A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 8

Bartholomew jumped so much when Philippa spoke in the silence of the church that he dropped his tweezers, which clattered across the floor with a sound that was shockingly loud. Stanmore was with her, looking from the dead servant to his brother-in-law with an expression of horror. To hide his consternation, Bartholomew bent down and took his time in retrieving the dropped implement, irrationally hoping that both Philippa and Stanmore would be gone by the time he straightened up. Philippa, meanwhile, waited for a response.

‘Matt made you a promise,’ replied Michael suavely, when he saw Bartholomew did not know how to answer her. ‘It is Gosslinge he is examining, not your husband.’

‘Did you ram metal objects down Walter’s throat, too?’ asked Philippa icily, addressing Bartholomew. She was too intelligent not to see that Michael had deftly side-stepped the issue.

‘I did not,’ replied Bartholomew, standing and thrusting the forceps into his bag.

Philippa made a grimace of disgust. ‘I thought you kept your clean bandages in there. If you throw things that have been inside corpses on top of them, then it is not surprising your patients sicken and die. I heard about the deaths of the two old men who live by the river; Edith told me.’

‘One,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘Dunstan is still alive.’

‘He was dead this morning,’ said Stanmore, still regarding Bartholomew askance. He started to edge towards the door, deciding that if his brother-in-law had a good explanation for his ghoulish activities then he did not want to hear it. He saw Bartholomew’s distress at the news about Dunstan and stopped. His voice was gentle when he spoke again. ‘Matilde came to tell Edith, Matt. She said she left him asleep but alive shortly after you went home, but he was dead when she returned at dawn.’

Bartholomew turned away, embarrassed by the sudden pricking of tears at the back of his eyes. He was fond of the two old rivermen, and would miss their cheerful gossip on summer evenings, when he had sat with them outside their hovel. He had known it would not be long before Dunstan followed his brother, but he had not anticipated it would be quite so soon. He wondered what more he could have done to help, and felt grief threaten to overwhelm him.

‘I will say his requiem mass,’ said Michael in a voice that was hoarse with emotion. ‘He sang in my choir, and I have known him for many years.’

Philippa looked from one to the other in sudden consternation. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, sounding contrite. ‘I see they were dear to you. I did not know, and you must forgive me. I would not have broken the news so baldly had I known.’

Her sympathy was more than Bartholomew could bear. He walked away, saying he was going to wash his hands in water from the jug at the back of the nave. Memories of the old men’s chatter in the summer sunlight returned to him, and it was some time before he was sufficiently in control of himself to rejoin to the others. Michael’s reaction had been much the same. He was in the Stanton Chapel, standing over Athelbald with sad eyes and a downturned mouth.

Philippa and Stanmore waited together in the nave, standing stiffly side by side, as though neither was comfortable with the other’s company. With a distant part of his mind, Bartholomew wondered whether Philippa knew Stanmore suspected her and Giles of foul play in the deaths of Turke and Gosslinge and resented him for it. Stanmore, meanwhile, was edgy and restless, and looked as though he could not wait to escape from her presence. Eventually, Michael muttered a benediction, then took a deep breath before turning to Bartholomew.

‘Obviously there is no more you can do for Dunstan, but I need to make arrangements for him to be buried with his brother.’

‘Will you wait a moment while Philippa lights some candles?’ asked Stanmore, abandoning the widow with relief as he headed for the door. ‘I escorted her here, but I have a guild meeting to attend and cannot see her home again. It is on your way – more or less.’

He had opened the door and left before they had had the chance to reply, transparently grateful to be about his own business. He slammed the door behind him, sending a hollow crash around the building. Bartholomew wished that Stanmore had made as much noise entering the church; then he would not have been caught with a pair of forceps in the throat of a corpse.

‘Cambridge is reasonably safe during the day,’ he said, thinking Philippa was being overly sensitive by not wanting to walk alone. ‘You are unlikely to come to harm, and it is not far from here to Milne Street.’

‘Actually, Cambridge is a very odd little town,’ she countered. ‘And do not try to convince me otherwise, because I remember it from when I was here during the plague – bodies hidden in attics, Masters burned alive in their rooms, men murdered and their deaths made to appear natural. But my insistence on an escort is not because I am afraid, but because it is not seemly for a recent widow to wander the streets on her own.’

‘London manners,’ remarked Michael. ‘No one would condemn unescorted widows here.’

‘Perhaps so, but I do not want to abandon my principles just because I am travelling. What are you doing here anyway? Do you not have better things to do than thrusting pincers down dead men’s gullets?’ She turned and flounced into the Stanton Chapel without waiting for a response.

‘It is a good thing I did not allow you to slice Gosslinge open,’ muttered Michael, watching her leave. ‘Otherwise she and Oswald would have rushed screaming from the church and we both would have been burned as warlocks in the Market Square. Next time you want to do something so excessively unpleasant, we shall have to remember to lock the door.’

‘I am done with bodies, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, covering Gosslinge with the sheet. ‘First I conducted an examination so superficial that I missed important evidence, then I held one so thorough I shocked and dismayed a widow. I do not enjoy it anyway, and you will do better to find someone else.’

‘You made a mistake,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But few of us are perfect, and you will do until someone better comes along. Did you retrieve whatever it was you located in that poor man’s throat? Or do we have to return at midnight with satanic regalia and do it all over again?’

‘It is in my bag. It fell on the ground when Philippa made me jump, and I did not want her to see it – that is why I put the tweezers on top of all my clean bandages, not from any habit of poor hygiene. I wanted to keep the thing a secret.’

‘Intriguing,’ mused Michael, regarding his friend with interest. ‘Your responses to Philippa are difficult to fathom, Matt. I cannot decide whether she still means something to you, or whether you are just relieved she is not Mistress Bartholomew. And although you balked at examining Turke because she asked you not to, you are suspicious of her contradictory statements about the Waits and her odd reaction to her husband’s death. So, what is she to you: innocent widow or sly trickster?’

‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew, sensing that Michael’s assessment was correct: his feelings towards Philippa were definitely ambivalent. His memories of her were pleasant and she represented a happy phase in his life, yet there were things about her now that he did not understand and that he did not want to probe.

‘So, you are not still half in love with the woman, then?’ asked Michael nosily.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, certain that any spark of passion that he might have harboured was now well and truly extinguished. It was not romantic love that was at the heart of the complex gamut of emotions he felt for her.

‘Good. I confess I held hopes that she might be just what you needed when I first heard she was here, but she has changed and I have revised my opinion. You are better off with Matilde.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘Be sure you do. Philippa may come after you now she is free, and I do not think you should succumb. Remember that she is no longer the woman you loved. So, tell me why you hid the object you found in Gosslinge’s throat. Do you suspect her of foul play, like Oswald does?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘I do not know, Michael. I am confused by the fact that she denied knowing the Waits, and Giles has been acting very oddly since he arrived. I think something is going on, but I have no idea what it might be. It could be wholly innocent. I do not know why I felt the need to hide the thing I found in Gosslinge. I acted on instinct.’

‘What was it?’

‘I do not know that, either. It was too covered in–’

‘Tell me later,’ interrupted Michael hastily. ‘Or even better, do not tell me at all. Just present it nicely cleansed of all signs that it has been residing in a corpse for the last few days. Here is Philippa. Shall we go?’

Philippa refused Bartholomew’s arm as they left the church, and took Michael’s instead. They started to walk towards Milne Street, their progress slow because of the ice and filth that covered the roads. The deep snow meant the dung carts had been unable to collect, and the festering piles along the edges of the street added a sulphurous stench to the choking palls of smoke from wood and peat fires. Dogs foraged enthusiastically in the sticky brown heaps, gorging themselves on objects that even starving beggars had passed over.

‘Did you ignore my wishes and examine my husband’s body anyway?’ asked Philippa, looking briefly at Bartholomew before returning her attention to the demanding task of watching where she placed her prettily clad feet.

