Murder By The Book

Book 18: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

It is drawing near to the end of term, and the University at Cambridge is in turmoil over the opening of a new Common Library. There is an attack on one of the masters at a meeting to discuss the matter, and a body is found floating in the pond in the library's garden on the eve of its opening.

Meanwhile, there are rumours of a large force of dangerous smugglers lurking in the Fens. Aided by their friend Sheriff Tulyet, Bartholomew and Michael must thwart the invaders before the Feast of Corpus Christi the following week. To fail might mean the destruction of the town...

Release date: June 7, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

Poitiers, September 1356

On a warm autumn morning, two armies faced each other across a gently rolling plain. A pretty wood lay behind the English troops, its trees already turning from green to gold. There was a river nearby, too, where a heron stalked, hunting fish in the gurgling shallows. The sun shone, bees hummed and the air was full of birdsong. The scene was peaceful and idyllic.

Suddenly, trumpets brayed to announce a French attack, and the sounds of innocent morning were lost amid a thundering tattoo of charging hoofs and bloodcurdling war cries. Arrows hissed from Welsh and English longbows, quickly followed by the screams of the wounded. Eventually, there was another sound, too, one that startled the French warhorses, and made them buck and rear. It was the staccato bark of the Prince of Wales’s newfangled artillery.

The Sire de Rougé watched from the French right flank, cursing as smoke billowed across the field, making it difficult for him to see what was happening. He had heard of the device known as the ribauldequin, which used exploding powder to discharge several missiles simultaneously, but he had never seen one in action. He had hoped he never would – he considered them an abomination beyond belief, and so did every other right-thinking warrior.

There was a bright flame in the wood, followed by a much louder boom. He narrowed his eyes, straining for a glimpse of the things, but they were too well concealed. There was a fire, though, and he could see the English rushing to put it out. It burned only briefly, but that particular weapon did not speak again. Rougé assumed it had blown up – the cursed inventions might be terrifying to the opposition, but they were equally capable of killing their operators.

He itched to join in the affray. Unfortunately, the previous day, King Jean had informed him that he was unlikely to be needed – a French victory was a certainty, because they outnumbered the enemy three to one. They would, Jean had stated confidently, kill or rout them all, and the English would never set hostile feet in France again. Rougé and his small unit of horsemen were to remain in reserve, and not to deploy unless specifically ordered to do so.

The French army had three main divisions. The strongest and best was commanded by Jean himself, while his son the Dauphin and the Duke of Orléans led the others. When the smoke cleared, Rougé saw that the Dauphin had attacked first, but it had been a long dash towards the English position, especially wearing heavy armour and under a constant hail of arrows, and their bold charge had lost its impetus by the time they reached their goal. They had turned to retreat, but immediately became entangled with Orléans’s troops, who were marching up behind. Panic and chaos ensued, and now both units were stumbling from the field in disarray.

Rougé gripped his reins so hard that his knuckles were white, and his heart thudded wildly as King Jean stood up in his stirrups and raised his arm to signal the advance of his own division. Immediately, the great mass of knights and men-at-arms began to trot forward. They were the cream of the French army, and a splendid sight with their streaming pennants and the sunlight glinting off their polished helmets. Rougé began to relax. No grubby English rabble could withstand such a powerful force, and Jean had been right to brag of success that day.

To quell an almost overwhelming urge to race into the affray regardless of orders, Rougé pondered the English artillery again. First, there were the squat, malignant ‘bombards’, which sent stone balls careening into enemy lines. And second, there were the newer, lighter ribauldequins. These were wildly inaccurate, and their spluttering fire was making no difference to the battle one way or the other, yet Rougé could see their potential. Not only were the flames, noise and smoke unnerving, especially to horses, but it would not take much to adapt them into something truly deadly.

His musings were interrupted by a flurry of activity along the English lines: the archers had run out of arrows, and were snatching up hammers and daggers instead. Rougé sneered his disdain. It was an act of desperation, as such paltry weapons were no match for the great broadswords wielded by the French knights – and there were a great many of those in the proud wave that was pounding magnificently forward. But he detected another movement, too, in the woods to his left, where the Prince of Wales had stationed his Gascon cavalry.

