‘I came to the same conclusion myself,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘It is encouraging to hear that you have been thinking along the same lines. I believe the unseasonably warm weather and flooded channels have attracted others to try their hand. The men I have in my cells are of the old breed – those who pilot the odd shipment of cloth, grain or spices through the Fens. The men who are bringing in these lemons and figs are using the same routes, but are doing so on a much grander scale.’
He paced back and forth in the small room, pulling at his beard.
‘I am certain the men I arrested confessed everything they knew, but they were unable to tell us anything about the attacks on the travellers on our roads – including the one on you – and very little about the sudden surfeit of goods on the black market. I decided to risk all and speak to the men who are benefiting from this additional trade: I managed to frighten old Master Cheney into telling me where his extra spices had come from.’
‘And they came via the Fens?’ asked Michael, twisting round to look at the Sheriff. When Tulyet nodded, Michael turned back to the fire again. ‘Deschalers virtually admitted as much to us when we took Julianna to him. He said he was unaware that smuggling was taking place around Denny – suggesting that he clearly knew smuggling was taking place elsewhere.’
Tulyet said nothing and Bartholomew noticed the rings of tiredness under his eyes.
‘So what is wrong, Dick?’ he asked. ‘What is stopping you from simply arresting all these people – Cheney and Deschalers and anyone else who is profiting from this illegal trading?’
Tulyet closed his eyes and pulled at his beard again. ‘While the King can be expected to overlook a little illicit trade – the odd casket of claret or consignment of wool – he cannot be expected to ignore smuggling when it has become so flagrant, and when it involves robbery and violence.’
‘I agree,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘Arrest the lot of them – anyone who is involved at any level. Do you know who they all are?’
Tulyet scrubbed at his face. ‘I am fairly certain the men in my cells gave me the names of most of the Fenmen, and once Master Cheney had started to bare his soul, it was almost impossible to stop him telling me who was flooding the black market with smuggled fruit and other goods. Then Constantine Mortimer, rather rashly, came to see why the Sheriff was taking such a long time at his neighbour’s house, and I terrified him into telling me all he knew, too. Between them they named most of the people in the town who are involved in the smuggling.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, then? Why all the gloom? You said you had learned nothing from my informant’s disclosures. But it seems to me you have learned a great deal.’
Tulyet shook his head. ‘Your informant’s disclosures allowed me to arrest the Fenmen – the old breed of smuggler. It was the Masters Cheney and Mortimer who provided me with the names of all the people involved in the opportunistic trading that has taken place this winter.’
‘But that means you have the identities of everyone involved,’ persisted Michael. ‘The Fenmen and the opportunists. It hardly matters whether the information came from Dame Pelagia or your dishonest merchants. I do not see why you are not broaching a bottle of fine wine to celebrate your victory.’
His none-too-subtle hint fell on deaf ears, and Tulyet sighed, too engrossed in his worries to think about pandering to Michael’s greed. ‘Although I have the Fenmen in my cells and I can arrest the opportunists at my leisure, I still do not know which of them is responsible for the burglaries in the town and the ambushing of travellers on the roads – including who organised the attack on you.’
Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘But if you know who is profiting from the smuggling, arrest them all. One – or perhaps more – of them will be responsible for the burglaries and attacks. I do not see your problem, Dick. Who are these people, anyway – other than Mortimer and Cheney?’
Tulyet sat in his chair and leaned back to look up at the cracked plaster on the ceiling. ‘Where shall I begin? How about with Father Paul from Michaelhouse?’
Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘But that is not possible!’ he exclaimed. ‘Paul is blind!’
‘So?’ said Tulyet wearily. ‘One does not need to be able to see to order illegally imported goods and sell them at a profit.’
He looked pointedly at Bartholomew’s grey cloak. Bartholomew’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Michael laughed nervously and Tulyet continued.
‘Doctor Lynton from Peterhouse; James Grene – before he died; Robin of Grantchester; John Colton of Gonville.’ He looked at Bartholomew. ‘Oswald Stanmore.’
Bartholomew groaned and sank back down on the stool. Poor Stanmore! First his apprentice arrested for attempting to murder the Countess of Pembroke, and now he himself was to be charged with smuggling.
Tulyet continued remorselessly. ‘Michaelhouse is particularly guilty: Roger Alcote has amassed a fortune by selling silver buckles; John Runham has been importing gold leaf with which to decorate his cousin’s tomb–’
Michael grimaced. ‘Damn! I thought I had foiled his plans to impose that monstrosity on us by bribing the goldsmiths not to sell him any.’
Tulyet tilted his chair backwards and put his feet on the table. ‘I have not finished. Father William has arranged to be sent hair shirts as a surprise gift for his students at Easter; Samuel Gray – your student, I believe, Matt – has a thriving business selling anything he can lay his hands on.’
Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. No wonder Gray had failed his disputation if he was spending most of his time running a lucrative import business!
‘What about Ralph de Langelee?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘He always has money to spend on drink. He must be involved.’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Tulyet. ‘As far as I can tell, he and Master Kenyngham are about the only two Fellows in your College who are innocent in all this.’
‘I am innocent!’ protested Michael.
Tulyet eyed the heavy gold cross Michael had worn since the installation. ‘Are you, Brother? Then where did that handsome bauble come from? It is not the work of any local smith.’
‘That is none of your affair,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But since you ask, I acquired it perfectly legally from Haralda the Dane, who occasionally works with gold.’
Tulyet smiled and Bartholomew saw he did not believe a word Michael had said. ‘To continue: Jonas the Apothecary has ordered a feather bed for his wife’s bad back; Constantine Mortimer has been selling fine leather gloves from France to boost the profits he makes by selling bread.’ He gave Bartholomew’s hands a hard look. ‘But you already know that.’
‘These?’ asked Bartholomew, looking down at his gloves, aghast. ‘Mortimer gave me smuggled goods?’
Tulyet nodded. ‘Do not feign shock with me, Matt. Mortimer is a baker. How do you imagine he came by gloves to sell?’
‘But I did not know,’ objected Bartholomew. He sounded feeble, even to his own ears, and had clearly not convinced Tulyet. Michael simply regarded him with sceptically raised eyebrows. ‘I did not buy them. Mortimer gave them to me.’
‘Of course he did,’ said Tulyet flatly. Michael still said nothing and the Sheriff continued. ‘Do you want to hear more? There is not a merchant, and scarcely a scholar, in the town who has not taken advantage of what the mild weather has to offer – except, it would seem, Thomas Deschalers.’
‘Deschalers?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘He must be involved – there are lemons wherever you look in the town.’