A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 6

When Bartholomew and Michael reached the King’s Head with the fish it was past noon, and they discovered Harysone had ignored the physician’s advice to rest, and was in the tavern’s main room, holding forth to a group of pardoners. The pardoners wore black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, and Michael became aware that there was a similarity in their clothes and the ones favoured by Harysone. His eyes narrowed with dislike: Michael detested pardoners, and was as rabid in his loathing of them as William was in his hatred of heretics and Dominicans.

‘So that is why I detected a spirit of evil in the man,’ the monk said, nodding with grim satisfaction when he saw his suspicions had some basis. ‘He is a pardoner. You know how I feel about pardoners.’

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew hastily, hoping that a prompt reply would deliver him from the diatribe he sensed was going to follow. It did not.

‘Pardoners are an evil brood,’ Michael hissed, beginning to work himself into a state of righteous indignation. ‘They travel the country and make their fortunes by preying on the sick, the weak and the gullible. They peddle false relics, and the promises of salvation they offer in their pardons are nothing but lies.’

‘Speaking of false relics. I wonder whether that thing Turke gave Langelee is really a saint’s finger,’ said Bartholomew, attempting to change the subject. He did not think Harysone’s occupation was relevant to the enquiry, especially since he was not practising his trade in the town, but was only selling his books.

‘Not if it originated with a pardoner,’ said Michael, refusing to take the hint. ‘It is probably not even a finger. Did you inspect it?’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I do not interfere with potentially sacred objects to satisfy my idle curiosity. It is not unknown for men to be struck down for mistreating holy relics.’

‘Their pardons are the most wicked thing of all,’ said Michael. ‘They spend their evenings writing them on old pieces of parchment, to make them appear ancient, and then they sell them to the desperate for high prices. The last pardoner I had the pleasure to drive from my town had a box that contained pardons for every sin from gluttony to lust.’

‘Did you buy any?’

Michael ignored him. ‘They allow criminals to salve their consciences by purchasing pardons, instead of giving themselves up to the law. And, of course, they encourage vice.’

‘How do they do that?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Michael was in full stride and would not be stopped until he had had his say. For a man normally so sanguine, it was remarkable how the mere mention of pardoners could reduce the monk to paroxysms of bigotry.

‘By dispensing pardons for future use,’ Michael replied angrily. ‘I saw Mayor Horwood making a bulk purchase of five pardons for adultery just before All Souls Day – one for the sin he had just committed with Yolande de Blaston, and another four for their assignations over the coming month. It is not right! Do you know why there are so many pardoners in Cambridge now? Because it is Christmas, and they know the lords of misrule will be encouraging behaviour that normally sends folk rushing for a confessor. I shall have to ensure their stay is so uncomfortable that they all leave at the earliest opportunity.’

‘They are doing nothing wrong,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Pardoning is not against the law.’

‘It should be,’ declared Michael. His eyes narrowed as he watched the object of his dislike begin a curious sequence of motions. ‘What is he doing over there? I thought you said he was in such pain that he was barely able to stand.’

‘That is what he told me.’ Bartholomew was surprised to see Harysone out of bed, let alone moving with such vigour. ‘I gave him a dose of poppy juice and laudanum, but it seems he exaggerated his agonies – either that or my medicine is more potent than I thought.’ He strongly suspected the former, and supposed the removal of the metal, combined with an effective pain reliever, had all but banished any discomfort Harysone might have suffered.

‘Yes, but what is he doing? Is it a contortion that will ease his pain?’

‘Not one he learned from me,’ said Bartholomew, watching the peculiar movements of the pardoner with open curiosity.

‘Now I shall show you an estampie with music,’ Harysone announced to his companions, blithely unaware that he was the object of Michael’s hostile attentions. ‘Landlord?’

The landlord clapped his hands and one of his patrons stepped forward. The man began to sing a well-known song called ‘Kalenda Maya,’ the words of which had been written by the famous troubadour Raimbault de Vaquieras a century and a half earlier. It was a love lament, telling of how the singer would fret until he received news that his lady still loved him. The King’s Head rendition made it sound as though the singer was giving his woman an ultimatum, and was more threatening than pining. Although Bartholomew did not much care for the ‘carol-dancing’ that was currently popular, nor for the new vigorous jumping dance called the ‘saltarello’, he liked estampies. Harysone’s idea of an estampie, however, was unique, and Bartholomew could see why he had believed the pain in his back had originated with it.

The pardoner began by standing with his hands at his side. Then, as the dance began, he produced an elaborate walk that was part strut and part slink, and reminded Bartholomew of a chicken he had once watched after it been fed large quantities of wine. Then followed a series of leaps, each one involving a lot of leg flexing and windmilling arms. Harysone’s hips ground and rotated like those of Ulfrid’s Turkish whore, and his entire body seemed to undulate and quiver, partly in time with the music, but mostly not.

‘That is disgusting,’ said Michael, turning away. ‘I cannot watch.’

Neither could Harysone’s fellow pardoners. After a few moments of appalled astonishment, they drained their cups and left, obviously unwilling to be associated with the figure that gyrated so obscenely in the middle of the tavern. They cast apologetic grins at the landlord and muttered that they were going to St Botolph’s, where a strong brew called church ale was being sold by the scholars of Valence Marie. Church ale was a popular Christmas tradition, and was usually dispensed in graveyards or – if the rector gave his permission – inside the church itself, hence its name. Bartholomew had always assumed it was sold on holy ground so that the services of a priest could be easily secured for those who drank too much of what was often a very poisonous tipple.

There were a number of women present in the tavern, and Harysone had their undivided attention. Agatha was among them, and she watched Harysone with her jaw open so wide it was almost in her lap. The fierce and sturdy matrons who served ale to the tavern’s fierce and sturdy patrons had been brought to a standstill, thirsty customers forgotten, while several of the Frail Sisters were spellbound. One of them trotted forward and joined the pardoner, trying to match her movements to his. The men in the tavern had much the same reaction as Michael, and turned to their drinks so that they would not have to see.

‘Enough, Master Harysone,’ cried the landlord in agitation, as more of his regulars headed for the door. ‘Thank you for the demonstration. It has been most enlightening. Now, sit down and rest, and I shall bring you some ale.’

‘Thank you, landlord,’ said Michael, assuming that he was included in the offer as he settled himself opposite Harysone. ‘Watching that particular performance has induced in me the need for strong drink. You had better make it some of that lambswool you brew at this time of year, not just common ale.’ Lambswool was hot ale mulled with apples, and the King’s Head Yuletide variety was known to be mightily powerful.

The landlord was too relieved to see Harysone stop dancing to take exception to Michael’s cheeky demands. He nodded to a pot-boy, who went to ladle the hot liquid into three jugs, then stood over the monk’s table, wiping his hands on a stained apron. ‘Pig,’ he stated bluntly.

Michael glared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Pig,’ repeated the landlord. ‘It is what we are serving today. Roasted pig, cooked with some old pears I found at the back of the shed and a few onion skins for flavour. Do you want some?’

‘I do,’ said Michael, oblivious to the fact that the landlord had made his midday offering sound distinctly unappealing. Bartholomew supposed it was the man’s way of informing Michael that the presence of the Senior Proctor in his inn was an unwelcome one, and he hoped to shorten the visit by making the monk believe there were no victuals that he would want to linger over. ‘And I shall have some bread, too.’

‘Bread?’ asked the landlord, as though it was some exotic treat. ‘We do not have that.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘No bread? What kind of tavern does not keep bread? How do you expect me to eat the juice and the fat from the pig? Lick the platter?’

‘Flour is expensive these days,’ said the landlord. ‘The price of a loaf has trebled since the snows came, and most of my patrons cannot afford such luxuries.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The cost of grain has risen hugely since the mills were forced to stop working by frozen water. You will have to make do with pig.’

‘Brother Michael,’ said Harysone, baring his huge teeth in a strained grin of welcome as the landlord went to the kitchen. ‘How nice to see you again.’