There was a tremendous clash as the two armies met, followed by an indescribable cacophony of screams and howls. The spiteful clap of the ribauldequin sounded again, and more smoke drifted across his line of vision. Rougé leaned forward in his saddle, straining his eyes against the billowing whiteness. Just when it thinned, the ribauldequin cracked out yet again and Rougé gave up trying to see what was happening. To distract himself, he thought about the circumstances that had brought the two countries to war in the first place.

It was all to do with who should be King of France. Edward III of England thought it should be him – his great-grandfather had held the title, and Edward was the only legitimate offspring of that particular bloodline. Unfortunately for him, no French noble wanted an Englishman as his monarch, and most of the country supported the House of Valois. The dispute had dragged on for almost three decades already, and although Edward now preferred the comfort of his palaces to a campaign tent, his son was full of fervour for his birthright. For months now, the Prince of Wales had been leading a ragtag army across France, leaving a trail of death and destruction wherever he went. It was, thought Rougé bitterly, high time that bellicose pup was sent packing with his tail between his legs.

Suddenly he became aware that battle cries had given way to cheers. He smiled: Jean had won, and France would soon be free of the brutal marauders. Then the smoke thinned, and his grin faded. The victory had been won at a terrible price – the ground was littered with French dead, their pennants trampled and filthy underfoot, and their bright armour foul with dirt and blood. Then he frowned, as more of the smoke blew away.

The tight, glorious mass of Jean’s division was gone, and in its place was disorganised, shattered confusion. A few knights fought in isolated clumps, but the majority were running for their lives. With a shock that made him gasp his horror, Rougé saw that it was not the French who were cheering, but the English! Worse, he could see Jean battling for his life, virtually alone and beset on all sides by the enemy.

Appalled, Rougé called his men to order and galloped towards him. All around, English, Welsh and Gascon warriors were howling their triumph, but he thundered on, riding over anyone who tried to stop him. An arrow killed his horse from under him, but he rolled away from its body and continued on foot, sword in one hand and shield in the other. His men, he realised dully, were no longer with him; they had seen that the situation was hopeless, and had quit the field while they could.

He stumbled forward. Jean was not far away now, a sharp flash of silver armour amid a sea of rough brown leather jerkins. Then the unthinkable happened. Jean put up his sword, and handed his glove to some minor knight in a grimy surcoat. The King had surrendered! Stunned, Rougé staggered to a standstill, and was too shocked to resist as he was relieved of his weapons and bundled away to sit with the other prisoners.

That evening, there was a great deal of celebration in the English camp – songs, feasting, laughter and boasting. The mood was very different in the cramped corral to which the French prisoners had been herded, where disbelief was turning slowly to despair and shame. Rougé sat dejectedly with the Archbishop of Sens and the Count of Eu.

‘This is a black day for France,’ Sens was saying. He wore full armour under his religious habit, and his hawkish face was taut with anger and humiliation. ‘There cannot be a noble family in the country that has not lost a son in today’s slaughter.’

‘No,’ agreed Eu numbly. He had been wounded, and owed his survival to the English medicus who had been on hand to sew him up. He was not yet sure whether to be grateful. ‘I still do not understand why we lost. We outnumbered them, for God’s sake!’

‘It was Orléans’s fault,’ said Sens bitterly. ‘When he and the Dauphin fled, the Prince of Wales thought he had won, and ordered his troops to put the rest of us to rout. Filled with triumph, even his archers surged forward to fight, and they slammed into us with such force that we could not hold them. And then there were the Gascons.’

‘Why?’ asked Eu tiredly. ‘What did they do?’

‘They sneaked through the woods and struck our left flank. Their timing was perfect, because it threw us into utter confusion. Many of our warriors ran to take refuge in Poitiers, but the townsfolk refused to open their gates, so the Gascons slaughtered them all outside the walls.’

‘Worse will follow,’ predicted Rougé, speaking for the first time since he had been taken. His voice was hoarse, and he did not think the terrible ache in his heart would ever ease. ‘The Prince will march on Bordeaux next, killing and looting as he goes.’

