CHAPTER 7

While Bartholomew sat in his room with a blank piece of parchment and several pots of coloured ink – borrowed from Deynman, who never wrote in black when blue, yellow, red or green was available – Michael perched on the physician’s windowsill and complained that the river water had stained his best riding boots. It was so cold that a rime was starting to form on them, and Michael hastily removed himself to the kitchens, where there was a fire to thaw them and perhaps even freshly baked oatcakes for the taking. It was true it was not long since he had eaten, but everyone knew that cold weather increased the appetite.

Agatha was there, presiding in her wicker throne near the fireplace, from which she oversaw the preparations for the evening meal with critical eyes. Deynman had provided a hundred eggs, and had decreed that no dish should be served that did not have egg of some form in it. Agatha’s infamous egg-mess was already mixed, and was busily transforming itself into rubbery lumps near the fire where it was being kept warm. The undercook was struggling with a vat of custard, which was lumpier than the egg-mess and smelled sulphurous, and the butler was patiently shelling hard-boiled duck eggs, humming as he did so.

‘No meat?’ asked Michael, surveying the preparations with disappointment. He found a stool and three boiled eggs, and carried them to the hearth, settling himself comfortably with legs splayed in front of him and his habit rucked up around his knees so that his boots could dry.

‘Hens,’ said Agatha, jerking a powerful thumb to one of the back kitchens, where a number of hapless birds were being roasted to dryness on spits that would have benefited from the occasional turn. ‘They had eggs in them, did they not?’

Michael laughed. ‘You are a clever woman, Agatha. Yes, they did. It will be interesting to see whether Deynman understands such a fine point.’

‘I saw you in the King’s Head yesterday,’ said Agatha conversationally. ‘You were watching that Harysone dancing. At least, I assume that was what he was doing. It looked obscene.’

‘It was obscene,’ agreed Michael, shelling an egg and then sliding it whole into his mouth. He spoke around it with difficulty. ‘Have you seen him in the King’s Head before?’

‘I have not eaten bear liver since I was a child,’ said Agatha, answering whatever question she thought Michael had asked. ‘But we were discussing Harysone. I have seen him in the King’s Head on several occasions, you know.’

‘Doing what?’ enunciated Michael carefully.

‘He likes to show off his dancing “skills”, and he has been hawking his book at reduced prices: three marks, and a bargain, he claims.’ Her strong face turned angry. ‘He is a pardoner, and he asked if I cared to buy a pardon for the seven deadly sins, because he had one that would take care of them all in one go.’

‘That was rash of him,’ said Michael, meaning it. The man was lucky to escape with all his limbs, given that Agatha had evidently considered herself insulted. He peeled another egg, and thought about Harysone’s claim that he had come to Cambridge only to sell his books. He had not mentioned to the guards that he was also a pardoner. The monk mulled over the possibility that misleading town officials might be sufficient grounds to expel the fellow.

‘Harysone gambles,’ said Agatha disapprovingly. ‘I saw him dicing with Ulfrid – who should know better. And I saw him gaming with Norbert the night he died.’

‘Did you now?’ mused Michael, realising he should not have bothered to send his beadles to the King’s Head to question uncooperative townsfolk when he had a fine source of information under his very own roof. ‘Did you see him win a fish?’

She nodded. ‘They are two of a kind: sly, lecherous and nasty. Harysone also asked whether I knew a person called Dympna. I told him that even if I did, I would not tell him!’

‘He asked that?’ said Michael. The third egg rolled from his lap and landed unnoticed on the floor. ‘He asked about a person called Dympna? Not a man or woman?’

‘A person,’ said Agatha firmly. ‘He did not specify whether it was a man or a woman, and when I asked why he wanted to know, he became vague. He said it was a matter of money he was owed. Of course, I said nothing more after that. I would not like to think of some poor soul owing that evil character a debt, and me being responsible for setting him on his trail.’ She shuddered.

‘Do you know Dympna?’ asked Michael, hopeful that she might have answers to questions that had been plaguing him for days.

‘No,’ came the disappointing answer. ‘But I have heard of him.’

‘Him?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘I thought it was a woman. Norbert received messages from Dympna before he died, and Matt and I made the assumption they were from a lover.’

‘Norbert!’ spat Agatha in disapproval. ‘You should not make any such assumption about him. He did have a lover, although it was not a woman. There is a certain pig that was the object of his amorous attentions. Doubtless Helena will be relieved now that he is gone.’