His eyes glittered moistly as they moved up and down Michael’s person. Instinctively, the monk hauled his cloak up around his neck, like a virgin protecting her maidenly virtues. Bartholomew sat next to Michael, and resisted the urge to draw up his hood when he was treated to the same disconcerting appraisal. Harysone reached under the table and produced a copy of the text he had shown the physician earlier, thumping it in front of Michael with a loud crack that made several people jump.

‘Here is my little BOOK,’ he said loudly, apparently determined that everyone in the tavern should hear him. ‘You have not seen it yet, Brother. Perhaps you have come to purchase a copy, so that you, like other folk with a thirst for answers to the greatest of philosophical mysteries on Earth, can improve your knowledge – especially relating to fish.’

‘Fish?’ queried Michael, unable to help himself. ‘What do they have to do with philosophy?’

Harysone pretended to be surprised. ‘How can you ask such a thing? Fish were fashioned by God on the second day of creation, before trees and after cattle.’

‘Fish did not make an appearance until day four,’ argued Michael immediately. He was a theologian, after all, even if his duties as Senior Proctor meant he did not spend as much time studying as he should. ‘After trees and before cattle.’

‘Details,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘But a learned man, such as yourself, would find a great deal to interest him in my small contribution. You can have it for virtually nothing – three marks.’

‘You charged the scholars of Valence Marie two marks,’ said Michael with narrowed eyes. ‘Do you imagine me to be a fool, easily parted from his money?’

‘The price has risen since I visited Valence Marie,’ said Harysone blandly. ‘You know how it is. A week ago, bread cost a penny, now it is three. The more people clamour for a thing, the more valuable it becomes.’

Michael reached out to examine the book, tugging the heavy wooden cover open, then turning the pages. ‘It is not very long,’ he remarked critically. ‘And the writing is enormous. Did you scribe it for those with failing eyesight?’

‘Yes,’ said Harysone, unoffended. ‘Scholars have trouble with their eyes, because they spend their time reading ancient manuscripts in bad light. So I ordered my clerk to make the writing large.’

Michael snapped the book closed. ‘Unfortunately, I have no time to debate with you the statement: “Bonéd Fishe, not Womin, were phormed from Addam’s Ribb”, which is a pity, because I am sure I would enjoy myself. But while we are on the subject of fish, do you recognise this?’ He slapped the tench on to the table, so hard that the head broke off to careen across the surface and drop to the floor on the other side. An unpleasant odour emanated from it.

‘Tench,’ said Harysone, with a fond smile. ‘The queen of fish.’

‘This particular queen of fish was in the possession of Norbert when he was murdered,’ said Michael uncompromisingly, even though there was scant evidence to prove such a statement, and the monk himself had not even been entirely convinced about the tench’s relationship with the dead man. ‘I have been told he won it from you in a game of chance.’

‘Yes,’ said Harysone, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I did lose a tench to a man, now that you mention it. But I do not know his name, nor do I see how my fish could have had him murdered.’

‘So, you did not kill him to take it back again?’ asked Michael bluntly.

Harysone’s expression hardened. ‘I did not. It is not an especially good specimen, as you can no doubt see, and was already past its best when this man – Norbert you say he was called – won it from me. He was welcome to it. But I do not have to sit here and listen to your accusations.’ He started to stand. ‘So, if there is nothing else …’

‘Just the matter of your wound,’ said Michael, indicating that the pardoner was to sit again. ‘You claim you were stabbed by a student.’

‘It pains me dreadfully,’ said Harysone, adopting a pitiful expression as he lowered his rump on to the bench. ‘I shall have to claim compensation from your University, because the injury inflicted on me by a scholar means that I am unable to work. Indeed, I can barely walk.’

‘I am not surprised you are in pain if you prance around so vigorously,’ said Bartholomew pointedly. ‘The wound is not deep, but I told you to rest, not writhe about like a speared maggot.’

‘I was dancing,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘Although I am a pardoner by trade, I am famed for the rare quality of my jigs. I practise most days, and my body is used to the movement. Dancing will not hurt my back – unlike knives.’

‘I did not realise you were a pardoner.’ Michael pronounced ‘pardoner’ with as much disgust as was possible to inject into a word without actually spitting. ‘You told me you were here to sell copies of your …’ He gestured at the tome on the table, declining to call it a book.

‘Pardoners can write devotional philosophy as well as anyone else,’ said Harysone sharply. ‘In fact, I imagine we do better than most, given the religious nature of our vocation.’ He attempted to look pious, but merely succeeded in looking more sinister. ‘But you will want to know what happened last night when I was grievously injured. I was giving a demonstration of my dancing when I became aware of an intense pain in my back. I staggered towards a table, where I thought to support myself until the agony eased, and it was then that I noticed the scholars.’

‘How do you know they were scholars?’ demanded Michael. ‘Students are not permitted in taverns; it is against the University’s laws.’ He failed to add that students frequently disobeyed that rule, especially around Christmas, when lectures were suspended and there was an atmosphere of celebration. He also declined to mention that he knew Michaelhouse students sometimes patronised the King’s Head – Ulfrid had been open about the fact that he had won a pair of dicing bones from Harysone in that very tavern.

‘So is frolicking with whores in alleyways, I imagine,’ replied Harysone tartly. ‘But it still happens. And I knew they were students because I could see Franciscan habits under their cloaks – and the landlord told me those lads were from Michaelhouse.’

‘Why did he tell you that?’ asked Michael sceptically.

Harysone gave an elegant shrug. ‘Because I asked why his inn was so attractive to men of the cloth. There were Dominicans and Carmelites here, too, if you are interested. He told me they are able to sample the Christmas spirit in a tavern, but not in their friaries.’

‘He is right,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Father William told me the Franciscans intend to ignore the whole festive season. They even had lectures between Shepherd’s Mass and the Mass of the Divine Word on Christmas morning, and there was no kind of feast at all.’

‘I heard the same of the Carmelites,’ replied Michael in an undertone. ‘That is what happens when you join a mendicant Order, Matt: but note that only friars cancelled Christmas, not monks. My Order did no such thing. I am not surprised mendicant students seek solace elsewhere.’

‘Why do you think it was the Franciscans from Michaelhouse who stabbed you?’ asked Bartholomew of Harysone. ‘Why not someone else?’

Harysone sighed. ‘Because the Michaelhouse men were behind me. If someone I was facing had wielded the weapon, then the knife would have been lodged in my front.’

‘Pity,’ said Michael ambiguously. He glanced sharply at Harysone, as though he had just thought of something. ‘The Chepe Waits – whom you have already said you do not know – were accused of stealing from someone at the King’s Head. I do not suppose their victim was you?’

‘Why do you ask?’ countered Harysone, fixing Michael with his glistening eyes.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘I am not interested in playing games, Master Pardoner. Did one of the Chepe Waits remove a quantity of gold from you or not?’

‘It was returned,’ admitted Harysone reluctantly. ‘And the Sheriff informed me that there was no need to press charges. I decided he was right.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. Harysone did not seem the kind of person to overlook a theft. The pardoner was in Cambridge to make money by selling his book, and Bartholomew imagined he would want anyone punished who came between him and his gold.

Harysone gave an elegant shrug. ‘The money was returned – with a little extra as interest. It is Christmas, and so I decided to be generous.’

Bartholomew wondered what Sheriff Morice had discovered about the pardoner to induce him to forget the incident. He also speculated about how much the ill-fated venture had cost the Waits: now it seemed they had not only been obliged to bribe the Sheriff to keep their freedom, but had been forced to repay Harysone in full, with extra to ensure his compliance. He gave a wry smile. No wonder the Waits were so keen to remain at Michaelhouse. They were still reeling from the disastrous financial effects of their brief foray into crime.

‘The Chepe Waits seem to be connected to everyone,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully, as he and Michael walked back to Michaelhouse.