Sens sighed gloomily. ‘This disaster was our own fault. First, we underestimated them, which was foolish. Second, the lie of the land was in their favour, which we ignored. Third, there was a lack of cohesion among our leaders – the Dauphin should never have become entangled in Orléans’s division, and neither one should have retreated. And last, we certainly should have predicted that Gascon trick.’

‘They had ribauldequins, too,’ added Eu, somewhat defensively. ‘It conferred an unfair advantage on them, because using such evil devices is tantamount to cheating, not chivalrous at all. Look – they have left one standing over there. Have you ever seen a more diabolical creation?’

Rougé turned to stare at the weapon. It comprised a row of slender tubes, each with its own powder-pot at the opposite end to the muzzle. There was a ratcheted lever behind them, curving upwards like the tail of a scorpion, so that the barrels could be aimed higher or lower, and the whole thing was on wheels, allowing it to be trundled from place to place.

‘I saw it spit out its deadly missiles,’ Eu said with a shudder. ‘It made a lot of noise and produced a hellish stench. It terrified the horses, and caused many of my men to take flight – they thought it was some manner of witchcraft.’

‘That is no excuse,’ said Rougé sourly. ‘They should have stood firm. France needed us all today, and we failed her.’

‘Perhaps we did,’ sighed Sens. ‘And it galls me to think that our capture will earn a pretty penny for King Edward – money that will be used to advance his claim on our throne, no doubt.’

‘What?’ asked Rougé, uneasily. ‘How?’

‘Ransoms,’ explained the Archbishop. ‘We shall all be taken to England, and I have already been told that my freedom alone will cost eight thousand pounds. Eu’s will be six, and you will not fetch less than one and a half. God only knows what price will be put on King Jean.’

Rougé was silent. He knew about the practice of ransoming, of course, but he was suddenly stricken with the realisation that his desperate attempt to rescue his monarch would ruin his family – and ruin them it would, because years of war had taken their toll on his estates, and fifteen hundred pounds was an impossible sum. He closed his eyes in despair. The conflict had brought famine and poverty to France already, and the ransoms would exacerbate the problem beyond endurance. The common folk would refuse to buy their masters’ freedom, and there would be rebellion and anarchy.

It was then that he knew he hated England with every fibre of his being, and would do anything humanly possible to avenge himself on the nation that had wreaked such havoc on his own. In the fading light, he could see the carnage of the battlefield, the once-proud banners fluttering forlornly in the evening breeze, and the undignified piles of corpses set ready for mass burial the following morning.

‘I shall avenge our dead,’ he vowed, his resolve strengthening by the moment. ‘I shall ensure that France never suffers a rout like this again. Not ever.’

His companions regarded him askance. ‘How?’ asked Sens. ‘You are a guest of the English now, and there is not much you can do from the Tower of London.’

‘I have a plan,’ replied Rougé. ‘It entails me learning a secret.’

A gleam of hope flared in the Archbishop’s eyes when he heard the conviction in the younger man’s voice. ‘What secret?’

Rougé’s face became cold and hard. ‘One that will change the world for ever.’

Cambridge, early May 1358

It was not often that the University at Cambridge called a Convocation of Regents – a gathering of all its masters – but one was certainly organised when Sir Eustace Dunning offered to finance a Common Library. It was a contentious matter, and while some scholars were delighted by the prospect of unlimited access to books, others thought the concept was fraught with dangerous precedents, and argued that the gift should be politely but firmly declined.

The Regents, who were the University’s governing body and so responsible for deciding what was best for it, began to arrive at the church of St Mary the Great long before noon, when the meeting was scheduled to begin. As it was a formal occasion, they wore their ceremonial robes: scarlet gowns and hats for the seculars, and best habits for the monks and friars. Tensions were high, and spats had broken out long before Chancellor Tynkell called for silence, intoned some prayers, and declared the Convocation officially open.

There was an immediate clamour as virtually every man present strove to make his views known. Tynkell, a timid, ineffectual man wholly incapable of controlling hundreds of opinionated scholars, could only wave his hands in feeble entreaty, and it was left to his Senior Proctor, the plump, charismatic Brother Michael, to take charge. Once he had stilled the commotion, Michael indicated that Philip de London was to speak first.