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. He imagined she would find out, since the shroud had probably not been replaced exactly as he had found it, and he disliked lying. ‘But I only looked at him. I did not touch him with instruments.’

‘Well, that is something, I suppose,’ she said coolly. ‘And did this examination tell you anything you did not already know?’

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘It told me he had died of the cold, after falling in the river. There were some old scars on his legs, though. Do you know how he came by them?’

‘He never told me. They derived from something that happened long before we met. He disliked anyone seeing them – which was why I was careful how I removed his hose when we were stripping off his wet clothes. I did not want him to wake up and find them bared for all to see, because it would have distressed him. What did your gruesome treatment of Gosslinge tell you?’

‘Nothing,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But you should not take our investigation amiss. The Sheriff or the proctors examine anyone who dies unexpectedly or suddenly. We would be remiss if we did not ensure there was nothing odd about a death.’

‘But there was not – for either of them,’ said Philippa. ‘You just said so.’

‘We had to be certain,’ said Michael. ‘It would not do to bury a man, then have his grieving kin arrive months later clamouring there was evidence of murder.’

‘Murder?’ asked Philippa in alarm. ‘Who said anything about murder?’

‘No one,’ said Michael, startled by her outburst. ‘I was only explaining why these examinations are necessary. Matt did not want to do it, but I insisted.’

‘Well, it is done now, and it is a pity to argue,’ said Philippa, giving Bartholomew a reluctant smile. ‘Let us be friends again.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, patting her arm. ‘But here comes your brother. Perhaps he can escort you home, so we can go and see what can be done for poor Dunstan. That is where our duty lies this morning.’

Abigny smiled as he approached, but would have walked past if Michael had not stopped him. The clerk did not want to return the way he had come, and said his feet hurt too much for all but the most essential journeys. Curtly, Philippa informed him that escorting her was essential, since she was a recent widow and in need of such attentions. Abigny offered her his arm in a way that suggested he wanted her delivered home as soon as possible, so he could go about his own errands.

‘Since you are both here, perhaps you can answer a few questions while Giles rests his feet,’ said Michael artfully. He drew the picture of the knife from his scrip and held it out to them. ‘Do either of you recognise this?’

‘No,’ said Philippa, glancing at it without much interest. ‘Why? Have you lost it?’

‘It is not mine,’ said Michael. ‘I believe it is the weapon that killed Norbert.’

‘Norbert?’ asked Philippa. ‘Who is he?’

‘The student who was killed outside Ovyng,’ replied Michael. ‘Dick Tulyet’s cousin.’

Philippa nodded understanding, then looked at the parchment again. ‘No,’ she said after a moment. ‘It is not familiar. I wondered whether it might have been Gosslinge’s, but it is not.’

‘It is only a picture, not the real thing,’ pressed Michael eagerly. ‘So there are bound to be errors. Are you sure it did not belong to Gosslinge?’

‘It is not the same,’ said Abigny, taking the parchment and turning it this way and that as he assessed it. ‘Gosslinge’s had three glass beads in the hilt, and this only has two.’

‘You seem very well acquainted with your servant’s knife,’ remarked Michael curiously.

Bartholomew agreed, and thought Gosslinge’s dagger and the one in the river sounded remarkably similar. It also occurred to him that while there were only two glass beads when he had seen the weapon, one might well have fallen out after it had been abandoned. He recalled a previous discussion he had had with Abigny about Gosslinge’s knife: when Turke had identified his servant’s body Abigny mentioned that Gosslinge had indeed possessed a knife, and had said it was too large a weapon for him. Michael was right: Abigny did seem well acquainted with the dead man’s personal arsenal.

Abigny gave a pained smile. ‘I forgot to bring my own dagger on this journey, and I have been obliged to borrow Gosslinge’s – for the dinner table and suchlike. It is embarrassing to be in debt to a servant, especially for something as essential as a knife. Turke was scathing in his criticism, of course.’

‘Let us remain with Gosslinge for a moment,’ said Michael, shooting a brief but meaningful glance at Bartholomew to suggest that Abigny’s statements had raised all sorts of questions that would later need to be discussed. ‘Was he of sound mind when you last saw him?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Philippa warily. ‘He was not insane, if that is what you are asking. Not like your Clippesby. Gosslinge complained a lot – about the cold, his clothes, the food we ate, his pay. Especially his pay. Is that what you wanted to know?’

‘He was very feeble,’ added Giles. ‘I was surprised when Walter chose him to come with us when he had better men at his disposal. But Walter did make odd decisions on occasion.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Philippa, voicing the question that was also on Bartholomew’s lips. ‘Everything Walter did was careful and prudent.’

‘Careful, yes,’ said Giles. ‘But not always prudent, and they are not the same thing. You cannot say that killing Fiscurtune was prudent – and neither was going skating on thin ice.’

‘He was prudent in business matters,’ she said defensively. ‘It made him rich. And he owned two relics – St Zeno’s finger and the snail from Jesus’s tomb. That made him special, too.’

‘But he gave them both away,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The finger is at Michaelhouse and Sheriff Morice has the snail.’

‘He planned to buy more relics at Walsingham,’ said Abigny. ‘He had his heart set on purchasing something really impressive, like a piece of the True Cross or a lock of the Virgin’s hair – some very holy item to flaunt at his colleagues in the Fraternity of Fishmongers.’

‘That does not explain why he parted so readily with the old ones,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is more impressive to own three relics than one?’

‘I do not think he ever felt comfortable with that finger, despite the fact that he usually carried it with him,’ said Abigny. ‘And he, like me, thought the snail was fraudulent. It was a clever ploy to give it to Morice.’

‘He did not care for the finger,’ agreed Philippa. ‘I think he was afraid of St Zeno. But the snail was a real relic. He bought it from a Knight Hospitaller for two gold nobles. It must have been genuine to be that expensive.’

‘Gosslinge,’ prompted Michael, to bring the discussion back to the dead servant and declining to comment on the fact that price had little to do with authenticity in the world of relics. ‘Was he upset about anything? Lonely? Worried about the journey that lay ahead? And in what way was he weak? Easily bullied?’

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed both Philippa and Abigny at once. Philippa continued. ‘Despite his size, Gosslinge was very confident. Walter was the only man he ever heeded; he ignored everyone else.’

‘He was rude and lazy,’ murmured Abigny.

Philippa did not hear him. ‘But he was not strong physically. I do not mean he was sickly, just that he seemed unable to lift even fairly light loads.’

‘That was because he did so little work,’ muttered Abigny. ‘His muscles were wasted.’

‘But he was not upset about anything,’ said Philippa, ignoring her brother’s aside. ‘On the contrary, he was looking forward to the journey we were about to make.’

‘He saw opportunities,’ said Abigny darkly. ‘Him and his dice. I think he had done something to the balance, so they would fall more often in his favour. While I have no idea what led him to die in a church wearing someone else’s clothes, I would not be surprised to learn that he did it for reasons that would benefit him financially.’

‘Giles!’ admonished Philippa tiredly. ‘It is not kind to tell tales now the poor man cannot defend himself.’ She turned to Michael and made a helpless gesture, raising her hands palms upward. ‘Gosslinge was not the best servant we had, but he was loyal, and Walter valued loyalty.’

‘I never understood that,’ said Abigny. He looked at Philippa. ‘Even you cannot pretend Walter treated his servants well – he was demanding, mean and critical of their efforts. Yet Gosslinge stayed for years, when we were lucky if others managed more than a few months.’

‘They liked each other,’ said Philippa stubbornly. ‘Walter was kinder to Gosslinge than to the others, and Gosslinge repaid him with devotion.’

‘No,’ said Abigny, shaking his head. ‘It was more than that. I always felt there was some bond that went deeper than a master-servant relationship.’