They had eaten the King’s Head pig, which had not tasted nearly as bad as the landlord had made it sound. A shallow bowl had been provided, and when Michael had finished gnawing the bones, the remaining grease and juice on the platter was poured into it and presented to the monk to drink in lieu of bread to sop it up. Michael was still dabbing his oily lips with a piece of linen as they passed through the Trumpington Gate and walked down one of the alleys that led towards Milne Street, which, as the thoroughfare where many wealthy merchants lived, was more clear of snow than the High Street.

‘Philippa and Turke hired them,’ Bartholomew went on when Michael did not reply. ‘And Quenhyth saw them with Giles, Harysone and Norbert.’

‘Frith has already admitted he was touting for business and says he spoke to a good many people in an attempt to secure work,’ said Michael. ‘And they touted even harder when Christmas was upon them and they still had not found employment. However, we must not forget the fishy connections you brought to my attention: Harysone penning a “book” on piscine matters; Turke being a fishmonger and Gosslinge a fishmonger’s manservant; and Norbert winning a tench from Harysone the night he died.’

‘It seems to me Harysone’s “fishy connections” are incidental. I had the impression Turke shunned him at the King’s Head – or they shunned each other. And the dicing game where Norbert won his tench – just like the bet Harysone had with Ulfrid when the lad won his dice – was designed to attract onlookers, so that Harysone could tell them about his book. I am not sure any of it is significant. But more importantly, Brother, what do you think of the accusation Harysone has made against our students?’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew knew he would. ‘But, having seen him dancing, I can understand why someone sought to put an end to the misery with steel. I shall have words with our Franciscans – especially Ulfrid, who freely admits to debating about crabs and oysters with Harysone – and I shall learn the names of the other friars who were present that night. But I cannot see anyone confessing to stabbing the man, and, unless I find an obliging witness, it will be difficult to catch the culprit. Do you think Harysone was telling the truth about Morice returning his gold with interest?’

‘I do not know, but I have the impression Morice encouraged him to be “compassionate”. Morice’s motives are the questionable ones, not Harysone’s. All Harysone did was accept the return of his lost property and agree to let the matter rest. God only knows what sordid connivance Morice engaged in to make the effort worthwhile for himself.’

‘I think Harysone agreed far too readily for the charges against the Waits to be dropped,’ argued Michael. ‘Which means either that he enjoys a more meaningful acquaintance with them than either has acknowledged, or that the gold was ill-gotten and he does not want the Sheriff looking too closely at where it came from.’

‘Or that he was feeling generous – or greedy – and decided to accept the Sheriff’s “interest” and end the matter,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘Not everyone wants to take a stand against a corrupt Sheriff: it can be dangerous. I do not blame Harysone for taking the money and asking no questions.’

‘Harysone’s book is riddled with errors,’ said Michael, declining to acknowledge that Bartholomew had a point and shifting the emphasis of the conversation instead. ‘I doubt he has peddled many, so where did this gold come from?’

‘Perhaps he sold copies on his way to Cambridge. They cost two marks when he arrived, and they are now three, so, he must have sold some, or he would not have raised the price.’

‘Only a fool would buy one,’ said Michael authoritatively.

‘Very possibly. But he sells them in taverns, where men gather to drink ale and wine. I imagine some only realise they have made a poor purchase when they are sober.’

‘There is Oswald Stanmore,’ said Michael, pointing to the merchant, who was hurrying towards them. ‘What is he doing out on a cold day when he could be by his fire?’

‘I hoped I would meet you,’ said Stanmore breathlessly. He cast a nervous glance behind him, as though worried that he might have been followed. ‘I need to tell you something.’

‘In here, then,’ said Michael, opening the door to a small tavern called the Swan, which was famous for the size of its portions of meat. He leaned inside and inhaled deeply, detecting roast boar and spiced apples among the enticing odours that emanated from within. The King’s Head pig seemed to have been totally forgotten.

‘I do not have time,’ said Stanmore, drawing him back out again. ‘Edith is expecting me home, and I do not want to leave her for long. I have asked Cynric to stay with her while I am out.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by his brother-inlaw’s rapid gabble.

Stanmore peered around him again. ‘I do not think the deaths of Turke or his manservant were natural,’ he said, agitated. ‘I am sure Philippa knows something that she is not telling us.’

Bartholomew exchanged an uneasy glance with Michael. It was not long since they had discussed that very issue themselves.

‘Such as what?’ asked the monk.

‘I do not know,’ said Stanmore. He ran a hand through his hair and Bartholomew felt a lurch of alarm when he saw that the normally sanguine merchant was shaking. ‘Turke’s death has been on my mind. Perhaps I am just unused to seeing men die, but it has plagued my every waking thought. Because of this I found myself drawn to the Mill Pool, where he fell in. The more I studied it, the more I was certain no sane man would have skated there. I can only conclude that Turke never intended to go skating, and that something terrible happened to him.’

Michael regarded the merchant with sombre green eyes. ‘I remarked at the time that the skates were improperly tied, and Philippa herself told us that Turke was not a man to go gliding across the river at a moment’s notice. However, Matt examined the corpse, and he says Turke’s death was exactly as it appeared: the man fell in the river and died of the cold. It does not matter whether he did so while he was skating or while he was doing something else.’

‘I think it does matter,’ insisted Stanmore. ‘You see, if he was not skating, then it means that someone tied the bones to his shoes – wrongly, as you say – after he was dragged from the water. And that means someone wants us to believe that he died skating when he did not.’

‘Perhaps he was just inept with his laces,’ Bartholomew suggested.

Stanmore waved a dismissive hand. ‘Then what about Gosslinge? You said yourself it is unusual for two members of the same household to die in such rapid succession, and you must see that neither death was exactly normal.’

‘It is winter,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘People do freeze to death and fall through ice at this time of year. It is unfortunate that both are dead, but not necessarily sinister.’

‘“Necessarily”,’ pounced Stanmore. ‘You have already considered the possibility that there is something odd here, and you are right: there is something sinister – to use your word – going on. Think about what Turke muttered as he died. It clearly meant something to Philippa, because she was a different woman afterwards.’

‘That is true,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But what do you suggest we do about it? I cannot begin an official investigation, because Turke’s death is outside my jurisdiction.’

‘Jurisdiction can be bought these days,’ said Stanmore grimly. ‘Leave Morice to me.’

‘I suppose corruption has its advantages,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘I was obliged to offer him some money myself recently. His men were trailing my every move while I investigated the death of Norbert, and were making it impossible for me to work. The only way to get rid of them was to pay Morice with coins from William’s fines chest.’

Bartholomew was unhappy that either of them should be involved in bribing one of the King’s officers. He knew such matters had a habit of being raised at later dates – such as when Morice decided he had not been paid enough and demanded more, or when Morice himself was eventually called to explain his dishonesty to the King’s justices. ‘Even if you do buy Morice, Philippa will not want us prying into her business,’ he warned.

‘I do not care,’ said Stanmore. ‘I want you to look into it. You have solved so many cases before that I am sure this one will present you with no problems.’

‘Where do you want us to start?’ asked Michael.

‘With Giles,’ said Stanmore, glancing up the road again, as though he imagined Abigny might be listening. ‘Philippa never leaves the house unescorted – she is a nuisance actually, always wanting someone with her – but Giles is in and out like a bishop in a brothel, despite the pain he is in from his chilblains.’

‘Where does he go?’ asked Michael.

‘Taverns, I imagine. The man lives in Turke’s house, but is clearly discontented. Perhaps that is why he insisted on joining this pilgrimage – to dispose of the brother-in-law he despises, well away from other fishmongers who might ask awkward questions. By killing Turke he has relieved Philippa of a tiresome husband and improved his own lot in the process.’

‘How do you know Philippa regarded Turke as tiresome?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought she seemed fond of him. Even though she was uncomfortable with the notion of Fiscurtune’s cold-blooded murder, she said nothing disloyal about Turke. And anyway, Giles might lose a good deal by dispensing with his brother-in-law. Without Turke to protect him, he may lose his post at the law courts. And he may have condemned Philippa to a life of destitution, if Turke’s sons inherit their father’s wealth and she does not.’