‘Books are expensive,’ London began in a quiet, dignified voice. He and his brother were scribes, employed by the University’s stationer. ‘And only the wealthiest foundations can afford them. A Common Library will ensure that even our poorest scholars will see texts that—’

‘There are more important issues at stake here than the education of paupers,’ interrupted John Teversham, a Fellow of Bene’t College, whose exquisite robes suggested that money would never come between him and the tomes he wanted to study. ‘And I believe that such a foundation will endanger our University.’

‘How?’ asked London irritably. ‘Oxford has had one for the past thirty years, and no harm has befallen it. Indeed, its scholars say it is an excellent addition to—’

‘What that rabble does is not always sensible,’ interrupted Teversham. ‘Besides, where will this collection go? We do not have a suitable building for it.’

‘Actually, we do,’ interjected Tynkell. He smiled nervously, knowing that his news would receive a mixed reaction. ‘Sir Eustace Dunning has given us Newe Inn in Cholles Lane.’

Half the scholars cheered their delight, while the others booed and hissed, and it was some time before Michael was able to restore calm again. Once the church was quiet, he let Principal Coslaye of Batayl Hostel speak first, because the man was scarlet with apoplectic rage, and Michael was afraid he might have a fatal seizure if he was not permitted to have his say soon.

‘The University cannot have Newe Inn,’ Coslaye bellowed furiously. ‘Dunning promised that building to us. To Batayl!’

‘I beg to differ,’ countered Prior Etone of the Carmelites, startled. He was a serious, unsmiling man said to be better at administration than scholarship or religion. ‘He promised it to me, and—’

‘Lies!’ screamed Coslaye. ‘Dunning would never break his word to us.’

‘Or to us,’ retorted Etone coolly.

‘Well, it seems he did both,’ said Tynkell, when Coslaye was too angry to form coherent words and could only splutter with rage, hopping from foot to foot as he did so. He held up a document. ‘Because I have the deed of ownership here. Dunning gave it to me this morning, and if the vote goes as he hopes, Newe Inn will become the Common Library with immediate effect. He would like an official opening at the Feast of Corpus Christi.’

‘Well, he will not have it,’ roared Teversham, beside himself with indignation. ‘Because only fools will favour such a scheme, and my fellow Regents will have more sense than to—’

The rest of his statement was lost amid cheers from those who opposed the ‘grace’ to found a Common Library, and catcalls from those who supported it.

‘I suggest we move directly to the vote,’ said Michael, once he had quelled the uproar a third time. ‘It is obvious that we have all made up our minds, so further discussion is pointless. All those who oppose the grace will move to the south aisle.’

There was an immediate stampede that included Teversham and Coslaye. They stood in a tight, belligerent huddle, hooting and jeering at those who remained, so that the ancient building rang with feisty voices.

‘Come over here,’ hollered Coslaye to the London brothers, his stentorian tones carrying through the din. ‘You are members of Batayl, so I order you to stand with us. It-—’

‘And those who support the grace will move to the north,’ boomed Michael.

The remaining Regents hurried to where he pointed, and when the shuffle was complete, it was clear that the result was going to be close. Tense and heated, they continued to harangue each other as Michael and Tynkell counted heads. And then counted them again.

‘The grace is carried by three votes,’ announced Tynkell at last.

There was a cheer from the north and a roar of disappointment from the south. The two sides converged in a fury of bawling voices and violently wagging fingers. And then something dark sailed through the air. It was a book with wooden covers, and its corner struck Coslaye hard on the side of his head. The Principal of Batayl Hostel dropped to the floor and lay still.

‘Who threw that?’ demanded Michael, in the shocked hush that followed.

There was silence. The University’s medical men – from both sides of the debate – hurried to the stricken man’s side, but their faces were grim as they inspected the wound.

‘He is bleeding inside his skull,’ said one. ‘I doubt he will survive. He has been murdered!’

Cambridge, June 1358

The corpse was on its back, eyes fixed sightlessly on the sky above, arms flung out to the sides and legs dangling in the river. It was a youth with fair curls, a shabby tunic that had once been stylish, and ink on his fingers. It was a wicked shame, thought Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, that his life had been cut so brutally short.