‘But Walter did not seem particularly distressed when he learned that Gosslinge was dead,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Rather, he was irritated, because it meant he had to find a replacement.’

‘You did not know Walter,’ said Philippa, angered by the comment. ‘He was upset; he just did not show it with tears and lamentations. He would have missed Gosslinge very much.’

‘Can you think of any reason why they should both die in Cambridge?’ asked Michael, unruffled by her ire. ‘Is it possible that Walter was so distressed by Gosslinge’s death that he skated on the Mill Pool, knowing that it might crack under him and bring about his death?’

‘Suicide?’ asked Abigny with a startled laugh. ‘Walter? I do not think so!’

‘No,’ said Philippa firmly. ‘It is winter, and men do die of cold or falling through ice. You are trying to read something into these deaths, when there is nothing. Now, the best thing you can do is leave my husband and his servant in peace, and let me grieve for them.’

She took her brother’s arm and marched away towards Milne Street, so Abigny was obliged to hobble and stumble to keep up with her. Bartholomew could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was agitated, and he was curious. Was it because she did not like Michael probing into secrets she would rather keep concealed? Did she know Gosslinge’s death had not been natural, as had first been assumed, and was determined the truth should not come out? What was the nature of the odd relationship between Turke and his servant? It did not sound as though either was a man who inspired or gave loyalty for no reason. Bartholomew wondered what that reason might be.

Deynman decreed that all Michaelhouse scholars and servants should take part in a game of camp-ball that had been organised for the town that afternoon. It was not good weather for such an activity, and Bartholomew anticipated he would be busy later with patients who had cuts and broken bones. Camp-ball was a vicious event anyway, but it would be worse with ice on the roads and piles of hard snow everywhere.

The game had been Sheriff Morice’s idea, and had been planned for weeks. People were looking forward to it, although Bartholomew could not imagine why. To him, camp-ball was another word for ‘riot’, and it was not unknown for folk to be killed while taking part. The game was played with two sides, and the aim was to put an inflated leather bag between twin posts that marked the ‘goal’ of the opposing team. There was no limit to the number of people who could play, and the teams were sometimes hundreds strong. The ball could be kicked, but it was mostly thrown. This year, Morice had set one goal at the Barnwell Gate, and the other at the Castle. People complained these were too close together – in the past, the goals had been as far apart as the Castle and the village of Trumpington, some two miles distant – but the Sheriff pointed out that most roads were closed by snow, and if folk wanted to play, then the event had to take place in the town, where at least some of the streets were navigable.

Knowing the game could turn into a competition between townsmen and scholars – and then into something that had nothing to do with sportsmanship – Michael petitioned Morice to ensure both sides contained a mixture of town and gown. Michaelhouse scholars were to play for the side called ‘Castle’, who were supposed to drive the ball to their opponents’ goal at the Barnwell Gate. Meanwhile, ‘Gate’ were supposed to stop them, and carry the ball to Castle’s goal. Any method to achieve this was acceptable, although use of weapons was not permitted. There were no other rules.

The teams massed in the Market Square, where there was some reasonably good-natured shouting and bantering, and much quaffing of the powerful church ale that was for sale in the graveyards of St Mary the Great and Holy Trinity. The apprentices were out in force, and so were scholars, all wearing their warmest clothes in anticipation of a long afternoon in the cold. Morice sat on his horse, and addressed the crowd, informing them it was illegal to use anything other than fists while attempting to gain possession of the ball – and anyone aiming a crossbow or drawing a sword could expect to be arrested on sight – and everyone should take care not to trample small children. The prize to the winning team was a groat for every man, half a groat for every woman, and a penny for boys. Girls, Bartholomew assumed, should expect to be disappointed or should lie about their age or sex.

There was a cheer of delight as the Sheriff raised the camp-ball over his head. Michael glanced around warily, watching the vintner’s apprentices fix the scholars of Valence Marie with meaningful intent that had nothing to do with a leather bag. He nodded to Meadowman, and several beadles appeared, jostling the scholars until they were obliged to move away. The vintners were deprived, at least temporarily, of their prey.

Bartholomew saw the Michaelhouse contingent instinctively move closer together. Everyone was there: every student, all the Fellows (except William) and the servants. Cynric had dispensed with the Welsh hunting knife he always carried – it was not unknown for folk to be stabbed by scabbarded weapons when there was a scrum for the ball – and had replaced it with something smaller and less menacing. Agatha clutched a heavy stick, pretending to use it for walking through the snow, although it was obvious that the ‘Gates’ had better watch themselves when she was near.

‘I think I must be the oldest player here,’ said Kenyngham, glancing around in dismay. ‘Spending a whole afternoon chasing a ball is not a good use of my time. I would rather pray.’

‘So would I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘So, why are you here, Father? This is too rough for you.’

‘Deynman ordered everyone at Michaelhouse to take part,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Even the Waits. He wants us to be on the winning team, and thinks numbers may make a difference.’

‘This was not what we had in mind when we agreed to work for Deynman,’ said Frith the musician resentfully. ‘I do not like games of violence.’

‘I do,’ said Agatha, brazenly confrontational. ‘They sort the men from the boys.’

‘Oh?’ Frith’s eyes travelled insolently over Agatha’s formidable bulk. ‘And which are you?’

Agatha’s eyes narrowed, and powerful fingers tightened around her cudgel. ‘I am more man than you will ever hope to be. I do not skulk around the College, looking for things to steal.’

Frith’s lips compressed into a hard, straight line. ‘Neither do I. Michaelhouse folk keep accusing us of stealing, but then the objects turn up a few days later, and it transpires they were just misplaced. You should watch what you say, woman. Defaming the character of innocent people is an offence that I am sure Sheriff Morice will prosecute.’

‘I am quite sure it is,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, so Frith would not hear. ‘Morice knows Colleges will pay to drop any charges that might bring them into disrepute.’

Bartholomew suspected the monk was right. However, the Waits were not stupid, and they had already weathered one encounter with the greedy Sheriff that had probably left them the poorer. They would know that levelling accusations against Michaelhouse would cost them money – especially since they had already demonstrated a fondness for other folks’ gold, so their honesty was compromised.

‘Morice will throw you in his gaol for thieving,’ declared Agatha hotly, glowering at Frith in a way that should have made any sane man back down. ‘And you and your friends will hang.’

‘Prove us thieves, then,’ challenged Frith, his voice dripping with disdain. ‘Search our possessions. You will find nothing amiss.’

‘I have already done that and he is right,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘The salt dish, Wynewyk’s inkpot and Ulfrid’s missing knife were not there. I do not understand: it is obvious they are the culprits, yet I cannot discover where they have hidden what they stole.’

‘Are you sure they are dishonest?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was under the impression that valuable things have been left lying around, but have been ignored. Why take a salt dish when they could have William’s gold nobles or the College silver?’

Cynric shook his head. ‘As I said, I do not understand them at all.’

‘You should leave Michaelhouse,’ said Agatha imperiously to Frith. ‘You are no longer welcome. I shall speak to Deynman, and have him dismiss you.’

Frith sneered. ‘Deynman cannot dismiss us. He signed a document that promised us food, shelter and employment for the whole Twelve Days. We will take it to Morice if you renege.’

‘That document was clever planning on their part,’ remarked Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Previous employers must have found them lacking, so they learned to draw up legal contracts outlining their terms in advance. Langelee would never have signed it, so they are lucky Deynman was elected Lord of Misrule: he is the only one stupid enough to put his mark to such a thing.’

‘Evicting them in this weather would be wicked, anyway,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘We shall have to keep them until it breaks.’

‘We shall have to do no such thing,’ declared Agatha, overhearing him. ‘I do not care what happens to thieves. If they kept their hands to themselves and put on decent performances, we would not be having this discussion in the first place.’

‘Our performances are good,’ objected Makejoy, offended. ‘We are professionals!’