‘Philippa was fond of Turke’s money, not of Turke himself,’ asserted Stanmore dogmatically. ‘She chose an elderly fishmonger over you and, unless she is blind or deranged, she did not make that choice based on looks or character. It was his wealth she loved.’

‘Many people marry for money, but that does not mean they are all biding their time to dispense with their spouses,’ countered Bartholomew.

‘Then prove me wrong,’ urged Stanmore, glancing around him once more. ‘Convince me that the deaths of Turke and Gosslinge are what you say – bizarre and tragic accidents. Look at Giles’s role in the affair. Find out where he goes when he slips away wearing that plumed hat and that dark cloak. But do it soon, Matt. The weather shows no sign of breaking, and Philippa and Giles might be here for weeks. I do not want Edith living under the same roof as ruthless killers until the spring brings a thaw and our unwanted guests transport their victim for burial in London.’

Bartholomew was unsettled by Stanmore’s claims and felt a nagging concern for Edith, despite the fact that he thought Stanmore was over-reacting. He tried to convince himself that he did not seriously believe Philippa or Giles would do anything to harm her, but was aware that no amount of rationalising and reasoning would dispel the unease he felt. He knew he would have to do some probing into the affair, even if it was only to set his and Stanmore’s minds at rest.

Since he had promised to take chilblain ointment to Abigny, he suggested they begin the investigation immediately by accompanying Stanmore home. Michael was willing, so they set off for Stanmore’s business premises on Milne Street, stopping on the way at the apothecary’s shop to purchase the ingredients necessary to make a soothing poultice for the clerk’s painful kibes.

Philippa, Abigny and Edith were in the solar when they arrived. The building was not as comfortable as Stanmore’s hall-house in the nearby village of Trumpington, but it was considerably nicer than Michaelhouse. Woollen hangings covered the plaster walls, and thick wool rugs lay on the floor. A fire blazed in the hearth, sending showers of sparks dancing up the chimney, and the room smelled pleasantly of wood-smoke and the dried flowers that Edith had placed in bowls along the windowsills. The shutters were closed against the chill, even though the windows were glazed, and the room was lit yellow and orange by the fire and the lamps in sconces on the walls.

Abigny was sitting near the hearth with his boots off and his toes extended towards the flames, while Philippa perched next to him, attempting to sew in the unsteady light. The garment was long and white, and Bartholomew saw it was a shroud for her husband to wear on his final journey. She was dressed completely in black, following the current fashion for widows who could afford it. Edith was at the opposite end of the room, sitting at a table as she wrapped small pieces of dried fruit in envelopes of marchpane. Michael went to sit next to her, and it was not long before a fat, white hand was inching surreptitiously towards the sweetmeats.

‘Those are for the apprentices,’ came an admonishing voice from the shadows near the door. Michael almost leapt out of his skin, having forgotten that Cynric had been charged to stay with Edith while Stanmore was out.

‘God’s blood, Cynric!’ muttered the monk, holding a hand to his chest to show he had been given a serious fright. ‘Have a care whom you startle, man!’ He helped himself to a handful of the treats, indicating that he needed them to help him recover from the shock.

‘Did you bring that potion for my feet?’ asked Abigny eagerly of Bartholomew. ‘I long to be relieved of this constant pain. I know you dislike calculating horoscopes, Matt, but I am your friend and my need is very great, so I am sure you will not refuse me. Do you know enough about me already to determine the course of treatment, or are there questions you need answered?’

‘The latter,’ said Michael, not very subtly. ‘He needs to know whether you have spent much time walking in the snow of late.’

‘Of course I have,’ said Abigny, surprised by the question. ‘First there was the journey to Cambridge, and then there have been old friends to see and arrangements to make.’

‘Arrangements?’ asked Michael innocently.

‘Now that Walter is dead I may lose my post,’ replied Abigny, apparently unconcerned by Michael’s brazen curiosity. ‘So, I went to see a Fellow at King’s Hall, who has agreed to provide testimony that I am an honest and responsible citizen. And I have been obliged to visit coffin-makers and embalmers.’ He regarded Bartholomew with innocent blue eyes. ‘Are these the kind of things you need to know for my stars, Matt?’

His answers came a little too easily, and Bartholomew could not help but conclude he had been thinking about what to say. Abigny continued to talk, regaling them with dull and unimportant details of a meeting he had had with the Warden of King’s Hall, and giving details of various important dates in his life, which Michael pretended to write down so the horoscope could be constructed later.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew inspected Abigny’s feet, wincing when he saw the huge chilblains that plagued the man’s toes and heels. He was not surprised Abigny limped, and set about making a poultice of borage and hops to ease the swelling. He also prescribed a soothing comfrey water that would reduce Abigny’s melancholic humours and restore the balance between hot and cold, and recommended that his friend should avoid foods known to slow the blood. Philippa offered to purchase her brother warmer hose to prevent his feet from becoming chilled in the first place.

She rose from her seat when Bartholomew had finished examining Abigny, and asked to be excused. She was pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes – as expected in a woman who had recently lost her husband. Before she left, she fixed Bartholomew with a worried frown.

‘You will not disregard my request, will you, Matthew? Walter is dead, and nothing can bring him back. He was not popular and did not always treat people with kindness or fairness. If you ask questions about him you will certainly learn that, even here in Cambridge where he was not well known. But I do not want you to encourage people to speak badly of him. I want him to rest in peace. It is no more than any man deserves.’

‘Men deserve to have their deaths investigated if there are inconsistencies and questions arising,’ said Michael gently. ‘Walter will not lie easy in his grave if these remain unanswered.’

‘There are no questions,’ said Philippa stubbornly, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He drowned. You saw that yourselves.’

‘He died from the cold,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘The water in his lungs did not–’

Philippa turned angrily on him, and the tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘It does not matter! He died, and whether it was from the cold or by water is irrelevant. This is exactly what I am trying to avoid – pointless speculation that will do nothing but disturb his soul.’

‘If there are questions, then they originated with you,’ Michael pointed out, unmoved by her distress. ‘You were the one who insisted that Walter would not have gone skating.’

She stared at him, tears dripping unheeded. ‘I was distressed and shocked, and I said things I did not mean. Walter was not a man for undignified pursuits, like skating. But then he was not a man who undertook pilgrimages, either – yet that is why we are here. Perhaps the religious nature of his journey made him behave differently, but it does not matter because we will never know what happened. All I can do is console myself that he died in a state of grace, because he was travelling to Walsingham, and pray that God will forgive him for the incident regarding Fiscurtune.’

‘The “incident” would not have led him to take his own life, would it?’ asked Michael, beginning a new line of enquiry. Philippa was right, in that pilgrimages sometimes had odd effects on people and it was not unknown for folk to become so overwhelmed by remorse for what they had done that they killed themselves.

Philippa shook her head. ‘Walter was not a suicide, Brother. The Church condemns suicides, and Walter would not have wanted to be buried in unhallowed ground.’

Bartholomew did not point out that securing a suitable burial place was usually the last thing on a suicide’s mind, but agreed that Turke had not seemed the kind of man to take his own life. He watched her leave the solar, then turned to stare at the flames in the hearth, while Abigny hobbled after her in his bare feet. Was she hiding information about her husband’s death, either something about the way he had died or some aspect of his affairs that led him to his grim demise in the Mill Pool? Was Stanmore right: that Philippa or Abigny – or both – had decided to kill Turke while he was away from his home and his friends? Had Turke been skating, or did someone just want everyone to believe he had?

He reached for his cloak, nodding to Michael that they should leave. Answers would not come from Philippa or her brother, since neither was willing to talk. He and the monk needed to look elsewhere.

