‘You heard him,’ shouted Gayton. ‘Those who are eligible, off you go and God’s speed. The rest, back inside. I want everything carried upstairs – furniture, rugs, everything.’
‘Has Narboro returned yet?’ asked Michael, as the scholars ran to do as they were told.
‘An hour ago,’ replied Gayton in disgust. ‘We asked him to help us carry our library to safety, but he refused. He is in Hoo Hall, packing up his own belongings.’
Bartholomew was not surprised. Peterhouse had opted not to renew Narboro’s Fellowship, so why should he put himself out for colleagues who did not want him? Then Stantone approached. He glanced around to make sure no one else could hear, and began to speak in a confidential whisper.
‘The Sheriff has hidden Morys’s body in our charnel house. We were not very happy about it, but he overrode our objections. He told us not to tell anyone, but I feel you have a right to know, Brother.’
Michael was bemused. ‘Did he say why he feels the need to secrete corpses on University property while the town teeters on the brink of disaster?’
‘Because there have been attempts to seize it and string it up in revenge,’ replied Stantone. ‘Word is out that Morys tried to steal the bridge money, while everyone knows our current crisis is his fault for meddling with the dams. Tulyet wants us to keep it safe.’
‘Have you remembered anything new since we last talked?’ asked Michael, far more concerned with his investigation than the security of Morys’s mortal remains.
‘Just one thing,’ said Stantone. ‘Narboro gossiped to us several times about Baldok, apparently fascinated by the fact that he was murdered on the bridge. But Aynton was murdered on the bridge, too, and as you say he tried to send Narboro a letter …’
‘We must corner Narboro again at once,’ said Bartholomew urgently to Michael. ‘I have said from the start that Aynton’s letters hold the key. We know the one he gave Martyn was about Baldok, and if Huntyngdon’s – intended for Narboro – contained the same information, we may have our connection.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael cautiously. ‘Although it is only a significant connection if Narboro knows something about Baldok that the rest of us do not. If he just likes nattering about another man’s violent end …’
‘Which is probably all it is,’ put in Stantone warningly. ‘I seriously doubt that empty-headed fool knows anything important.’
‘I will take my chances,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run.
The only way to reach Hoo Hall now that Coe Fen was under water was via the lane. However, they had not taken many steps along the Trumpington road towards it when they were hailed by Tulyet, soaking wet and muddy from his fruitless battle with the sluices.
‘Do not go too far, Matt,’ he warned. ‘We will need you soon. When the river breaches the dams, it will flood everything between it and Milne Street. Some folk refuse to leave their homes, so there will be injuries and drownings for certain.’
‘Why not just smash the sluice gates?’ asked Michael. ‘Then all the excess water can be safely channelled away.’
‘Zoone says that breaking them now will allow the water to rush through so fast that it will destroy everything in its path anyway – houses, jetties and our expensive new bridge. The only way to avert disaster is to crank them open slowly, but Morys’s selfish tampering has stolen that option away from us.’
‘Perhaps Zoone will think of something else,’ said Bartholomew hopefully.
‘There is nothing else,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘But now your breakwater is finished, he has agreed to stay at the Mill Pond and monitor the situation. I begged Shardelowe to do likewise, but he refuses to leave the bridge.’
‘He is still working on it?’
‘Creating “starlings” to funnel the worst of the water to either side of the piers. But never mind that. I need you two to retrieve Morys’s body from Peterhouse and put it somewhere dry.’
‘We cannot,’ objected Michael. ‘We are too–’
‘Please, Brother,’ said Tulyet hoarsely. ‘I cannot trust my men with this – they know his tampering with the sluices has put their town in danger. Dickon offered to do it, but you will appreciate why I cannot have him associating with headless corpses.’
‘Why does Morys need to be dry?’ demanded Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is not as if he will drown.’
‘No, but he might float away, and I shall need a body to exhibit when the crisis is over, or folk will say he escaped justice and we shall have a riot. Please do it. Here is a lamp.’
Bartholomew resented the waste of time, but he understood why it had to be done. The moment he and Michael turned back towards Peterhouse, Tulyet took off at a run, yelling for Dickon to check the water levels round the houses in Luthborne Lane.
‘You find Narboro, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I will see to Morys.’
‘You cannot carry his body on your own,’ said Michael. ‘And I doubt Narboro will have answers anyway, despite your near-frantic optimism.’
Bartholomew set off towards the charnel house, stomach churning in agitation. It was already surrounded by calf-deep water, and they opened the door to find Morys partly submerged: Tulyet was right to fear him bobbing away.
‘His killer was deranged,’ said Michael, recoiling anew at the sight. ‘No one should feel safe as long as that madman walks free.’
Bartholomew was too exhausted to think about it. There was a bier leaning against one wall, so he laid it on the floor and took hold of Morys’s shoulders, indicating that Michael was to grab the feet. As they lifted, something caught his eye – something that glinted near the stump of Morys’s neck. He plucked it out and inspected it more closely. It took a moment to identify, but when he did, it answered several questions and raised others.
‘A shard of glass,’ he breathed, holding it up for Michael to see. ‘Reflective on one side and painted on the other.’
‘So?’ asked Michael blankly.
‘It is part of a mirror – a lover’s mirror! And I know of only one person who has one.’
Michael regarded him uneasily. ‘You think that shard came from Narboro’s? But how did it get inside Morys?’
‘We had better find out,’ said Bartholomew, a small flame of hope igniting within him. ‘Come on!’
‘But what about Morys?’ asked Michael.
‘We shall put him on the highest shelf and retrieve him when the waters recede. He will not float away if we lock the door, and he cannot get any wetter than he is already.’
The rain continued to hammer down, and even while they had been inside the charnel house, the situation had changed. The Mill Pond, Coe Fen and the river were now one continuous sheet of water, so it was impossible to see where one began and another ended. Lamps had been lit in order to monitor the rising flood, and their reflections shimmered across its surface.
The lane down to Hoo Hall was becoming impassable, and the flood was knee-deep in places. At one point, Michael accidentally veered off to one side, and yelped in alarm when he found himself in water up to his thighs. Bartholomew hauled him out, and they struggled on.
‘We should wait,’ Michael gasped, when they passed the last of the houses and were faced with a lake. The lane was invisible beneath it, rendering the rest of the journey to Hoo Hall precarious, to say the least. ‘Narboro will not be going anywhere tonight.’
But Bartholomew shook his head. He had not slept properly in days, and had spent most of the last week chasing his own tail over the murders or the flux. Every bone in his body burned with fatigue, but new energy surged through him at the prospect of answers at last. He refused to listen to the voice of reason at the back of his mind that warned him against heaping so much hope on a piece of glass. He ploughed on, feet aching with the cold.