‘Hunting Yevele,’ replied the old soldier curtly. ‘I had a report that he was in Trumpington, but it was a lot of rubbish, because none of the villagers had seen him. Then, on the way back, I saw a barge that looked very heavy in the water. I gave chase, but it promptly cut off down a channel, where I could not follow. It was the thieves – I am sure of it.’
‘What kind of barge?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking of Isnard.
Helbye read his mind. ‘Yes, it could have been his, although it was difficult to be sure.’
Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Yet if you saw this craft from the Trumpington road, it must have been travelling south. Why, when the sea and the Fens are north and east?’
‘Because I suspect they have a base down there,’ explained Helbye. ‘They will take their loot a few miles by boat, then load it on to carts, to be transported to London by road.’
‘I do not suppose you noticed a bell on board, did you?’
‘A bell?’ Helbye was thoughtful. ‘There was something bulky, now you mention it. Why? Have you lost one?’
‘The University Church has.’ Bartholomew nodded at the sergeant’s sodden clothes. ‘I hope you did not try to swim after this boat.’
Helbye grimaced. ‘I jumped across a ditch. I thought I could make it with room to spare, but there were roots and I stumbled … I landed with an awful thump. My arm is agony.’
‘Would you like me to look at it?’
‘Not in the street.’ Helbye looked around quickly. ‘I cannot have the lads seeing and thinking me feeble.’ He nodded to a nearby tavern. ‘But it will be nice and warm in there, and I would not mind a sip of hot ale. It is perishing out here.’
‘We shall all come,’ determined Michael, overhearing. ‘We have much to discuss, and it will be more pleasant to do it indoors.’
The tavern was the Ship, a small, seedy establishment with an owner whose eyes bulged in alarm when the door opened to admit the Sheriff and Senior Proctor. His agitation did not diminish when Michael asked what victuals were available, making it clear that he intended to stay a while. The other patrons promptly melted away, ignoring his whispered pleas not to leave him alone with such a party. Oblivious of the fact that they were ruining his day, Michael and Tulyet began to discuss murder and theft, while Bartholomew examined Helbye.
The sergeant had fallen directly on his older wound, partly reopening it, and adding a deep cut that reached the bone. He had bound it to stem the bleeding, but the wound was filthy and would fester without proper care. Bartholomew began to clean it, a painful, laborious process that made Helbye groan and hiss between his teeth. He had not been working long before there was a familiar and unwelcome voice at his elbow.
‘What are you doing?’
Bartholomew could only suppose that one of the Ship’s patrons had gone to tell Barber Cook what was happening, probably in the expectation of getting a coin for his trouble.
‘He is tending one of my men,’ said Tulyet coolly. ‘Not that it is any of your business.’
‘It is my business,’ countered Cook, all haughty dignity. ‘That is a laceration, and those are mine to treat, as stipulated in the charter of the Worshipful Company of Barbers. Helbye, come with me. I know how to heal injuries without making my patients swoon from the pain. Better yet, I will throw in a shave, gratis.’
Bartholomew doubted the barber could be more gentle than he had been, but Helbye seized the offer with relief.
‘Thank God!’ he gulped, standing at once. ‘I can take a bit of discomfort, but no man enjoys having his wounds poked with sharp spikes.’
‘No, Will,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘Stay with Matt.’
‘Do not listen to him,’ instructed Cook. ‘He is–’
He backed away fast when Tulyet came to his feet with a dangerous light in his eyes: he had not forgotten the threat that had been issued the last time he had dared challenge the Sheriff’s authority.
‘It is all right, sir,’ said Helbye. ‘This small scratch is not worth any trouble. I will go with Cook, and he will soon set me right.’
‘It is not a “small scratch”,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is a serious injury that needs proper attention or it will turn bad.’
‘I know how to treat wounds,’ said Cook curtly. ‘I am a barber-surgeon. Helbye, if you value your life, follow me. If you want to die, then stay here with this physician.’
He spat the last word like an insult, before spinning on his heel and stalking out. Bartholomew opened his mouth to appeal to Helbye’s sense of self-preservation, but the sergeant raised a hand to stop him.
‘Do not worry,’ he said with a lop-sided grin. ‘He did a lovely job sewing me up last time, and it barely hurt at all. You can do me a horoscope later, and then everyone will be happy.’
Bartholomew was not happy at all, and followed him to the door, where he watched Cook grin triumphantly as he took the sergeant’s arm and escorted him into the Griffin Inn opposite. He was about to return to Michael and Tulyet when he saw his colleague Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall. Rougham was wearing a handsome, fur-lined cloak against the chill, although it was too long for traipsing around Cambridge’s mucky streets, and the bottom was sadly soiled with manure and something unpleasant picked up from walking past the slaughter-houses.
‘Did I just see Helbye surrendering to Cook’s tender mercies?’ Rougham asked. ‘I thought he had more sense. Still, when that lunatic kills him, at least he can have the satisfaction of lying in his grave with a beautiful haircut and a very close shave.’
‘Helbye’s life is not a matter for jests,’ said Bartholomew sharply.
‘Who is jesting? Cook is a menace, and should be banished from our town before he kills someone important – or worse, someone rich. He almost deprived me of Inge the other day, and he has been one of my best clients.’
‘Why did Inge need a medicus?’
‘He accidentally swallowed some resin, so Cook brewed him an emetic, which made him vomit so violently that his stomach bled. The resin would have done him scant harm, but the emetic … well, suffice to say that he was lucky I was on hand to administer an antidote.’
‘How does one “accidentally swallow” resin?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘According to Inge, he mistook it for honey, although it sounds a peculiar tale to me. But I cannot loiter here gossiping, Bartholomew. I have patients to tend.’
Bartholomew re-entered the Ship, hoping that Helbye would not take too long to come for his horoscope, so he could check Cook’s handiwork before there was a problem.
‘Why did you send him to Trumpington, Dick?’ he asked, a little reproachfully. ‘You must see that he is no longer up to that sort of jaunt.’
‘I did not send him,’ replied Tulyet. ‘He volunteered. Besides, it was meant to be a short, easy ride, followed by putting a few questions in a tavern. How was I to know that he would take the opportunity to hare off in pursuit of barges?’
‘Speaking of barges, how is your hunt for the thieves going?’ asked Michael. ‘I am afraid I have learned nothing to help, although my beadles have been told to keep their eyes open.’
‘It is not “going” at all,’ replied Tulyet sourly. ‘And the rogues continue to outwit me at every turn. Your University has just lost a bell, while Holty is now missing his pinnacles.’
‘But you have the tomb-makers under surveillance,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Your men would have noticed the masons or the latteners slipping away to steal, which means they can be eliminated as suspects. Yes?’
‘Not really,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘The nights are bitterly cold, and although my guards claim they stay at their posts every moment of their watch, I am not such a fool as to believe them. Of course they disappear for a quick walk to get their blood moving again, or even to find a warming drink. And who can blame them?’