That night was bitterly cold, with a frigid wind whistling in from the north that drove hard, grainy flakes of snow before it. The blankets on Bartholomew’s bed were woefully inadequate, and he spent the first half of the evening shivering, curled into a tight ball in an attempt to minimise the amount of heat that was being leached from his body by the icy chill of the room. In the end, genuinely fearing that if he slept in his chamber he might never wake, he grabbed his cloak and ran quickly through the raging blizzard to the main building in the hope that there might be some sparks among the ashes of the fire that he could coax into life.

A number of students were in the hall, wrapped in blankets, cloaks and even rugs as they vied with each other to be nearest the hearth. The door to the conclave was closed and Bartholomew hesitated before opening it, suspecting that Deynman and his cronies would be within, plotting his next move as Lord of Misrule. But an ear pressed against the wood told him no one was talking, so he opened it and entered, tripping over the loose floorboard as he went.

He was surprised to find most of the Fellows there, even the ailing William, who was snoring loudly enough to cause several of his colleagues to toss and turn restlessly. Rolled into blankets or their spare habits, they looked like soldiers in a field camp as they lay close together to draw on each other’s warmth. Michael was nowhere to be seen, and Bartholomew guessed the monk had found a more pleasant place to spend the night than on a hard, stone floor in Michaelhouse.

The physician noted wryly that even in the season of misrule some customs were hard to break: at night, the conclave remained the Fellows’ refuge, while the students used the hall. He was grateful, since the hall was large and draughty.

‘Where have you been, Matthew?’ asked Kenyngham softly. He was sitting at a table, struggling to write in the unsteady light of a candle. ‘Out to tend poor Dunstan? I hear he is suffering sorely in this cold weather.’

‘His lungs are failing. What are you doing, Father? It is too late for work, and you should rest if you intend to say all those masses for Walter Turke tomorrow.’

Kenyngham shuffled together the parchments he had been studying and stuffed them into a pouch. ‘You are right. Earthly matters should not interfere with my ability to say prayers for a man’s soul.’

‘What earthly matters?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. The elderly friar should not have had any responsibilities that necessitated writing in the early hours of the morning, especially since he had resigned as Master and was supposed to be enjoying his retirement. ‘Your teaching?’

‘Something like that,’ whispered Kenyngham with a gentle smile. ‘But we are both tired, and it is too late for talking. Sleep – if William’s snoring will let you.’

It was some time before exhaustion finally allowed Bartholomew to ignore William’s roaring. He wedged himself between Wynewyk and Clippesby for warmth, and his last thoughts were for those of his patients whose homes comprised woven twig walls packed with mud, where a fire that burned all night would be an unimaginable extravagance.

‘The river is frozen like a plate of iron!’ exclaimed Deynman, bursting into the conclave before dawn had broken the following day, as the Fellows were just beginning to stir. ‘And it has snowed so hard that the High Street is more than waist deep in drifts!’

‘Go away, Deynman,’ growled William, trying to manoeuvre himself into a position that was comfortable for his splinted leg. ‘It is too early to listen to your cheerful voice.’

William was wearing a handsome grey robe made from soft, thick wool. The sleeves were the correct length and so was the skirt, so that his ankles and wrists no longer protruded in a ridiculous manner. He cursed it soundly, claiming it was inferior to the one the students had ceremonially burned in the yard, but Bartholomew knew the friar well enough to see he was delighted with his fine new acquisition. However, the physician could not help but notice the garment already bore signs that William owned it – a wine stain on one sleeve and a chain of greasy splatters across the chest.

‘How are you feeling?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he addressed the Franciscan. He shivered. Suttone was stoking up the fire, but it was still cold in the conclave. He stood, trying to stretch the aching chill from muscles that had not enjoyed a night on the floor.

‘I am in pain,’ declared William peevishly. ‘But a cup of wine will ease my discomfort. Wine has a remarkable effect on the body, Matthew. You should recommend it as a tonic for good health. It tastes better than all those foul purges you physicians like to dispense, too.’

‘I am sure it does,’ said Bartholomew, crouching next to him to examine the afflicted leg. ‘Shall I remove the splint today? A few days of immobility may have done you good, but you should not prolong it unnecessarily.’

‘But it is broken,’ argued William in alarm. ‘You cannot remove the splint until it has properly healed or I shall spend the rest of my days as a cripple.’

‘It is not broken,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I saw you walking on it yesterday, when you thought no one was watching. It is not healthy to bind a limb that does not need it.’

‘It does need it,’ declared William, equally firmly. ‘It is my leg, and I know it is broken. The splint stays where it is – at least until the cold weather has broken.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘That is the real reason for this malingering, is it? You want an excuse to be out of the cold?’ He gave a wicked smile. ‘And it was only on Christmas Eve that you told me you had exonerated the Dominicans of Norbert’s murder, because they are too feeble to set foot outside while the weather is icy. Now I learn a certain Franciscan is doing likewise.’

‘I am not malingering,’ hissed William, glancing around him, afraid someone might have overheard. ‘You saw me fall; you know my injury is genuine. Besides, I would be certain to stumble and do myself far more serious harm if I were to go out in all this snow. My tripping over that loose board was a blessing.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You are afraid of falling? Is that what this is all about?’

William gave a shudder and, for a moment, there was a haunted expression in his eyes. Bartholomew had only ever seen the more base of human emotions in William – rage, indignation, fanaticism – and he was intrigued to see that William was genuinely afraid of something.

‘I do not like ice,’ whispered the friar hoarsely, looking furtively over his shoulder. ‘I saw a man fall through some once. He struggled, and it cut through his hands and arms like daggers. I was standing on a bridge, and I could see him quite clearly screaming for help under the surface as he was swept to his death, scrabbling with bloodied hands as he tried to break through.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘It must have been terrible.’

‘It was,’ agreed William fervently. ‘His body was never found, and he was wearing three perfectly good emerald rings. But you understand, do you not, why I dislike bitter winters?’

‘People say it is the worst they can recall,’ said Bartholomew, not sure the traumatic loss of three emerald rings was really a valid excuse for William abandoning his University duties.

William snorted in disdain. ‘Then they are wrong. I recall many winters that have been worse than this one, and I remember them better than most, since I hate them so. So, if you leave my splint until I tell you my leg is no longer broken, you will make me a happy man.’ He noticed Bartholomew’s reluctance to condone a lie and his expression became crafty. ‘The Franciscan Friary has a copy of Thomas Bradwardine’s De proportione velocitatum in motibus that is seldom used. I can suggest it be given to you.’

Bartholomew was tempted. Bradwardine was a famous scholar at Oxford University’s Merton College, which had been producing new and dynamic theories relating to the natural universe for the past fifty years. Bartholomew was a great admirer of Bradwardine’s work, but what William was asking …

‘It is all about successive motions and resistance,’ added William enticingly.

Bartholomew wavered, and recalled that Bradwardine was the man who had challenged the traditional Aristotelian principle that half the force that caused an object to move would not necessarily mean half the velocity, and that twice the resistance that caused an object to slow down would not necessarily mean the speed was twice as slow. It was heady stuff, and even thinking about it sent a thrill of excitement down Bartholomew’s spine. But even so …

‘It is illustrated,’ said William desperately. ‘In colour.’

‘Done,’ said Bartholomew, offering the friar his hand.

‘You timed your injury well, Father,’ said Langelee, coming up to them. ‘You can spend your day here, next to a blazing hearth, while the rest of us have business to attend out in the cold.’

William nodded smugly. ‘I know.’

‘Deynman gave me this for the College library,’ said Langelee, reaching across to the table to retrieve a book that had been lying there. Bartholomew immediately recognised the cheap wooden covers and sparse pages, and wondered what his student had been doing in the King’s Head associating with Harysone. ‘Perhaps you can read it, Father, and let me know whether it is suitable material for us to keep.’

‘You mean you want me to work?’ asked William indignantly. ‘I have a broken leg, man!’

‘We do not need our legs to read,’ said Langelee. He glanced uncertainly at the friar, as though he was not sure that such a generalisation applied to the Franciscan. ‘It is not long, and it will only take you an afternoon. You do not want heretical books in our library, do you?’

William growled something under his breath, unable to think of a suitable answer, and began to flick listlessly through the pages.