‘You can see why I called you,’ said Richard Tulyet. He was Cambridge’s Sheriff, a slightly built man, whose wispy beard and boyish looks led criminals to underestimate him; they never made the same mistake twice. ‘His clothes and the stains on his hands …’

‘You think he is a scholar,’ surmised Brother Michael, leaning on Bartholomew’s shoulder to peer down at the body. As Senior Proctor, it was his duty to determine whether the dead boy was a member of the University, and if so, to investigate what had happened. ‘I do not recognise him.’

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His name is Adam, and he has just started to work for the University stationer. I treated him for a summer ague a few days ago.’

‘Did he mention any enemies?’ Michael shuddered. ‘His throat has been cut from ear to ear, so he clearly did something to annoy someone.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Tulyet’s expression was sober. ‘He is the third person to have been found with a slashed throat near the river over the last eight weeks or so.’

Bartholomew was horrified. ‘There is a killer on the loose? Who are his other victims?’

‘A beggar whose name no one knows, and one of my night-watchmen,’ replied the Sheriff.

‘I hope there is no trouble brewing between your town and our University,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘We have been living in comparative harmony for months now, and it occurred to me only yesterday that we are overdue for a spat.’

‘Not on our part,’ averred Tulyet. ‘Now that summer is here at last, we are more interested in tending our crops than in quarrelling with you – none of us want another winter of crippling shortages, such as we had last year. However, your scholars have been rather warlike of late.’

‘Over the Common Library,’ said Bartholomew, nodding. ‘The grace to establish it passed by a very slim margin, and the losers are still resentful. It has caused a bitter rift.’

‘A rift that is likely to widen even further today,’ predicted Michael gloomily. ‘The Chancellor has called another Convocation of Regents because we need to elect a new Junior Proctor, but the occasion will be used to reignite the library trouble, I am sure.’

‘Another Junior Proctor?’ asked Tulyet. ‘But that makes three this year alone, Brother! What happened to your last deputy?’

‘He resigned,’ replied the monk shortly. ‘Just because I told him to put down a quarrel between Maud’s Hostel and Bene’t College. The spat was over that wretched library, of course.’

‘It was a pitched battle, not a spat,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it involved weapons.’

‘So what?’ shrugged Michael. ‘He had ten stalwart beadles at his back, and I fail to understand why he was so reluctant to do his duty. I had the matter resolved in a few moments.’

During his years in office, the portly Benedictine theologian had amassed considerable power in the University, and it was common knowledge that he, not the Chancellor, made all the important decisions. He was thus a force to be reckoned with, and had restored the peace with no more than a few sharp words. No Junior Proctor could expect to do likewise, however, and the last incumbent had been so appalled by the expectation that he was to wade into such a vicious mêlée of waving knives and flailing fists that he had quit on the spot.

Unfortunately, it would not be easy to replace him. The work was poorly paid, often dangerous and had few perks. Moreover, Michael could be something of a tartar, impatient with those less intelligent than himself and intolerant of failure. No volunteers were likely to come forward at the Convocation, and the post would almost certainly remain vacant until some unsuspecting newcomer was persuaded to take it.

‘I heard about that fight,’ Tulyet was saying. ‘Several injuries and numerous arrests. However, Adam’s death will have nothing to do with those troubles. I believe he was killed because he, like the beggar and my guard, witnessed something he should not have done.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Smuggling – a perennial problem for any town near the Fens. Unfortunately, as soon as we catch one crew, another takes its place. There is a lot of money in the business, so the perpetrators tend to be protective of their interests, and will certainly kill to defend them.’

‘I hope Adam’s death will not prove to be too time-consuming,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘The new library is due to open a week tomorrow – on the Feast of Corpus Christi – and I have my hands full trying to keep the peace. Not to mention Coslaye.’

‘Coslaye?’ queried Tulyet.

‘The Principal of Batayl Hostel, who was very nearly killed when someone lobbed a book during the last Convocation. Murder might not have been the culprit’s intention, but it was a wicked thing to do regardless, and he needs to be caught.’

‘I will find out what happened to Adam,’ offered Tulyet. ‘You have helped me often enough in the past, and I am already investigating two similar crimes. I shall bring his killer to justice.’