‘Helena?’

‘Robin of Grantchester’s pig. Folk saw Norbert slipping into the back of Robin’s house at odd hours to visit her. Poor creature!’

‘How do you know he was not going to meet Robin?’ asked Michael curiously.

Agatha regarded him in horror. ‘That is a disgusting notion, Brother! Call yourself a monk? You should see Master Kenyngham and ask him to say prayers that will cleanse your mind of such vile thoughts. Robin of Grantchester and Norbert!’

‘It is no worse than you accusing him of courting a pig,’ objected Michael indignantly. ‘And I was not suggesting Norbert went to see Robin with “amorous intentions”, as you put it. They may have had business to arrange.’

‘Then why did Norbert not knock at the front door, like Robin’s patients do?’ demanded Agatha. ‘You are wrong, Brother. It was the pig that Norbert went to see.’

‘And this pig is definitely called Helena?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Dympna?’

‘You said Dympna sent Norbert messages,’ said Agatha, giving him a glance that indicated she thought he was short of a few wits. ‘Pigs do not write. Well, Clippesby says they can but choose not to. He said they dislike the sensation of spilled ink on their trotters. Do you think he will remain insane for ever, Brother, or will he become as normal as the rest of us one day?’

‘Lord knows!’ muttered Michael, declining to answer a question that might lead to so many pitfalls. ‘So, what have you heard about Dympna? You referred to this person as “him”.’

‘I do not know whether it is a man or a woman,’ admitted Agatha. ‘But I have only ever heard him associated with good things – never bad. That is why I was surprised to hear the name on the lips of a foul beast like that Harysone. What is that egg doing on the floor?’

Michael retrieved it and began to remove its shell while he pondered what Agatha had told him. Dympna, whoever she – or he – was, now provided a definite link between Harysone and the dead Norbert, along with the tench Norbert had won. Michael decided that as soon as Bartholomew had finished his sketch, he would make it a priority to show it to anyone who knew Harysone. The physician could show it to Philippa and her brother if he liked, but Michael was certain he would be wasting his time.

‘Did you know Harysone has accused Michaelhouse students of stabbing him?’ he asked casually, aware that such information would turn Agatha against the pardoner even more.

‘I heard,’ said Agatha shortly. ‘And so did Sheriff Morice. He visited Harysone just after you did, and tried to force him to make an official complaint. Harysone declined.’

Michael was astonished. ‘Harysone refused to allow the Sheriff to investigate the fact that he was stabbed? Why? I anticipated we would have problems with that – I thought Morice would claim that it was a town crime, committed against a visitor, and that the culprits should be turned over to him for sentencing. And you can imagine what would happen then.’ He ate the egg.

Agatha nodded. ‘The scholars would scream that no member of the University should be tried by a secular authority – especially if the culprit is a friar, as Harysone claims – and there would be a riot. Morice would yield – in return for a certain amount of University money passed directly to his personal coffers – but the ill feeling between scholars and townsfolk would fester anyway.’

‘Exactly,’ said Michael, thinking she had summed up the situation very well. ‘But Harysone declined to allow the Sheriff to look into the matter?’

Agatha pursed her lips. ‘Not because he wanted to avoid riots and mayhem. He said he could not afford a second investigation by Morice, and I am sure he meant it literally. Anyone who deals with Morice can expect any help to cost him a noble or two.’

Michael sucked egg from his teeth as he stared into the fire and considered. So, it was likely that Harysone had paid Morice something when the Sheriff had recovered his stolen gold, and had not received the entire sum back with interest as he had claimed. But if Harysone’s gold had been honestly won, then he would not have needed to give Morice anything. That meant Morice had discovered it was not, and had taken advantage of that fact. Had Harysone stolen the gold from someone else? Or had the Sheriff decided Harysone was overcharging for his book, and threatened to arrest him for fraud? Michael stood, shaking the eggshells from his habit into the fire, where they hissed and popped as they were consumed by the flames.

Michael knew Harysone was unlikely to confess to Norbert’s murder if he just marched up to the man and demanded to know whether he was the owner of the jewelled dagger that was now lost for ever in the river. He decided the best way to gain Harysone’s confidence would be to act as if he was making a serious attempt to find whoever had stabbed him – to present him with a culprit and show that justice would be done. Harysone would be impressed that the University took accusations of assault seriously, and that it, unlike Morice, did not charge for its services. Once he had the pardoner’s trust, Michael would be in a position to talk to the man, in the hope that he could be tricked, flattered or cajoled into saying something incriminating.