‘Cann a Fishe enterr Heaven?’ read Clippesby, peering over his shoulder. He appeared especially manic that morning, with his hair standing up in all directions and his eyes wide and bright in his pale face. Bartholomew could not help but wonder whether he cultivated the look just to unsettle William, who was eyeing him nervously, not liking the sensation of a Dominican so close behind him. ‘Yes, read that, William. You may learn something.’

‘Did everyone survive the night?’ asked Langelee, cutting off William’s indignant response. ‘Wynewyk should check each staircase to make sure no one froze to death, while I imagine Bartholomew will want to visit his patients to do the same. We shall keep fires burning in the hall and conclave today, and I recommend we all stay inside as much as possible. This is no weather to be out unnecessarily.’

‘We will all go skating on the river,’ declared Deynman excitedly in his capacity as Lord of Misrule. ‘I have already been to inspect it. It is set like stone, and it is possible to walk from one side to the other. And then we can go sliding.’

‘Sliding?’ asked Wynewyk doubtfully. ‘I do not like the sound of that.’

‘It is where you sit on a flat piece of wood and skid down a hill,’ explained Clippesby. ‘Cows do it all the time.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘However, there is not much scope for that activity in Cambridge, Deynman. It may have escaped your notice, but there is a paucity of hills around here.’

‘There is the one at the Castle,’ said Deynman.

‘True,’ said Langelee. ‘But that is part of the town’s defences, and is manned by soldiers with bows. They would shoot you. Now, I know I agreed not to interfere, but I cannot allow anyone to venture on to the river yet. Did you not hear what happened to the husband of Bartholomew’s lover? He fell clean through the ice and died.’

‘But that was two days ago,’ protested Deynman, crestfallen, and speaking before Bartholomew could object to Langelee’s description of Turke. ‘It is different now – harder and firmer. None of us will fall in. Turke was fat and heavy, but we are not.’

‘No one skates on the river,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘We do not want anyone to end up like Turke – or like Father William.’

‘No,’ agreed Clippesby in distaste. ‘Or you might make us read that horrible book!’

Michael was already in the church when the rest of the scholars arrived for prime. He declared he had had no intention of freezing in his bed the previous night, and had visited his fellow Benedictines at Ely Hall, where there were plenty of fires and an abundance of warm woollen blankets. He had even inveigled himself the use of half a feather bed, as evidenced by the fact that he was still picking down from his habit when the mass had finished, breakfast had been eaten and the scholars were free to spend their day – the Feast of the Holy Innocents – as they chose. The physician went to his room to don as many clothes as he could fit under his cloak in anticipation of a morning outside.

‘What shall we do first?’ Michael asked, watching Bartholomew struggle to pull his Michaelhouse tabard over his thickest gipon and two wool jerkins. It was a tight fit, and the physician could barely move when he had finished. ‘Shall we investigate the death of Gosslinge by hunting down his missing clothes? Shall we see whether anyone saw Turke skating on the Mill Pool? Or shall we continue to probe into the insalubrious affairs of Harysone or Norbert?’

None of the options appealed to Bartholomew. ‘There are patients I need to see, Brother. Langelee is right: this weather may well have killed some of the less hardy.’

‘Then there will be little you can do for them,’ retorted Michael practically. ‘So I shall come with you, lest any of them need my services, rather than yours.’

Since the physician could not move his arms high enough to fasten his cloak without the sound of tearing stitches, the monk helped him, then they walked together across the yard. The gate’s leather hinges had frozen solid, and needed to be treated with care to prevent them from snapping off completely.

There was a narrow gorge in St Michael’s Lane, where the scholars had trodden a path through the drifts when they had attended mass that morning. On either side, the snow reached head height or more, towering above them in uneven white cliffs. Bartholomew and Michael trudged along in single file until they reached the High Street. It was now fully light and, for the first time that day, Bartholomew could see how much the storm had changed the town.

Snow had been blown in great white waves against buildings, and some of them were virtually invisible. Here and there, people toiled with shovels or bare hands, trying to dig their way out of – or into – their homes. Carts had been abandoned, and formed shapeless white humps all along the road. Some had been excavated by looters, in the hope that their owners had not had the chance to unload their wares before the blizzard had struck. A woman darted along the street with a tear-stained face, asking whether anyone had seen her father. From the way she eyed various lumps under the snow, it was clear she expected to find him dead.

Bartholomew had not gone far before he was spotted and urged to attend the home of a potter who had slipped on ice and damaged his arm. When he had finished, a scruffy boy clamoured for him to visit the shacks on the river bank, where he said he could hear horrible moans coming from the home of Dunstan and Athelbald.

It was impossible to run on the slippery, treacherous streets, but Bartholomew and Michael struggled along as quickly they could. When they reached the hovels that overlooked the river, well away from the sensitive eyes of the wealthy merchants of Milne Street, Bartholomew’s heart sank. There was smoke shifting through the walls of most of the houses – not the roofs, because these were blanketed by snow – indicating that warming fires burned within, but not from the one occupied by Dunstan and Athelbald.

‘Oh, no!’ breathed Michael, his green eyes huge with horror. ‘Not Dunstan!’

‘He has been ill for weeks now,’ said Bartholomew, wanting his friend to be prepared for what he was sure they would find. ‘A cold winter is hard for a man well past three score years and ten.’

He tapped on the screen of woven willow twigs that served as Dunstan’s door, and pushed his way into the hovel’s dim interior, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The shack was freezing, and smelled of ancient smoke and rancid grease. The beaten-earth floor was sticky underfoot, and Bartholomew thought he saw a rat glide through some of the darker shadows. A soft sob in the darkness made him turn to where two shapes were sitting together on a bench. One was crying, and the other was frozen where it sat.

Oddly, it was not the ailing Dunstan who had died, but his brother. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair, wondering how the old man would possibly manage without his lifelong friend and companion. Behind him, Michael coughed and left the house quickly, pretending a tickling throat so that no one should witness his own distress.

Bartholomew gathered the blankets from the beds and wrapped them around Dunstan’s shaking shoulders. Then he gave the urchin a penny for firewood and told him to hurry. While he waited, he lifted the light, ice-hard body from the bench and laid it gently on one of the wretched straw pallets, wishing he had something to cover it with.

Athelbald looked peaceful in death, and there appeared to be a slight smile on his face, as though his last thought had been an amusing one. In one hand he clutched an inkpot, and Bartholomew supposed he had been telling some tale about it when he had died. Without knowing why, he prised the thing from the rigid fingers. Dunstan took it from him and cradled it to his chest like a talisman.

Michael forced himself to return and began to chant a final absolution in an unsteady voice, anointing the body with a phial of chrism. Dunstan’s sobs grew louder, and Bartholomew sat next to him, drawing him close as he attempted to offer warmth as well as comfort.

‘We shall bury him in St Michael’s churchyard,’ said Michael hoarsely, keeping his face in the shadows. The boy arrived with the kindling, and the monk set about lighting a fire that was so large in the tiny room it threatened to choke them all. ‘He was in my choir from the very beginning, and he deserves that honour.’

‘With a cross,’ whispered Dunstan, raising watery eyes to look at him. ‘Just a small, wooden one. And all the choir to sing for him. He would like that.’

‘I shall arrange it,’ promised Michael.

‘What shall I do without him?’ asked Dunstan, clutching Bartholomew’s sleeve. With a shock, the physician saw the man expected an answer. Dunstan needed someone to tell him how to pass his days now that his brother had gone.

‘You should not be alone,’ Bartholomew said feebly, evading the question. ‘Can I fetch someone to be with you?’

‘There is no one I want,’ said Dunstan bleakly. ‘No one understands me like he did. He liked to talk with me, and speculate on all manner of things that happened in the town. Like that lad you found buried in the snow before Christmas Day. Athelbald had his ideas about him.’