‘You are all right,’ acknowledged Agatha. ‘And Yna and Jestyn are adequate. But Frith is wholly without talent. You should dispense with him – you would do better without the racket he dares to call music.’

Makejoy regarded Frith unhappily, and Bartholomew was under the impression she thought the aggressive laundress was right. Frith did not, however, and he moved up to Agatha until his face was only inches from hers. His voice was low and hoarse with menace.

‘Leave me alone, woman. And keep your nasty opinions to yourself.’

‘I think you should–’ began Bartholomew, wanting to warn Frith to back down before it was too late. Next to him, Cynric was laughing softly, while Michael watched Frith step into mortal danger with folded arms and an amused smile. Bartholomew never had the chance to complete his sentence. Agatha’s stick moved so fast that it was a blur. There was a sharp crack, and Frith crumpled to the floor at her feet.

‘Whoops,’ she said flatly. ‘How clumsy of me.’

‘He will be all right,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling quickly to inspect the fallen man before Makejoy could make a fuss. ‘He is just dazed. Take him back to Michaelhouse and tell him to spend the rest of the day quietly.’ He glanced up at Agatha. ‘You should watch what you do with that thing. You do not want to be charged with assault.’

‘It was an accident,’ said Agatha archly. She turned to the Fellows and servants, who were watching her antics with unconcealed approval. Langelee was chortling with delight, and even the dour Suttone was laughing. ‘Well? Was it not?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Cynric gleefully. ‘The stick just slipped.’

‘It was a shame Frith walked into it,’ added Langelee. ‘I imagine he will be unable to entertain us with music tonight. Pity.’

Makejoy helped the stunned piper to his feet. ‘I am sorry,’ she said to Agatha, seeing where the sympathy lay and determined to make the best of a bad situation. It would not do for Michaelhouse to ignore the contract and dismiss them when they would be unlikely to find alternative employment that season. ‘This will not happen again.’

‘It had better not,’ said Agatha ungraciously. ‘Keep him away from me, or I shall do more than give him a bump on the skull next time.’

‘She will, you know,’ said Deynman cheerfully. ‘You should hide him away, if you want him to live to see his old age.’

‘I shall try,’ said Makejoy. She slipped Frith’s hand over her shoulder and led him away. He pulled away from her in an attempt to regain some of his dignity, but staggered on rubbery legs.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Kenyngham, watching him in dismay. ‘Violence already, and the game has not even started yet. I do not want to be here!’

‘Do not worry,’ said Bartholomew, giving Deynman a withering glare for inflicting camp-ball on someone like the Gilbertine. The student looked surprised, as though he could not imagine what he had done wrong. ‘Wait until the game begins, then slip away. You will not be missed. This is a game for the strong and the fast, and the chances of you even seeing the ball once the game has started are remote. Let the likes of Deynman and Agatha compete, if they will.’

The Sheriff abruptly concluded his opening speech, then tossed the leather bag with all his might into the waiting crowd. There was an almighty cheer, and all eyes followed it as it rose, then arced downwards – straight into the astonished arms of Kenyngham.

‘Lord!’ cried the Gilbertine in alarm. ‘I do not want it. Here!’

Before Bartholomew could stop him, Kenyngham had given him the ball. Large and determined men were already beginning to converge on the spot where the ball had landed, thrusting the smaller and weaker out of the way. An old woman was battered to the ground, where she covered her head with her arms as feet trampled heedlessly across her. A child screamed in terror at the chaos, and everywhere, people started to shout with excitement.

‘To me! To me!’ yelled Deynman, beginning to dart away, and raising his hands to indicate he was ready for Bartholomew to pass him the ball.

‘No! Me!’ howled Gray, dashing off in the opposite direction.

‘Here!’ shouted Langelee, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘Throw it to me!’

‘Not me!’ shrieked Michael, as the physician glanced in his direction. ‘I do not want it, man!’

‘I will take it,’ announced Agatha, snatching the ball from the physician. She drew back one of her mighty arms and precipitated the ball high into the air, far higher and further than Sheriff Morice’s paltry effort. The crowd howled in delight, the burly men abruptly changed the direction of their charge, and the Michaelhouse Fellows were reprieved. The students rushed into the affray, Cynric and the other servants among them, while Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief that his part in the game was over.

‘I am going to the church,’ said Kenyngham shakily. ‘I did not enjoy that at all.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Suttone fervently. ‘I thought we were all about to be bowled over like kayles. I was terrified. I am going to Michaelhouse, where I shall bar the door to my room and spend the afternoon thanking God for my lucky escape.’

‘The ball is still in the air,’ yelled Langelee admiringly. ‘That was quite a throw, Agatha. We shall have to make sure you are on our team again next year. But I am away to join the fun.’

He shoved through the jostling crowd, becoming one of the large, tough men whose only aim was to grab the ball and play, careless of anyone who happened to be in his way. Bartholomew could see the bag as a black dot in the distance, sailing towards St Mary the Great. He wondered whether it would ever return to the ground. The crowd was still cheering when it smacked into the church like one of the new fire-propelled missiles that the English were currently using to frighten the French in the wars.

Then there was a disbelieving silence, as every eye was fixed on the spectacle of the town’s one and only camp-ball firmly embedded in the mouth of one of St Mary’s more impressive gargoyles. It was so high up that Bartholomew suspected there were few – if any – ladders that would reach it. Gradually, people looked away from the ball and turned to Agatha. There was discontented mumbling, and bitter disappointment was written clear across the face of every man who had been looking forward to an afternoon of violent fun. Michaelhouse’s laundress suddenly found herself the centre of some very hostile attention.

‘What?’ she demanded belligerently, hands on hips.

That evening, while the students caroused in the conclave, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the kitchen to avoid being asked by the Lord of Misrule to provide musical entertainment. Once settled with mulled wine and a dish of dried fruit, they discussed the day’s events. Bartholomew was tired and distressed about Dunstan, and was grateful that Agatha was not in her domain that night, sewing by candlelight as was her habit on winter evenings. She had gone to the King’s Head, to give her own version of the camp-ball incident to a host of wary admirers.

Michael was in Agatha’s wicker throne, while Bartholomew had drawn a stool as close to the fire as it was possible to be without actually setting himself alight. It was another bitterly cold night, and the physician felt he should probably be grateful that Dunstan did not have to live through it with lungs that were irritated both by the cold and by the smoke from his fire.

The Waits were also out, having been offered a non-optional night off. Gray had bluntly informed Deynman that he needed to provide a change in entertainment, because everyone was bored with poor music and lack-lustre juggling. Agatha had wholeheartedly agreed, and informed Deynman that even the Fellows could put on a better show than the Waits. Deynman had taken her literally, and the Fellows had been instructed to perform that night.

Surprisingly, most were pleased to be asked. William offered to sing some troubadour ballads, learned while persecuting heretics in southern France. Kenyngham read a religious poem – but just the one; the students declined a second on the grounds that they only had until dawn before the evening’s entertainment was over. Clippesby’s tavern songs were by far the most popular turn, while Suttone’s peculiar jig, he claimed, had been copied from a Castilian sailor. Wynewyk played his lute to the Carmelite’s ponderous, uncoordinated moves.

Deynman wanted Michael to sing, and Bartholomew to perform the magic tricks he used to distract or cheer sick children. Gray, however, had heard about Dunstan, and with uncharacteristic sensitivity had instructed Deynman to excuse them. Bartholomew had experienced a profound sense of gratitude towards Gray as he and Michael left the noisy revelry of the hall for the steamy, yeasty warmth of the kitchen.

There were cobwebs on the ceiling, Bartholomew noticed, as he tipped his head back and listened to the distant rumble of William’s singing. Bunches of herbs hung there, too, tied with twine and drying for future use. The wall behind the hearth glistened black with grease and soot, and the kitchen smelled of ancient fat, wood-smoke and burnt milk. All around were pots and pans, some half filled with the remains of the evening meal, and others already scoured clean for the following day. Vast ladles lay in a neat line on the scrubbed table, and flour had been weighed and sifted into bowls, ready for baking the morning’s bread. It was a scene simultaneously chaotic and organised.