The first thing the monk needed to do, therefore, was identify the Michaelhouse friars who had been in the King’s Head when Harysone was demonstrating his dancing skills. It would not be difficult: Father William and his five students were the only Franciscans in the College. William had already ‘broken’ his leg when Harysone was attacked, and everyone knew he had not set foot outside since. That left his students, all of whom might very well have enjoyed an illicit drink in a tavern, although Michael could not see any of them knifing a man in the back.

It was almost dusk, and time for the evening meal, so the monk enjoyed his chicken, egg and custard first, then approached the Franciscans as they were heading to the conclave for an evening of entertainment organised by Deynman.

‘We are growing bored with the Waits,’ grumbled Ulfrid, when the monk asked why the students were reluctant to follow Deynman that evening. ‘Makejoy can dance, and Yna and Jestyn can juggle, but Frith is dire with the pipe and tabor.’ His fellow Franciscans gathered around, pleased by an opportunity that would excuse them from the dull festivities for a little longer.

‘Frith is a poor musician,’ agreed Michael, which was damning indeed coming from a man whose standards were based on the Michaelhouse choir. ‘He cannot hold a beat with his drum, and his piping is noise rather than proper tunes. His “Kalenda Maya” was unrecognisable last night.’

‘We have had nothing but tumbling and juggling for days now,’ Ulfrid continued bitterly. His friends murmured their agreement. ‘We want something else. Christmas is a time for things like closh, kayles and quoits, not sitting around indoors watching Waits.’

‘You cannot bowl on snow, which eliminates kayles,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And you would lose your horseshoes and balls if you were to try quoits or closh. But there is always the camp-ball tomorrow to look forward to. And then there are the First Day of the Year games, where there will be ice-camping, wrestling, tilting and all manner of fun.’

‘I suppose,’ conceded Ulfrid reluctantly. ‘But we should have voted for Gray. He is more imaginative than Deynman.’

‘Deynman said he paid in advance for the Waits, so he wants his money’s worth out of them,’ said another of the novices, a prematurely balding youth with a square jaw who possessed the unlikely name of Zebedee.

‘The Waits are getting their money’s worth out of us,’ muttered Ulfrid bitterly. He turned to Michael. ‘I caught Frith leaving my room this morning, and later I could not find some pennies I’d left there. I cannot say for certain that he took them, but I am suspicious.’

‘Deynman is a fool to retain their services,’ agreed Zebedee. ‘Agatha said things have gone from the kitchen, too – a pewter spoon, a glass dish for salt, a brass skewer. Little, unimportant items that you do not miss until they cannot be found.’

Ulfrid frowned in puzzlement. ‘But, conversely, Cynric accidentally left the College silver out after the Christmas Day feast, and it sat unmolested for a whole day before it was returned to the chest in Langelee’s room. Frith could have had that easily, yet he did not touch it.’

‘And William has three gold nobles that he always leaves in full view on his windowsill,’ added Zebedee. ‘They are worth six shillings and eightpence each, and it would be a simple matter for someone to reach in and grab them. I know Frith has seen them, and there have been plenty of opportunities when they could have been his. But he ignores them.’

‘Then perhaps we are misjudging him,’ suggested Michael. ‘It is easy to think the worst of people we do not know, and the fact that he is able to resist gold nobles and silver plates tells me he is probably not interested in pennies and salt dishes. But there is another matter I would like you to help me with. It involves the King’s Head.’

Ulfrid was suddenly the recipient of a lot of stares that were far from friendly, and he squirmed uncomfortably. ‘You did not have to come,’ he blurted defensively, glaring back at his colleagues. ‘You could have stayed in the Swan.’

‘We could not let you go on your own,’ said Zebedee. ‘What if Godric and the others had not turned up? You would have been alone in an apprentice-filled tavern.’

‘Godric from Ovyng?’ asked Michael. ‘You went to the King’s Head to meet him?’

‘Now look what you have done.’ Ulfrid rounded on his friend. ‘You have dragged Godric into trouble, too, and he has enough to worry about, what with the Tulyets not giving his hostel any more money, and Ailred fretting over this Norbert business.’