‘What were they?’ asked Bartholomew, more to encourage Dunstan to speak than for information. Both the old men had enjoyed regaling the physician with grossly speculative rumours when he had visited them in the past, most of which he disregarded for the nonsense they were. But if Dunstan gained solace from repeating what he and Athelbald had fabricated about Norbert’s death, then Bartholomew was prepared to listen for as long as the old man wanted to talk. He emptied his flask of medicinal wine into a pot, and set it over Michael’s fire to warm. There was not much of it, but he thought it might drive some of the chill from the old man’s bones.

‘Norbert,’ said Dunstan, valiantly trying to reproduce the salacious tones he had used while gossiping with his brother. ‘He was a fellow who did his family no credit.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, forcing himself to smile. ‘Athelbald was right about that.’

‘He guessed what happened to the weapon that killed Norbert,’ said Dunstan, his eyes glittering with proud tears. ‘The beadles have spent days looking for it, but Athelbald knew where it went. He used logic, you see, like you University men.’

‘What did he reason?’ asked Michael, lowering his considerable weight gingerly on to the bench and sharing his cloak with Dunstan while Bartholomew tended the fire.

‘He heard the killer used a knife,’ said Dunstan, carefully wiping his runny nose on the inside of Michael’s cloak. ‘Because Norbert was stabbed. And he concluded that the killer had to get rid of it. But the killer knew if it was thrown away in the snow, it would be discovered – if not by beadles, then when the thaw came. Knives are personal things, and it would have given him away instantly.’

‘True,’ said Bartholomew, who had reasoned much the same thing. Dunstan started to cough, so he opened the door a little, to let some of the smoke out. ‘But the killer may just have wiped it clean and put it back in its sheath. Daggers are expensive, and people do not discard them just because they have been between someone’s ribs.’

‘If you believe that, then you are wrong,’ said Dunstan knowledgeably. ‘Athelbald and I have seen many murders in our time, and we know people do not want to keep weapons that have killed. Some believe it was the weapon, not them, that performed the foul deed, you see.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, nodding acceptance of the point. He poured some of the warmed wine into a beaker and watched the old man sip it. ‘So, the killer dispensed with the knife. Not in the snow, where it would be discovered, but somewhere else.’

Dunstan nodded. ‘And where would you throw a weapon, to get rid of it for ever?’ He gazed meaningfully towards the open door.

‘The river,’ said Bartholomew, understanding. ‘Of course! All the killer needed to do was toss the thing in the water. Is that what you think happened?’

‘It is what Athelbald thought happened,’ said Dunstan, glancing at the frozen form on the pallet. ‘He heard that commotion when you were here to visit me last week. Remember? The bells were chiming to mark the late night offices. He believes the commotion was Norbert’s murder.’

‘The timing ties in with what I know from my other enquiries,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘We have been reliably informed that Norbert left the tavern around midnight.’

‘It was cold that night,’ Dunstan went on. ‘So, not many folk attended the mass, including Ovyng’s other scholars. If they had, then Norbert would have been discovered sooner – before he was buried by the snow that fell later that night.’

‘But it was clear then,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘The moon lit the towpath. I remember it very well.’

‘It clouded over and snowed before dawn,’ corrected Dunstan impatiently. ‘I was awake for the whole night, whereas you went home to sleep. Now, to continue. Athelbald heard from the servants at Ovyng that Norbert was injured but travelled some distance before he was struck on the head. He reckoned what happened was this: Norbert met his attacker nearby, probably at the Mill Pool, which is deserted at that time of night, and had some kind of discussion. They argued and Norbert was stabbed. Norbert struggled along the towpath to Ovyng, but was brained just as he reached the door. Athelbald said that would explain all the sounds he heard.’

‘And what about the man who pushed me over, and the tench?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The fish was Norbert’s,’ replied Dunstan confidently. ‘Athelbald heard he won it in a game of dice. Obviously, if Norbert was stabbed and was fleeing for his life, then he would drop such a burden as soon as he could. It was then retrieved by a beggar.’

‘Athelbald was undoubtedly right,’ said Michael kindly. ‘His theory fits the facts precisely.’

The conversation ended when Dunstan began to sob again. Bartholomew looked helplessly at Michael, then tried to persuade the old man to go to Michaelhouse with them, sure Langelee would let him stay until the weather broke. But Dunstan refused to leave his home, claiming he could never rest easy under a strange roof. In the end, sensing he would bring about the elderly fellow’s demise even sooner if he forced the issue, Bartholomew relented. He checked the contents of his bag, and found he had enough money to buy firewood for another day. Michael said he had more at Michaelhouse, which could be stretched for a week if used prudently.

‘What do we do when we run out?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily, watching Dunstan kneel next to his brother and weep. He moved towards the door, where the smoke from the fire was less choking. ‘It is not just fuel that he needs, but food, too. Meat and eggs. Agatha will give us some and Matilde will help, but neither can be expected to do it for long.’

‘You are a physician, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘You must see that it will not be for long.’

‘Do not worry,’ came a voice at his elbow. Bartholomew was surprised to see the surgeon Robin of Grantchester standing there, the tools of his trade hanging in a jangling bracelet around his waist. He wore a thick cloak of what appeared to be ferret pelts, although it was matted with the blood of some unfortunate patient. Yolande de Blaston, the carpenter’s wife, stood behind him holding a large basket. ‘I am here to supply everything you need.’

‘He does not need the services of a surgeon,’ said Bartholomew quickly, assuming Robin had heard about Dunstan’s misfortune and was there to offer a little phlebotomy.

Robin’s ugly face creased into an expression of indignation. ‘I am here to help!’

‘I thought you were in prison,’ said Michael. ‘Ailred of Ovyng told me you had been arrested for Norbert’s murder.’

Robin scowled. ‘So has every other respectable man who can produce a noble for his release. So far, Morice has confined his extortion to townfolk, but it will not be long before he fixes greedy eyes on scholars, you mark my words. But enough of my affairs: I have brought Dunstan kindling, mutton and eggs. And Yolande de Blaston, the whore, has been paid to cook twice a day.’

‘I am not a whore,’ objected Yolande, pushing past him and bustling into the small space beyond. ‘I am a businesswoman, making an honest penny, just like you.’

Bartholomew gaped at them. ‘What is happening? Who is paying for this?’

‘That is none of your concern,’ said Robin severely, beginning to walk away, satisfied that his duties had been properly discharged. ‘Dunstan will have peat faggots, wood, meat, bread and wine for the next week. By then, the weather may be warmer and he may be better.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘How do you know about Dunstan?’

‘I listen to gossip in the Market Square, and everyone knows Athelbald died last night,’ said Robin superiorly. ‘I do occasionally arrange for folk to have necessary victuals, as you may have heard. Good morning, gentlemen. Do not stay out too long, or you will be calling on me to sever ice-eaten fingers.’

‘God forbid!’ muttered Michael, tucking his hands quickly inside his cloak. He gnawed on his lip thoughtfully when the surgeon had gone. ‘This is not the first time Robin has been associated with acts of mercy recently – ungraciously, it is true, but acts of mercy nonetheless. That is why Langelee invited him to the Christmas feast, hoping he might bestow a few merciful favours on Michaelhouse. Still, they say God moves in mysterious ways. This must be one of them.’

‘This has nothing to do with God,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a human hand behind Robin’s charity – and it is not his own. Still, since it has lightened Dunstan’s life, I am not inclined to question it. Come on, Brother. You and I have a river to skate across.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Skate? Are you insane? After what happened to Turke? I know Deynman said the river had set like stone, but I am not prepared to stake my life on his judgement.’

‘Athelbald is right about the knife that killed Norbert,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer probably did throw it in the river. But the river was partially frozen that night, and with luck, the dagger may still be on the surface.’

Searching the river for murder weapons was a dangerous business. A layer of ice lay across the surface, mottled like marble. In places it was as thick as a millstone, while in others it was so brittle and thin that the smallest of pebbles dropped straight through it. The strongest parts were at the edges, where the current was slackest, and it was here that Bartholomew decided they should begin their search. For want of a better idea, he accepted Althebald’s thesis that Norbert had been killed near the Mill Pool, and concentrated his hunt there. He gathered stones and hurled them, as the killer might have done with his knife, until he had a rough idea of where the weapon might have fallen.