The College cat rubbed itself around Bartholomew’s legs, so he picked it up and set it on his lap. Immediately it began digging its claws into his thigh. Bartholomew had always been puzzled by the fact that cats often found themselves a comfortable spot, only to lose it by their painful habit of clawing. He set it back on the floor, and it went to try its luck with Michael. The monk allowed it into the cradle formed by the sagging habit between his knees and at once began to sneeze. He chuckled as he wiped his nose on a piece of fine linen.

‘It was dusk by the time they retrieved the camp-ball. Agatha will be remembered for that particular trick for a very long time. Apparently, when Cynric finally managed to reach it, it was so deeply jammed into the gargoyle’s maw that he was obliged to use his knife to prise it out.’

‘I heard that Morice declared the game a draw, and said neither Castles nor Gates should have the prize money. He was almost lynched, and has been obliged to set a date for a rematch.’

‘He was going to keep the money for himself. Foolish man. Some of his unorthodox ways of accumulating wealth can be ignored, but not brazen appropriation of funds on that scale. People will be watching him constantly now he has revealed himself to be openly dishonest. He has done himself a grave disservice.’

‘I am glad we were able to bury Dunstan and Athelbald today.’ Bartholomew stared into the flames.

‘Thanks to you,’ said Michael. ‘I thought you were being ghoulish when you persuaded each church to dig graves before the weather turned foul. But it was good to lay my old tenors in the ground today, rather than storing them in the charnel house to wait for a thaw. It is a pity you did not demand more holes: it is time Gosslinge was gone, too.’

Now that the day was spent, and Bartholomew was free to let his mind dwell on what had happened during it, he was weary and dispirited. There was a nagging ache behind his eyes, and he found it hurt to think about the two old men they had buried. He was also still disgusted with himself for failing to see the signs that Gosslinge had choked, and for being caught by Philippa with his tweezers down a corpse’s throat. All in all, it had been a miserable day, and he was heartily glad it was over.

‘We need to talk to Giles when his sister is not there,’ said Michael, sneezing so violently that the cat was catapulted from his lap. ‘He seems to have a different view of Turke and Gosslinge than she does, and I would like to hear his side in more detail.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm.

‘The more I see of your old sweetheart, the more I sense she is not as honest as she was. She was angry with you for examining Turke’s body, but her ire dissipated as soon as you said you had found nothing amiss. She was anticipating you would, and was relieved to learn you had not.’

‘You are reading too much into it,’ said Bartholomew, wincing as the cat ascended to his knees again, claws at the ready. ‘She was cross at first, but I think she saw there was no point in remaining angry as long as she is obliged to stay with my sister.’

‘No, I am right. She was worried you would find something when you looked at Turke.’ Michael fixed the physician with a penetrating look. ‘You did not miss anything, did you?’

‘Now you do not trust me,’ said Bartholomew glumly. ‘I made a mistake with Gosslinge, and you are wondering how many more I have made – starting with Turke.’

‘I am merely ensuring we should not return to St Michael’s and shove a pair of tweezers into Turke’s lungs, as you did to Gosslinge’s.’

‘Turke spoke. He could not have done that if something had been lodged in his throat. I wonder if those scars on his legs were what she did not want us to see.’

‘But we did see them, and you even asked her about them, but she did not react suspiciously when they were mentioned. She merely said he had come by them before they met. Is that true? Are they old wounds?’

‘Some years. I have seen nothing like them before. What do you think about the knife? Was it Gosslinge’s, do you think?’

Michael sighed heavily. ‘Who knows? Your picture is detailed, but it is not like showing folk the real thing. I could not decide whether Giles recognised it or not, and the differences he mentioned might have been due to errors in your illustration. However, just for argument’s sake let us assume they are one and the same. So, how did Gosslinge’s knife come to kill Norbert? We believe Gosslinge and Norbert met their Maker on the same day, so was Gosslinge killed just to provide the killer with a suitable weapon to use on Norbert? That seems harsh!’

‘Perhaps Gosslinge was the killer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘That would be the simplest solution. Then he went to the church dressed in rags as some kind of atonement.’

‘Perhaps we should ignore the knife and its implications for now,’ said Michael, seeing an infinite range of possibilities, none of which could be proven one way or another. ‘Where is that thing you extracted from Gosslinge? And, more importantly, what was it?’

‘It was crushed into a ball and frozen solid, and is now in my room, being thawed slowly over a candle. We can unravel it when it is pliant.’

‘When? Tonight?’

‘Recent experience has shown that we should do this kind of thing in daylight, when we can see. So, we will do it tomorrow morning. Damn this cat! It has claws like daggers.’

‘How did this ball get inside Gosslinge?’ asked Michael. ‘Did someone put it there?’

Absently, Bartholomew ruffled the cat’s fur, making it purr and ready its claws for more kneading. ‘I was thinking about that all through dinner. The answer is that I am not sure. Gosslinge’s lips were bruised and his fingernail was damaged, so he was probably involved in some kind of struggle. Perhaps someone rammed it down his throat – literally. Giles and Philippa said he was not strong, so it probably would not have been difficult.’

‘Nasty,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘You do not think he did it himself? Tried to eat it and choked, and the bruises were made by his desperation to breathe?’

‘It is possible. What do you think happened? Gosslinge went to St Michael’s, dressed in his livery, and ate the ball of material. Then he ran to the albs, wrapped himself up and died?’

‘Changing his clothes as he did so,’ mused Michael. ‘It does not make sense, does it? How about if he entered the church and met someone there. Let us say Harysone, for the sake of argument. He and Harysone fought, and Harysone rammed this ball into Gosslinge’s throat. Gosslinge died. Harysone stole his clothes and concealed the body among the albs.’

‘But that solution would have Harysone carrying a full set of beggarly clothes when he went to meet Gosslinge.’

‘Perhaps that was why Harysone visited St Michael’s Church the time we followed him: he had already killed Gosslinge and was returning to exchange the clothes. I knew he had something to do with Gosslinge’s death!’ Michael rubbed his hands together, pleased with his reasoning.

‘First, Harysone was not carrying anything when we saw him,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘His hands were empty, except for the ink and parchment he had bought in the Market Square. And second, we saw him enter St Michael’s on the Thursday, whereas we have reasoned that Gosslinge died on the Tuesday. Why bother to change the clothes two days later?’

Michael said nothing, although the very fact that he declined to argue suggested he was aware there was a flaw in his reasoning. ‘What do you think about the people who broke into St Michael’s last night?’ he asked eventually. ‘Were they Philippa and Giles? Ailred and Godric? Frith and one of his friends? Or was it Harysone and an accomplice?’

‘There is nothing to suggest Harysone has an accomplice.’

‘He has enemies, though,’ said Michael. ‘Someone put a knife in his spine, do not forget.’

‘Perhaps we should not read too much into the attack on Harysone, either. The King’s Head is famous for its fights, and stabbings are not infrequent there, as you know.’

‘People do not get stabbed because they dance badly,’ said Michael irritably.

‘He is not a bad dancer, but his movements are provocative. Sexual. Perhaps he aimed his hips at someone’s wife or daughter, and that person took offence. Or perhaps he writhed into someone, and stabbed himself accidentally. His movements are very powerful.’

‘No,’ said Michael, giving the matter serious thought. ‘Someone stabbed him. But tomorrow, we shall do three things. First, we shall look at the ball thawing in your room. Secondly, we shall talk to Harysone again – I want to know where he was when those intruders were in our church. And thirdly, we shall have words with Ailred of Ovyng and ask why he lied to us.’

