‘There were two friars, cloaked and hooded against the rain,’ recalled Bernarde. ‘We called out for their blessing, but they ignored us. Do not tell me one of those was him?’
Tulyet grimaced. ‘Him and John, I imagine.’
‘Now we have even more reason to finish this bridge quickly,’ Shardelowe told his men. ‘No one is safe in this dangerous little town. As soon as the last cobble is laid and we get our money, we are off. And I hope none of us ever have cause to set foot here again.’
There was a rumble of agreement from his people, after which they returned to work with even greater urgency, taking what Bartholomew considered to be stupidly reckless risks in the process. He glanced over the side of the ponticulus, and saw the river flowing smooth, fast and black below, swollen by rain. If one of them fell in, he would drown, because he would be swept away long before he could be rescued.
‘I hope the river runs in full spate soon,’ muttered Tulyet, as he and the others hurried on their way. ‘I want the bridge to suffer a good battering before we let Shardelowe go.’
‘That will not happen unless all the sluices are opened,’ said William. ‘But now Morys is dead, he cannot tell us how to unlock them, and the water will back up until it submerges everything to the south – Peterhouse, the Gilbertine Priory, St Mary the Less, the Hall of Valence Marie …’
‘He cannot have done anything too complex,’ said Bartholomew, tired of hearing about it. ‘And I doubt he did it himself, anyway, so someone else will know how to–’
‘But what he did is complex,’ snapped William, exasperated. ‘I have tried to open them several times, but they are stuck fast.’
‘We will sort it out,’ promised Tulyet to mollify him, ‘just as soon as we have ascertained what has happened to Morys.’
‘Assuming it will not be too late by then,’ muttered William darkly.
The Mayor was at the bottom of the fourth and largest dye-pit, looking oddly elongated with a gap between his head and the rest of him. Bartholomew climbed down to examine the body, sincerely hoping he would be able to clamber out again, and a donkey would not have to be hired to haul him up, as had happened with Narboro. Above, he heard Tulyet begin directing the hunt for John, first searching among the graves, and then detailing patrols to look further afield. As several beadles had been attracted by the commotion, Michael told them to help.
Morys had been killed the same way as Lyonnes – decapitated with a shocking degree of clumsiness. Bartholomew imagined it would have taken the culprit an age to do. Fortunately, a cracked skull proved the victim had not been conscious when it had happened.
‘Do we now have two killers at large?’ asked Tulyet worriedly, when both parts of the Mayor had been lifted from the dye-pit and were lying on a bier. ‘Morys and Lyonnes suffered frenzied attacks by a lunatic with a blunt blade, while Aynton and Baldok were shoved off the bridge. We need not include Huntyngdon and Martyn, given that we know Elsham and Gille were responsible for them.’
‘Do you think John is dead, too?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing around uneasily. ‘Or did he kill Morys – a falling-out among thieves?’
‘Soldiers know how to make a clean kill, and John was among the best,’ replied Tulyet. ‘So he is not the culprit. But who is? Someone enraged by Morys’s attempt to steal funds that many folk struggled to raise?’
‘If so, you will have a whole town to interrogate,’ muttered Michael. ‘However, I doubt anyone was surprised when he was exposed as a felon. His corruption was an open secret.’
‘There is a big difference between bribery and grand larceny,’ argued Tulyet. ‘And if Morys’s plan had succeeded, everyone would have had to pay the bridge tax a second time.’
‘A third time,’ corrected William. ‘Baldok stole the first lot, did he not?’
‘Some of it,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But a mere fraction compared to what Morys aimed to make off with.’
Michael’s face was pale in the light of Tulyet’s lantern. ‘We cannot help you with Morys and Lyonnes, Dick. It will be dawn soon, which means Matt, William and I only have one more full day to find whoever dispatched Aynton and Elsham, and ordered the murders of Huntyngdon and Martyn.’
‘It must be Donwich,’ said Bartholomew wearily, aware that he had let Michael down. ‘So we will tackle him again today. Of course, we still have no solid evidence …’
‘I think we should redouble our efforts to locate Gille,’ countered William. ‘If he is not in the town, we shall conclude that he is the culprit, and Michael can announce the news tomorrow. Everyone will go home happy in the knowledge that the case is solved.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘But it would be untrue! Gille was on the ferry when the stone was pushed, and if he did not kill Elsham …’
‘But he did stab Martyn, so it is not as if we accuse an innocent man,’ argued William. ‘And we cannot let our colleagues disperse carrying the news that our Chancellor was murdered and we failed to win him justice.’
‘I will not do it,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I want the truth, not a scapegoat.’
‘You may not have a choice,’ said William soberly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I suggest we visit Clare Hall first, and question the servants. Perhaps they are more familiar with Gille’s habits than his colleagues seem to be.’
The four men parted company, each with the sense that there was simply not enough time left to find the answers they so desperately needed.
It was still dark when Bartholomew and William reached Clare Hall, although there was a faint glimmer of light in the eastern sky. Bartholomew’s head throbbed with tension and fatigue, and his stomach felt like acid. Even the usually ebullient William was subdued, and Bartholomew sensed he also knew they were unlikely to catch the killer in the allotted time.
The rain was coming down so hard that it drummed on Bartholomew’s hat and leapt up in lively splashes as it hit the ground. It sluiced down roofs and walls, and splattered noisily into puddles, before flowing into the ditches that ran down the sides of the road. The drains were full and running fast, carrying away weeks of accumulated filth. Whatever else happened that day, thought Bartholomew, at least they would be left with a cleaner town.
The Clare Hall porter pulled a sour face when they asked to speak to the staff, and they soon learned why. In a brazen flouting of University rules, Donwich had ordered his Fellows to leave early for the summer recess. None had wanted to go, but he had threatened to dock their stipends if they stayed. The only ones left were Pulham and March, who had nowhere else to go. With only three scholars in residence, a large staff was redundant, so Donwich had dismissed them, too, retaining only the porter as a general factotum.
‘He ousted them in case the vicars-general order another election,’ the man explained bitterly. ‘He knows they would all vote for Brother Michael, see.’
Bartholomew’s headache intensified. He had not really expected answers from the staff, because the beadles had already questioned them thoroughly, but he felt as though he was trying to swim against a flood that was carrying him and William further from the truth with every passing moment. Everything seemed to be conspiring against them.
Equally fraught, William interrogated the porter until the man was close to tears, but learned nothing new about Gille’s private life. Then Donwich appeared, Pulham and March in tow. Bartholomew braced himself for another unpleasant confrontation, but the Master’s mind was on other matters.
‘My spies in St Mary the Great have just sent me a message,’ he declared smugly. ‘The vicars-general will announce their decision within the hour. When they declare in my favour, I shall set about rewarding all those who supported me, and punishing those who did not.’