The biggest problem they faced was the fact that the ice was covered with a layer of snow, which effectively blanketed everything from sight. Michael regarded it in dismay and suggested they should wait until it had melted. Bartholomew pointed out that if the knife had indeed fallen on ice and not in the water, then a thaw would simply send the weapon to the place it had been destined to go in the first place: the bottom of the river. If they wanted it, he argued, then they needed to search while the river was still frozen.

Once they had started, however, they realised it was not as difficult as they had feared. The previous night’s blizzard had deposited vast quantities of snow, but it had also brought fierce winds, which had scoured flakes from the hard surface of the river and piled them in drifts near the banks. Because the wind had been northerly, it had effectively cleared the area they wanted to search.

‘It does not seem possible that just four months ago we went swimming in this,’ said Michael, poking about with a long stick among the reeds as he recalled their visit to Ely in the summer.

Bartholomew was walking, very carefully, on the ice that covered the river, testing it with a heavy staff that Michael used for excursions outside the town before he entrusted his weight to it. There was a rope around his waist, the other end of which was tied to the monk. The wind was bitterly cold, and he felt the frigid river begin to send chilly fingers through his boots and up his legs. He could do little to warm himself, since any sudden movement might send him crashing through the ice. The current ran powerfully at that point, and he did not relish the prospect of being swept along with it. The rope would stop him from being dragged too far, but he was not sure that Michael would be able to rescue him soon enough to prevent him from drowning.

He stopped for a moment to stretch shoulders that ached from tension, and looked around, admiring the jumble of roofs that formed the nearby colleges and the Carmelite Friary. Most were dusted with snow, but here and there heat from fires had resulted in exposed patches of red tile and manure-brown thatch. A thick pall of smoke hung over the whole town, formed by the hundreds of fires that warmed houses and cooked food, and the stench of burning wood and peat was throat-searing, even down by the river. Suddenly, as he allowed his mind to wander, a horrible thought struck him like a thunderbolt.

‘Turke died here.’

Michael nodded. ‘Doing what you are doing – walking on the river – so be careful. I do not want you to go the same way.’

‘Doing what I am doing,’ repeated Bartholomew slowly. ‘Looking for a murder weapon.’

Michael stared at him in startled disbelief. ‘You think Turke was looking for the knife that killed Norbert? Why should he do that? They did not even know each other, and it is not as if we are short of suspects for Norbert’s murder. Rather the reverse, in fact.’

‘How do you know they did not know each other?’

Michael sighed. ‘Why should they? Turke was a stranger here and Norbert was dead before Turke arrived in Cambridge.’

‘Norbert died after he arrived,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Turke came on the fifteenth of December, and Norbert died on the twentieth. And do not forget that Norbert received a summons to meet someone called Dympna, while Turke muttered that name as he died.’

‘He did not,’ objected Michael. ‘You thought you heard him say Dympna, but I heard him say Templar. But even if you are right about Turke’s last words, the association between him and Norbert is a little far-fetched, if you want the truth.’

‘Then what was Turke doing here?’ demanded Bartholomew, irritated by Michael’s reluctance to accept his reasoning. ‘Philippa said he was not the kind of man to go skating. So, if he was not here for pleasure, then it means he was here for some other purpose. I do not see why you think looking for a knife is so improbable.’

‘Because if he was looking for the knife, then it implies that he was Norbert’s killer,’ said Michael, equally exasperated. ‘And I do not see how that can be possible.’

‘We already know that Turke had a murderous streak,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He slew Fiscurtune quite casually. And Fiscurtune was stabbed, just like Norbert.’

‘Do you have any idea how many people are stabbed each year?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Since virtually every man, woman and child carries a knife for everyday use, it is the weapon of choice when ridding yourself of enemies. That both Norbert and Fiscurtune were stabbed means nothing.’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Bartholomew, seeing they had reached an impasse, and neither was prepared to accept the other’s point of view. ‘Ah! Here it is.’

‘You have the weapon?’ asked Michael, moving forward eagerly, as Bartholomew stooped to retrieve something. He grinned in triumph when the physician held up a dagger that was far too highly decorated and expensive to have been thrown away for no good reason. ‘Give it to me.’

‘Michael, no!’ cried Bartholomew. But it was too late. The monk’s bulk was already on the ice, which immediately began to bow. Both scholars watched in horror as a series of small cracks began to zigzag away from him, accompanied by sharp snapping sounds. For an instant, nothing happened. And then the ice broke.

Bartholomew felt the surface under his feet begin to tip as though it were a small boat on a stormy sea. Instinctively, he hurled himself forward, landing flat on his stomach on a part that was solid. From Michael’s direction he heard a splash, and the rope around his waist was tugged so sharply that it took his breath away. A distant part of his mind noted that it was ironic that he had borrowed the rope so that Michael would be able to pull him to safety, not the other way around. He glanced behind him, expecting to see the top of the monk’s head bobbing among shards of ice.

Michael, however, had apparently broken through at a point where the river was shallow, because the water did not even reach the top of his boots. He stood among the ice like some vast, black Poseidon, and began reeling in the rope that connected him to Bartholomew. There was a sharp tug around the physician’s waist, and then he felt himself begin to move.

‘Do not worry,’ the monk called, as he hauled on the line in powerful hand-over-hand motions that made Bartholomew feel like a landed fish. ‘I have you.’

He certainly did, thought Bartholomew, powerless against the mighty force that was heaving him shoreward. He wanted to stand, to make his own way to the bank, but his fingers scrabbled ineffectually on the slick surface and there was no purchase for his feet. With a grimace, he gave up his struggle and submitted to Michael’s ‘rescue’ with ill grace, sighing with irritation when a sharp piece of ice ripped a gash in his best winter cloak. By the time he was on the river bank, he had ruined a perfectly good tabard, his cloak would need some serious attention from the laundress’s needle, and the knee was hanging from his hose. Still, he thought wryly, at least the ice was hard and dry, and his uncomfortable journey across it had not rendered him soaking wet.

‘You should have been more careful,’ said Michael, looking him up and down critically.

‘Me be careful?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly. ‘It was you who started to surge forward like Poseidon emerging from the deep.’

‘Where is the knife?’

‘I dropped it,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how it had slipped from his fingers when he had made his headlong dive for safety.

‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, aghast. ‘How?’

‘While trying to save myself from drowning,’ Bartholomew replied tartly. ‘You should not have tried to come for it.’

‘I only wanted to look,’ said Michael sulkily, realising that the fault lay with him, but not prepared to admit it. ‘Where did you drop it? Is it retrievable?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I saw it go into the water at a point where the river runs fast and strong. It will have been swept forward, and I have no idea where it will be now.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That thing might have allowed us to trace Norbert’s killer. And now it has gone.’

‘I can describe it,’ offered Bartholomew.

‘Well, that is something, I suppose,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘Go on, then.’

‘The hilt was decorated, but not with precious stones. I think they were glass, because the thing looked well used. You do not have a jewelled knife for everyday use.’

‘That very much depends on who you are,’ said Michael sourly. ‘But, in this case, you may be right. Continue.’

‘The blade was scratched, again suggesting it was a favoured, much-used item, and wide – which is consistent with the wound in Norbert’s back. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, there was blood on it.’

‘Then damn it again!’ snapped Michael. ‘It must be the murder weapon, and you lost it!’

Bartholomew ignored the accusation. ‘I can make a drawing with coloured inks, and we can see if anyone recognises it. Philippa, for example.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Very well, if you do not mind offending her by suggesting that her recently dead and much-lamented husband crept around the town at night knifing students in the back. More usefully, though, I can ask Meadowman to show it in the taverns when he does his rounds tonight.’ He gave the physician a rueful smile. ‘I suppose something may emerge from our incompetence.’