Bartholomew slept poorly that night. The students were carousing in the conclave, and he knew he would have no rest if he used the hall or the kitchens. There was little choice but to stay in his room. It was bitterly cold, and another blizzard raged, making him reluctant to move across the courtyard to the hall, even when it was so late he knew the students would be sleeping.

Snow worked its way under the window shutters to powder the floor white, and sometimes flakes caught in the draught from the door and went spiralling upwards to land on him. His blankets had been dusted with a thin layer of frost when he had first gone to bed, and the heat from his body melted it to release a clammy dampness. He curled up, trying to conserve warmth, and if he moved so much as a muscle, he felt tendrils of cold begin to attack.

When he did manage to doze, his dreams teemed with disjointed images. He had innumerable conversations with all manner of people, including the two dead rivermen, Michael, Philippa and Abigny. He grew confused, knowing that he was dreaming, but becoming uncertain about what had actually happened and what had not. He watched cold earth shovelled on the stiff, brown sacking bundles that represented Dunstan and Athelbald again and again, and he argued with Michael about Gosslinge. Meanwhile, Gosslinge himself sat on his bier and fixed Bartholomew with baleful eyes, cursing the physician for failing to notice that his death was not from natural causes.

Bartholomew woke with a start, then shook his head half in disgust and half in amusement at the tricks a sleeping mind could play. His feet were so cold he could not tell whether they were still attached, and he felt as though he would instantly freeze if he moved so much as a finger outside the humid cocoon of blankets that encased him. A low, golden light filled the room, giving it a misleading sense of cosiness. The candle still burned, while above it, on a small tripod he had rigged with metal rods and a broken spoon, was the ball of material he had salvaged from Gosslinge. Bracing himself, he threw off the covers and went to inspect the object, leaping from foot to foot so neither would be in contact with the snow-covered flagstones for too long.

His patience had paid off and the ball was now pliable. He glanced through the crack in his window shutter in an attempt to gauge the time, to see whether it was too early to wake Michael. It was pitch black, but he knew he would not sleep any more that night. It was too cold and he was restless. He decided to dress and make an early start on his daily duties. Besides examining the ball and going to visit Harysone and Ailred, there were the following term’s lectures to be prepared.

He scraped half-heartedly at his face with a knife, then rubbed a handful of snow over it, gathered from the miniature drifts that had piled up on the floor. Then he took every item of clothing he possessed from the chest at the end of the bed, and put all of them on with hands that shook almost uncontrollably with cold. By the time he had finished, he was so well wrapped that he could barely move and, with his black cloak thrown around his shoulders, he looked like Brother Michael. The candles he lit cast his shadow against the wall, making him look monstrously vast.

He drew a three-legged stool to the table and sat. Regarding the various tasks that awaited without enthusiasm, he found his thoughts returning to the mysteries that confronted him. Foremost in his mind was Philippa. He still could not decide whether the stricken distress she had first shown over Turke’s death was grief for the loss of a loved protector and companion, or whether it was something else completely.

His thoughts turned to Gosslinge, at which point he cringed. He wondered whether he had missed clues on other victims, allowing their killers to go free. He inspected a large number of corpses for Michael – any member of the University who died, usually. Many did perish from natural causes: being near the marshes, Cambridge was an unhealthy place to live, and fevers and agues were commonplace. It was also smoky, with hundreds of fires belching fumes that became trapped in the dense fogs that plagued the Fen-edge town, and the choking, stinking mists took their toll on scholars with weak chests. And then, of course, there were the usual accidents that occurred with distressing regularity: falls from buildings, collapsing roofs, bites from animals that turned poisonous, bad food, crushings by carts, drownings and many more. He smiled ruefully. Perhaps his misdiagnosis of Gosslinge had a positive side: he knew he would never be complacent about a cause of death again.

Next, he considered the fact that Gosslinge had been trussed up among the albs wearing beggarly clothes. Did it mean a thief – not the killer – had come across the body and had taken a fancy to its fine clothes? But why bother to dress a corpse in the discarded items? Why not leave it naked, thus giving the thief more time to escape? Bartholomew frowned thoughtfully. Now he was getting somewhere. No thief would bother to dress a corpse – which was not an easy thing to do, nor a pleasant one – unless he had some powerful reason for doing so. But what?

Bartholomew pondered the question, but concluded it was more likely that Gosslinge had dressed in the rags himself. Perhaps he had arranged to meet someone in the church and did not want to be recognised, so he dispensed with his livery and wore rags instead. People tended to ignore beggars and, since no one liked being accosted with demands for money, eye contact was usually avoided wherever possible. It would be a good disguise. And then what? Gosslinge had his meeting, choked on the ball and was wrapped in the albs by the person he was meeting? Or was he hiding in the albs anyway, trying to keep warm, because he was wearing thinner, cheaper clothes than he was used to and he was cold?

Bartholomew nodded in satisfaction, feeling he was finally deducing some acceptable answers: Gosslinge had gone to the church in his beggarly attire, and was so cold while he waited for his meeting that he wrapped himself in the albs. Then what? Had his assailant seized him while his arms were tangled and forced the ball down his throat? Or had Gosslinge put it in his own mouth? Bartholomew turned the question over and over, but was unable to come up with an answer that satisfied him. The evidence to point him one way or the other was simply not there.

Next, he thought about the scars on Turke’s legs that Philippa had concealed when he was dying. Were the scars the reason for her request that her husband should not be examined? She intended to ensure that no one saw what he wanted to keep private? Or was there another reason? Idly, he sketched the wounds on a scrap of parchment. They comprised a series of small white marks that criss-crossed Turke’s legs from the knees down. They were not especially disfiguring, and looked at least five years old. He racked his brains, but could think of nothing that would cause such injuries other than his original notion – that Turke had been hacked at with weapons while he sat on a horse. However, it did not seem to be a likely scenario, and Turke had not seemed like a warrior.

His mind flipped back to Gosslinge again. He had an ancient injury, too – one that had deprived him of a thumb. Were the two connected? Had Gosslinge lost his digit at the same time as Turke had earned scarred legs? Turke had given Langelee a relic – a finger – that he claimed belonged to St Zeno. Bartholomew wondered whether it was Gosslinge’s thumb, given away once the servant was dead. He grimaced. That would make the relationship between Gosslinge and his master a curious one. But Bartholomew decided that speculating on the thumb was pointless, and likely to lead him astray. Nevertheless, he made a note to ask Langelee whether he could inspect the relic later that day.

Then there was Norbert to consider. While there were many questions and snippets of information pertaining to the deaths of Gosslinge and Turke, there was virtually nothing to identify the killer of Dick Tulyet’s kinsman. Bartholomew thought about Ovyng Hostel. Why had Ailred lied about his whereabouts the night the intruders had invaded St Michael’s? The fact that he had felt obliged to tell untruths suggested something was amiss.

And what about Dympna, who wrote asking Norbert to St Michael’s Church? The meetings obviously involved some unusual or illegal transaction, because she had eluded the nosy Franciscans when they followed Norbert. If the meetings were innocent, then there would have been no need for such subterfuge. Norbert had not cared whether he had broken other University rules, and certainly would not have minded being caught with a woman. Bartholomew supposed Dympna might have been protecting herself – perhaps she was married, or had other reasons why she did not want to be caught associating with him – but he thought it more likely she was trying to keep the purpose of their meetings a secret.

And finally, why did so many strands of the investigation lead to the Chepe Waits? They had been employed to play in Turke’s home, and they had spoken to Gosslinge, Norbert, Harysone and Abigny in Cambridge. Were they merely trying to secure work for the Twelve Days, as Michael believed, or was their timely presence in Cambridge more than coincidence?

Bartholomew scratched his chin, thinking there were too many questions and too little information, and realised he could sit all night and ponder, but he would have no answers until he had more clues. Reluctantly, he turned his mind from the mysteries and concentrated on the mound of parchment that lay in front of him. He sharpened a pen and prepared to make a start.