Michael smiled gratefully. He and the Sheriff had always enjoyed a good relationship, and there was rarely any squabbling over jurisdiction. ‘But you must be busy, too, Dick. The town celebrates this particular festival in style, so you will have pageants to organise, miracle plays to commission …’

‘The Guild of Corpus Christi is managing all that this year,’ replied the Sheriff. ‘The only pressing matter I have at the moment is the King’s taxes – mostly collected and counted, but still requiring a mound of documentation before they can be sent to London. It is tedious work, and at the risk of sounding callous, hunting killers is a welcome diversion.’

‘I hope you catch them,’ said Bartholomew, folding the corpse’s hands across its chest and closing its eyes. ‘Because Adam was little more than a child – too young to die.’

‘You say he was a scribe?’ asked Tulyet.

Bartholomew nodded, recalling what the lad had told him when they had met. ‘The University stationer, John Weasenham, hired him, because he can … he could write extremely fast.’

‘Weasenham produces anthologies of set texts called “exemplars”,’ elaborated Michael, when Tulyet’s puzzled expression showed that he did not understand why this should be important. ‘Which students then hire. They are in constant demand, so speedy scribes are essential.’

‘The Carmelite Priory has a scriptorium,’ said Tulyet. ‘Perhaps the friars there will help to produce these exemplars until Adam can be replaced.’

‘No – the Carmelites produce fine books and illustrated manuscripts,’ explained Michael with a tolerant smile at such ignorance. ‘They are wholly different undertakings. And if you want an analogy, compare that donkey over there with your best warhorse.’

‘Adam wanted to join the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew, sorry the youngster had not lived to realise his ambitions. ‘He told me that writing was his life.’

‘Then I had better set about finding out who killed him,’ said Tulyet quietly.

‘And I had better break the news to Weasenham,’ added Michael reluctantly. ‘I shall do it the moment the Convocation is over.’

Although it was not long past dawn, the sun had already burned away the early morning mist, and it promised to be a fine day. The sky was a clear, unbroken blue for the first time in weeks, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he and Michael left the riverbank. The ever-present stench of animal dung and human waste was dominant, but the sweeter scent of flowers and grass lay beneath them. Summer had arrived at last.

The previous winter had been long and hard, and although they had seen little snow, a series of fierce frosts had claimed a number of Bartholomew’s more vulnerable patients. There had been starvation, too, because the harvest had failed, and even the alms dispensed by the convents had not been enough to save some folk from an early grave. The town had celebrated with foolish abandon when the first blossoms had appeared on the trees, relieved beyond measure at this sign that the weather was finally beginning to relinquish its icy hold.

The quickest way to St Mary the Great from the river was via Cholles Lane, a narrow alley bounded on one side by the high wall that surrounded the Carmelite Priory, and a row of houses on the other. There were only three buildings of note. First was the shabby hostel run by Principal Coslaye, which he called Batayl; next was Newe Inn, the former tavern that was being converted into the Common Library; and the last was a pretty cottage occupied by Will Holm the surgeon, who had arrived two months before – on Easter Day – to set up practice in the town.

‘I see work is proceeding apace on Newe Inn,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as they walked. The sawing, hammering and chiselling had started the day after the Convocation, and its sponsor, Sir Eustace Dunning, had promised the craftsmen a handsome bonus if they finished before the Feast of Corpus Christi. Needless to say, the artisans were eager to oblige.

Michael scowled. ‘I still cannot believe that ridiculous grace was passed. And by only three votes, too! It will mean nothing but trouble.’

‘No – it will mean that all our scholars will have access to texts they might otherwise never see,’ countered Bartholomew. He had voted for the proposal, much to Michael’s disgust, and while he knew he would never persuade the monk to his point of view – or vice versa – they still argued about it every time they passed Newe Inn in each other’s company.

‘But Newe Inn is wholly unsuitable for the purpose.’ Michael stopped to glare at it. ‘It is the wrong size, the wrong shape, and most of its windows face north. It will be too dark to read most of the time, and too cold in winter. Moreover, Batayl Hostel and the Carmelites think it should be theirs.’

‘It is Sir Eustace Dunning’s property. He can give it to whoever he likes.’

‘No good will come of it,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘And I still cannot believe that you supported its foundation. I thought I had made it clear that I was against it, and that I expected all the Regents from my own College to vote accordingly.’

‘A lot