumbling about missing breakfast; you are apparently waiting for him, which means you are going, too. And I know you are not wearing your cloak, because I would hear it moving around your legs. And I cannot.’
‘I lost it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shall I tell you how, or will you tell me?’
It was Paul’s turn to laugh. ‘Tell me when Brother Michael is not glowering at you to hurry,’ he said. Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise. ‘I just heard his thundering footsteps coming down the stairs from his room,’ Paul explained.
Bartholomew looked to where Michael waited impatiently by the gate.
‘I have several cloaks,’ said Paul. ‘I insist you borrow one.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but I could not. First, I do not seem able to take good care of clothes and will be sure to spoil it. Second, I cannot wear a cloak that is part of a Franciscan habit – Father William would construe it as heretical, and would have me burned in the Market Square.’
‘It is just a plain grey one,’ said Paul. ‘It is not part of my habit. And, as I said, I have several. If you find you like it, I can sell you one.’
The rain began to come down harder, and Bartholomew relented and accepted Paul’s kind offer. He waited while the friar fetched it, and then ran across to meet Michael.
‘Oh, very nice,’ said Michael, eyeing the long garment with amusement. ‘Now you look like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Pestilence!’ He laughed uproariously, while Cynric crossed himself hurriedly, and muttered about the dangers of jesting about the plague.
Stanmore had left an apprentice to direct them to the room to which Egil’s body had been taken. It was an empty storeroom, and the corpse had been placed on a table and covered with a large piece of black cloth. Bartholomew saw dark red stains on the floor, and winced. Edith was ushering the fascinated apprentices away from the window, but when she saw Bartholomew she abandoned them to their own devices, and ran into his arms.
‘Oh Matt!’ she sobbed. ‘What vile business have you been dragged into this time?’
‘It will all be solved soon,’ said Bartholomew gently.
She wiped her eyes and stood back to look at him. ‘How did you come by those scratches on your neck? This is not your cloak! And who put that awful red patch on your hose?’
Bartholomew put his hands on her shoulders. ‘There is nothing to worry about. And I borrowed this cloak from Father Paul. I lost mine.’
‘It is fine cloth,’ said Stanmore, coming up behind him to feel it. ‘Best quality wool. He is a fool to lend it to you – you will have it spoiled in no time. I would recommend you use a hard-wearing worsted of some kind, perhaps–’
‘Oswald,’ prompted Edith, quelling the lecture that was about to begin. ‘We did not drag Matt from his breakfast to talk about cloth.’
Stanmore’s face became sombre. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Putting off the moment, I suppose.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It took some time to find Egil’s corpse – your directions were understandably vague, and my steward had to make three journeys to the Fens before he could locate it. It had been moved, and Cynric’s stick-marker was some distance away from it. It is Egil’s body, without question, because I recall he had a prominent scar on his left calf. But …’ His voice trailed off, and his eyes went to the body lying on the table. Since Stanmore made no move towards it, and was clearly reluctant to offer a further explanation, Bartholomew walked over and lifted the cloth. And drew in a sharp breath of horror. Egil’s heavy body, clad in its thick, homespun clothes, lay under the sheet. But someone had hacked off his head and both of his hands.
‘I take it this is not how you left him?’ asked Stanmore, watching Bartholomew’s expression of shock. ‘You 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.’