Writing while wearing two pairs of gloves was not easy, but he managed. He produced a list of the texts that he wanted his students to read over the next few days, which would be discussed in classes once term had started, and then continued writing the current chapter of his treatise on fevers, concentrating on ailments that afflicted people during winter. With sadness, he used Dunstan as an illustration of specific symptoms and rates of decline. That done, he turned his attention to a public lecture he was to give in the new term, entitled ‘Let us debate whether warm rooms in cold weather breed contagion.’ He intended to base his argument on the works of Maimonides, the great Hebrew physician and philosopher.

He was pleased with the amount of work he had completed before any of his colleagues were out of their beds. He laid down his pen and listened, but the silence was absolute: there were no voices in the courtyard, no distant carts rumbling on the High Street and no dogs yapping. In fact the silence was unnatural, and he supposed it was due to the snow. He wondered what time it was, and with a shock he saw that the candle he had set under Gosslinge’s ball of material had burned away to nothing. It had been new when he had set it there the previous evening, and should not have disappeared quite so soon – unless it was a good deal later than he thought. Puzzled, he left his room and went into the hall, which comprised the door to the cupboard he used to store his medical supplies and a wooden staircase that led to the two upstairs chambers, one of which was Michael’s. He could still hear nothing.

Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, he climbed the stairs. He pushed open the door to Michael’s room and found it deserted. The same was true of the one opposite, which was usually inhabited by a trio of retired scholars. Bartholomew assumed they had all opted for the noisier – scholars snored – but warmer alternative of a night in the hall or the conclave.

He closed the door and walked back down the stairs, deciding to go to the kitchen and see whether there was any new bread to steal or a fire to sit near. He opened the door to the courtyard and stared in shock. A blank wall of snow faced him. He remembered the blizzard of the night before, and supposed he should not be surprised that it had drifted. He climbed the stairs again and went back into Michael’s room, to look out of the window and assess the height of the drifts. He started in alarm when he opened the shutter only to find snow filling that opening, too. It must cover the entire building, and he was trapped inside!

A feeling of dull horror seized Bartholomew as he gazed at the dense whiteness outside Michael’s window. Would anyone notice that he was missing, or would they assume he had gone to spend the night with Edith or Matilde? Would it be days before the snow melted, or someone started to dig? He seized the heavy staff Michael used for travelling, and began to hack at the snow. A good deal toppled inward, but he could detect no glimmer of daylight in the hollow he made. He wondered how the rest of the town had fared, if the drifts were deep enough to bury` Michaelhouse.

The practical side of his mind began to assert itself and he devised a plan. First, he would light a fire. The smoke would alert his colleagues to his predicament and serve to warm him. Next, he would set water to melt and eat a piece of the cake he had downstairs, then he would use Michael’s staff to begin to dig himself out. The snow was not so hard packed that it could not be tunnelled, and he did not want to leave his rescue entirely to his colleagues, lest they had other disasters to manage. Visions of the Blaston house flashed through his mind, its roof crushed by the weight of snow. Michaelhouse’s roofs were also in poor condition, so the same could happen here. The thought spurred him into action.

The fire was blazing nicely, and he was eating his second piece of cake, when it occurred to him that there was something to be said for the silence of being interred. He was free to allow his mind to wander, and it was pleasant sitting quietly without students wanting answers to questions or Michael ordering him to inspect bodies. He had just stoked up the fire and started a third slice of cake when the room was suddenly filled with light. He glanced up to see Michael’s anxious face peering through the window.

‘There you are,’ said the monk accusingly. ‘I have been worried. Why could you not sleep in the hall, like everyone else?’

Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise, then walked to the window to look outside. The sight that greeted him was one he would remember for the rest of his life. The blizzard had blown snow so high against the north wing that it came to the eaves, although the south wing had escaped more lightly, and drifts only reached waist height. Snow lay in great, thick pillows across the roofs, transforming Cambridge into an alien land of soft lines and curves that were a uniform white. In the courtyard below, Langelee was supervising a chain of students as they dug a path between the hall and the gate, while Clippesby and Wynewyk held Michael’s ladder.

‘Do not worry,’ Michael called archly, glancing down at them. ‘He is quite unharmed. He has made himself comfortable near the fire and is eating cake. We need not have hurried after all.’

‘What time is it?’ asked Bartholomew, offering Michael the remains of the slice he had been eating. The monk accepted ungraciously, and crammed it whole into his mouth.

‘A little after ten o’clock, I should think. We have passed the morning digging ourselves back into civilisation. The whole town is like this.’

‘I should see whether Edith needs help,’ said Bartholomew, trying to push past Michael to reach the ladder.

‘Edith needs no help from you,’ said Michael, grabbing the windowsill as the physician’s rough treatment threatened to unbalance him. ‘It was Oswald’s apprentices who came to rescue us. He wanted to make sure you were all right.’

‘What about the students?’ asked Bartholomew, looking towards the hall. ‘Is everyone accounted for?’

‘Yes – which we owe to the Lord of Misrule, who passed a decree last night that the first person to leave the hall was to buy the wine for the next feast. Needless to say, everyone remained. You were the only one missing. And now I know why: you intended to pass the night in great comfort, using my personal supply of firewood and eating cakes you ought to have shared. Give me another piece; climbing ladders is hungry work.’

Bartholomew saw his room was likely to remain inaccessible for some time, so he made a parcel of various essential medical supplies before he abandoned the building. One of the things he took was the ball that had been in Gosslinge’s gullet, which he tucked inside his tunic to make sure it did not freeze again. He also collected his four books: they were the most valuable things he owned and he did not want them crushed or damaged should the roof collapse. Meanwhile, Michael’s prized possessions comprised the rest of the cake, a casket of wine and a clanking bag that held his gold crosses and rings. When they had descended the ladder, Michael suggested they examine Gosslinge’s ball at his office at St Mary the Great, where they would have some privacy.

The High Street was barely recognisable. One side was not too bad, but the other contained drifts so high that many of the houses were completely submerged. Some roofs were poking out, but the single-storeyed ones were totally enveloped. People staggered and stumbled, some calling for missing loved ones, others enjoying the confusion. A group of children screamed with delight as a minor snowball fight developed into a massed battle, and a cow lowed balefully, confused and frightened by the strange white world in which it found itself. Dogs trotted here and there, sniffing out what they deemed to be edible morsels, while a cat sat on a wall and looked down on the chaos with aloof uninterest.

‘We shall go to St Michael’s instead,’ gasped Michael. ‘I do not think we will make it to St Mary the Great. Meadowman tells me that the drift outside Bene’t College – which was already huge and causing problems for carts – is now the size of the Castle motte. We should stay away from that end of the town, in case we are asked to help with the digging. Now even you cannot say that this winter is not the worst that has ever been known in the history of the world!’

‘I can,’ replied Bartholomew mildly. ‘I would never make such a wild statement. How can we know what the weather was like after the Flood or in the reign of the Conqueror? For all we know, the drifts could have been twice this size.’

Michael made no reply, and concentrated on hauling his bulk through the soft white snow, obliged to tug one leg free before lifting it to thigh height for the next step. It was strenuous work and left little breath for chatting, especially for a large man like Michael who was unused to exertion. To take the monk’s mind off the exercise, Bartholomew regaled him with a summary of all he had reasoned while ensconced in his womb of snow. Michael listened without comment, although he acknowledged most of the physician’s points with nods to indicate they were accepted.

In the gloom of St Michael’s, Bartholomew lit three candles and used the top of the founder’s tomb for a flat surface. He took the ball from his tunic and carefully unravelled it. Michael watched eagerly, anticipating some clue that would solve the mystery of Gosslinge’s death once and for all. He was to be disappointed.

‘Well?’ he demanded, as Bartholomew teased the material into an irregularly shaped rectangle.

