‘We were right about the poison and Egil – there are burn marks on his hands, just like the ones on Sacks’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And there are small blisters on Egil’s face, too, although they have nearly healed. We must have been blind not to notice them earlier. I imagine Egil spilled the wine when he transported the bottles across the Fens. His face was probably burned when he transferred the poison to it from his hands – while Sacks’s hands were burned when he touched the bottles he sold to the Bernard’s students and Thorpe.’
Michael turned to Tulyet. ‘Do you need more from me or can I leave this matter with you? Matt may be happy to poke about with dismembered corpses, but I have had quite enough of all this!’
Tulyet nodded assent. ‘I have only one question. Matt, how did you guess Sacks’s body and Egil’s missing parts were in Cheney’s salt? It was when you walked over to it that Katherine realised the game she was playing was over and drank the poisoned wine.’
‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I was going to ask Cheney if he had another of similar size that we might borrow as a water barrel for people to use while the well is drained.’
The following afternoon, Bartholomew perched on the trunk of a fallen apple tree in the orchard behind Michaelhouse and watched Tulyet. The Sheriff leaned against the wall and kicked at a rotten apple left from the previous summer and somehow missed by worms and maggots. Next to Bartholomew, Michael sat devouring the last of a fruit pie he had stolen from the kitchens. There would be hell to pay when Agatha discovered it was missing.
‘I think you succeeded admirably,’ Michael said to the Sheriff, ducking out of the way as pieces of apple flew from under Tulyet’s boot. ‘You clearly could not arrest everyone involved in this business, or the town would have lost virtually its entire population. You gave sufficient warning so that most had the opportunity to dispose of their ill-gotten gains, but yet the offenders have had enough of a fright from their narrow escape that it will be a long time before they think of cheating the King out of his taxes again.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Tulyet moodily. ‘Although I will be saying masses for a short and very cold winter next year. All this happened because the waterways are so open.’
‘Why the gloom?’ asked Michael, finishing the pie and wiping his sticky fingers on his habit. ‘You have done just what the King would have wished. He will raise town taxes and the merchants will be too guilt-stricken to protest. Everyone will gain from your discreet handling of the affair.’
Tulyet shook his head. ‘I have the Fenmen who smuggled the occasional barrel of brandy and I know exactly which merchants and scholars used the established routes to bring in smuggled goods since the beginning of winter. But neither of these groups is responsible for the outlaws I have been hunting. These are still at large.’
Michael raised his hands in the air, exasperated by Tulyet’s continuing claims that the case was not yet fully solved. ‘But the outlaws must be Fenmen hired by the merchants to bring the goods along the waterways.’
Tulyet shook his head. ‘Because the Fens are flooded, it is not difficult to travel across them by boat. Anyone can do it this year, and no special knowledge of Fenland geography is needed. No new men were hired – the merchants simply used their own people to bring the goods in. For example, I know that Stanmore’s steward, Hugh, was responsible for bringing cloth from the Wash to Cambridge and he has no experience of the Fens whatsoever.’
‘But if you know which of the merchants’ “own people” were used, arrest them,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘They will be your outlaws – hired louts like Stanmore’s Hugh who decided to take advantage of jaunts out of town to do a little business for themselves. I do not see your problem.’
‘The merchants’ people are men I know,’ said Tulyet. ‘I cannot see the likes of Hugh committing robberies and burglaries. I may have uncovered the Fenmen’s little business and unnerved the merchants and some scholars, but I still do not have the outlaws.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. ‘My informant was very clear about the names of the smugglers. If you are certain the merchants and their servants are not to blame, then the culprits must be among the Fenmen.’
Tulyet sighed, and scratched his head. ‘Perhaps you are right. I suppose I will have to question them all over again.’
‘I offered you my services for that,’ said Michael.
Tulyet nodded absently. ‘Perhaps I will have to accept. But I was convinced they were being honest with me.’
‘It seems honesty is not a virtue widely practised around here,’ said Michael, gazing meaningfully at Bartholomew’s cloak and gloves. ‘I am shocked that so many people I considered principled, law-abiding citizens have gaily travelled along the paths of iniquity and turpitude.’
‘Do not be so pompous, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, tugging off his gloves and shoving them in his bag. He stood up and prepared to take his leave. ‘I must go. I am due to lecture on Theophilus’s De Urinis at King’s Hall tomorrow, and I should prepare something if I do not want to appear totally incompetent.’
‘A lecture on urine sounds almost as inviting as hearing Langelee pontificating on the creation of the world,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Personally, I would rather talk to Dick’s vile little smugglers in his dank and rat-infested prison.’
Tulyet smiled suddenly. ‘Remember I told you that I searched Thomas Deschalers’s house? His stored lemons were wholly legal as it transpired – the pomegranates, figs and nuts were imported by Cheney – but there was a woman staying with Deschalers who almost had him arrested regardless of his innocence. As I was talking to him, a lemon dropped from her sleeve, and her bedchamber was filled to the gills with them, where she had made an attempt to hide them away. She had the brazen effrontery to offer one to me as a gift!’ He drew it out of his pocket and showed it to Bartholomew.
‘Julianna,’ said Bartholomew, in sudden understanding. ‘Yes, she would.’
‘She was quite a challenge,’ said Tulyet, his eyes glittering with amusement as he recalled the scene. ‘When I asked to inspect Deschalers’s cellars, he immediately gave me permission. But this woman – Julianna – refused point blank. She overrode Deschalers as if he were her servant. Who is she? His harlot?’
Michael gave an unpleasant leer. ‘His niece.’
Tulyet blew out his cheeks. ‘What a harpy! She hurled herself at my sergeant like a wild animal, and screamed that if he wanted to inspect the cellars, it would be over her dead body. He offered to arrange it and she backed off. Then, when Deschalers provided us with all the legal documentation for his stored fruit, she turned to him with such an expression of shock that I could not help but laugh. I have never seen such a performance that bespoke of her belief in his guilt in my life!’
Michael smiled. ‘She was betrothed to Edward Mortimer. Perhaps he has had a lucky escape.’
Bartholomew was certain he had.
Tulyet sighed and stretched. ‘I should be at home with my family – it is Sunday, after all.’ He tossed the lemon in the air and caught it. ‘What shall I do with this?’
‘Well, do not eat it raw,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And do not give it to your infant son.’
Tulyet grinned. ‘I heard about Mortimer’s illness. Katherine probably fed him the raw lemons to see if she might kill him. You have this. I do not want to be walking around the town with bribes in my pocket!’
He threw the hard fruit to Bartholomew and departed, leaving the two scholars alone. Bartholomew put the lemon in the pocket in his shirt and shivered, reaching down for his bag.