‘I thought it was some kind of cloth last night, but it is only vellum. It probably swelled and distorted when the fluids from Gosslinge’s throat wetted it.’

‘You mean he did not choke within a few moments?’ asked Michael, appalled. ‘It took some time for him to die?’

‘I do not know about that. It may have swollen later; it would not have done so instantly. I was hoping something would be written on it, but it appears to be unused.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘So, Gosslinge choked on vellum. I suppose this means he must have been murdered – I can see no reason why he would willingly thrust vellum into his mouth.’

Bartholomew picked it up and held it near the candle. ‘I have heard of messages being written in onion-juice ink or some such thing. They only appear when it is warmed.’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Matt,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘No adult would write secret messages with onions these days. You …’

He faltered when a series of letters appeared as Bartholomew moved the material back and forth over the flame.

‘Dympna!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in excitement. ‘It says “Dympna” quite clearly. And there are numbers, too. Three, eight and four.’

‘Is there anything else?’ asked Michael, snatching it from him and performing his own set of manoeuvres. In his impatience, he held it too close to the flame. There was a brief flash and he dropped it with a cry, raising singed fingers to his lips. Bartholomew stamped on it quickly, but what remained was too charred to be of any further use.

‘You have just destroyed the only clue we have,’ Bartholomew remarked irritably. ‘I do not think there was any more written on it, but now we will never know for certain.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael wearily. ‘You and I are not having good fortune, Matt. First, you misdiagnose a death and lose a murder weapon in the river, and then I set a clue alight. Now it seems that neither of us is perfect, whereas yesterday I thought it was just you.’

‘What do you think it meant?’ asked Bartholomew, gazing at the blackened mess on the ground. ‘Is it a reference to a book, do you think?’

‘Or numbers in some court roll or legal document. You know – “37, Ed II” means the thirty-seventh section in the Court Rolls of Edward the Second.’

‘That does not work, either. There are too many numbers.’ Bartholomew shook his head in frustration. ‘It could mean anything – from orders of cloth in ells, to astrological computations. We are no further along now than we were before.’

‘It must have been important, though. Why else would it have figured so prominently in Gosslinge’s death?’

‘Who knows?’ asked Bartholomew, dispirited. ‘I certainly do not.’

The winds had raged so hard the previous night they seemed to have blown the cold away, and the weather had grown milder. This brought its own dangers, for it weakened the snow’s grip on roofs and trees, and huge loads were constantly being precipitated downward. There were rumours that a potter’s neck had been broken as he walked down Henney Lane, and people were vying for space in the very centre of the High Street, away from eaves and overhangs. The narrower lanes and alleyways were conspicuously empty of people.

A group of singers stood in the Market Square, performing secular and religious songs. Their faces were red from the cold, and all had their hands under their arms in an attempt to keep them warm. Their discomfort did not improve their performance, and what should have been cheerful, celebratory tunes sounded like dirges. Bartholomew felt sorry for them, and tossed them some coins as he passed. One detached himself from the group and followed them.

‘Now look what you have done,’ grumbled Michael disapprovingly. ‘We will never be rid of the fellow now that he believes you have funds to spare.’

‘We sing for private houses and institutions,’ said the musician hopefully. ‘All we ask is a little bread for our supper and a cup of warmed ale.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We have the misfortune of owning our own band of entertainers this season.’

‘You mean the Chepe Waits?’ asked the singer, his face displaying a good deal of disgust. ‘You are from Michaelhouse? Frith said he had secured a good arrangement with Michaelhouse.’

‘He certainly did,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Food, beds and, because they are not very good, they are not even obliged to perform that often.’

‘Why keep them, then?’ demanded the singer eagerly. ‘Why not hire us instead?’

‘Because we are loath to throw folk into the streets while the weather is bad.’ Michael did not sound at all compassionate.

The singer sneered. ‘You should keep your sympathy for those who need it. The Chepe Waits will never spend a night in the open. They will always inveigle themselves a bed somewhere, and if that fails, they can use their personal fortunes to hire a room in a tavern.’

‘Their funds do not run to those sorts of expenses,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that the singer needed to be told this. ‘They are itinerants, like you.’

‘No,’ said the singer bitterly. ‘They are not at all like me. If I had their money, I would not be standing here, losing my fingers and toes to the weather. I would be in a warm inn with a pot of spiced ale at my elbow and a hot wench on my knee.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That they are wealthy?’

‘I know the Chepe Waits from when we perform in London. They have friends in high places, who arrange for them to play in the best houses. Then they steal small items – not jewellery or gold, you understand, but little things no one will miss immediately. These they deposit with a friend, so that when accusations are levied, nothing is ever found.’

‘Quenhyth told me that,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘He did not mention that stolen goods were deposited with a third party, but he said a chalice had disappeared from his father’s home. He thought the Waits were responsible.’

‘Well, your Quenhyth was mistaken, then,’ said the singer. ‘The Chepe Waits would never take something as valuable as a chalice. That would cause a stir, and would tell other households they should not be hired. They are cleverer than that and only take objects that can be sold with no questions asked.’

‘Like glass salt dishes, knives, brass skewers and inkpots?’ asked Michael, naming four of several items that had been reported ‘lost’ at Michaelhouse.

‘Exactly!’ said the singer. ‘Everything they steal is small, unimportant, difficult to identify and can be sold openly. Not chalices.’

‘But these paltry objects will not buy them warm beds and decent meals in taverns,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘A little stolen regularly over long periods will make pennies add up. Also, remember that all their meals and beds are provided by the people who hire them. When you have no living expenses you can amass a fortune quickly, even if you are only adding a few coins a day.’

‘Ingenious,’ said Michael. ‘But it sounds a slow and tedious way to gain riches to me.’

‘That may be so, but it is easy and, if you are careful never to take too much, it is safe. It is better than standing in icy marketplaces singing to people who would rather you were silent.’

‘The Waits stole a sizeable sum of money at the King’s Head,’ said Michael. ‘If they are only interested in pennies, then why did they take Harysone’s gold?’

‘That is obvious: because they had not been hired by the King’s Head,’ replied the singer impatiently. ‘The tavern was so full of travellers that it would have been impossible to pin the blame on any one person.’

‘Sheriff Morice pinned it on the Chepe Waits,’ said Michael. ‘He knew the identity of the thieves immediately.’

The singer was suddenly furtive. ‘I imagine someone must have slipped him a hint.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows and treating the singer to an amused smile. ‘I wonder who that could have been.’

‘If the Waits are known for petty theft, then why has no one denounced them?’ asked Bartholomew.

The singer shrugged. ‘I do not think their habits are well known – not here, at least – and who would believe me if I started making accusations? People would say I was just trying to steal their custom, or that I was jealous because my troupe has not been hired by a wealthy College.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘And they would be right.’

‘I do not think the Waits have friends in high places, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about another of the singer’s claims. ‘They were the last to secure employment this year.’

‘Not quite the last,’ the singer pointed out bitterly. ‘I have no idea why they are in Cambridge. They were doing well in Chepe, where they have their influential friends. They secured a lot of business there – to the exclusion of the rest of us, I might add – over the last five years or so. I cannot imagine why they abandoned such a lucrative situation to come here.’

‘You said they give what they steal to a friend, who sells it for them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is this friend with them now? Is it the same person, or do they vary their “friends” between towns?’

‘I have no idea,’ said the singer. ‘I only know what I do because Frith once confided in me when he had fleeced a particularly wealthy patron, and was of a mind to brag. Doubtless he has since wished he held his tongue.’

‘Have you told anyone else all this?’ asked Michael.

The singer grimaced.‘Several people, although none have listened as long as you. But you should hire us instead, Brother. I promise we will not take your salt dishes or your inkpots.’

‘Perhaps next year,’ said Michael. ‘Here are a few coins. Buy yourself and your companions some spiced ale, and you may find your singing is the better for it.’