Michael crossed his arms and listened. Questions he would have asked were answered by the bickering students without any intervention on his part. He learned that the Michaelhouse Franciscans preferred to drink their illicit ale in the Swan, which was quieter and more peaceful than most of the town’s inns, while the Ovyng Franciscans favoured the noisy, lively atmosphere of the King’s Head. The students of most Colleges and hostels tended not to mix, but the building Ovyng used was owned by Michaelhouse, and the Franciscans were on friendly terms with each other, occasionally meeting for a companionable drink.

Early on the night Norbert had been killed it had been Godric’s turn to buy the ale, and he had suggested the King’s Head as the venue. The Michaelhouse lads had demurred, nervous of patronising such a disreputable place at a busy time like Christmas, but Ulfrid had later decided to go anyway, if only to tell Godric not to expect them. Reluctantly, the others had gone with him, but it had been their first and last visit. Ulfrid had won some dice in a bet with the boastful Harysone, and they had all witnessed the pardoner’s individual dancing style. However, although they had passed an enjoyable evening with their Ovyng friends, they knew that the King’s Head was more likely to be raided by beadles than other taverns, and had declined to go a second time. All the student Franciscans had left the inn before compline, and had returned to their respective homes fairly sober and long before the gates and doors had been secured for the night.

‘Did you see Norbert in the tavern that evening?’ asked Michael.

The friars nodded. ‘But we were in a small chamber at the back, and he was in the public room at the front,’ replied Ulfrid.

‘We saw him gambling with Harysone,’ offered Zebedee helpfully.

‘This is interesting,’ said Michael. ‘Your Ovyng friends have not mentioned this.’

‘That is because they were not there at that point,’ said Ulfrid, sounding surprised that Michael did not know. ‘We arrived first, to make sure of grabbing seats in the back room. Godric and the others are not so fussy about where they sit, and they were late that night, because they were at some public lecture that went on for longer than they expected.’

‘After Norbert won the fish, he took his winnings and a woman, and retired upstairs,’ continued Zebedee. ‘Godric and the others arrived a few moments after that. Norbert was still up there when we all left, so none of the Ovyng students could have seen him. They did not even know he was there. None of us mentioned the fellow, because talking about him would have spoiled their evening. So, I think we can safely say that none of them had anything to do with the murder.’

‘I see,’ said Michael noncommittally, thinking that it was not impossible for an Ovyng student to have slipped out of his hostel later and killed Norbert. He turned the subject back to Harysone and his stabbing, and learned that the Michaelhouse students’ only visit to the King’s Head had been several days before Harysone was attacked.

‘I expect Harysone remembered that Ulfrid was from Michaelhouse,’ said Zebedee. ‘He would recall Ulfrid, because he lost his dice to him. He then made the erroneous assumption that all Franciscans are from the same College. But we know nothing about any stabbing, Brother. How is it that Harysone did not see his assailant, anyway? I would remember a man who had knifed me!’

‘Whoever assaulted him made the mistake of aiming for the hard bones at the base of the spine, instead of the soft bits higher up. Or perhaps Harysone moved suddenly, and the would-be killer’s dagger found itself embedded lower than was intended. Can I see your knives?’

The students obliged, and Michael was presented with a mixture of implements. Most were tiny, intended only for cutting up food at the table, although Zebedee’s was larger, and Ulfrid’s was more ornate than it should have been.

‘I lost mine,’ admitted Ulfrid. ‘So William lent me his spare one. It is a little fancy, but it will suffice until I have the money to buy another.’

Michael nodded his thanks and walked away. Had Ulfrid really lost his original knife, or had he thrown it away when he realised the tip had been left in his victim? The monk shook his head impatiently. The novices had just told him they had only visited the King’s Head once, and that had been before the attack on Harysone. Or was Ulfrid lying? Had he returned alone at a later date, thinking he might win something more interesting than a pair of dice? And had he been disappointed in his hopes and had then taken revenge on Harysone?

And was Ulfrid the owner of the knife that had killed Norbert? The friars of Michaelhouse and Ovyng were friends, so was it possible that Ulfrid disliked Norbert for bringing Ovyng into disrepute and had decided to solve the problem for his comrades once and for all? Or was the merry-faced Ulfrid innocent of both crimes, and had just lost his knife, as he claimed? People mislaid items like knives, pens and inkwells all the time.

His instincts told him that the Michaelhouse lads were honest in their denials about Norbert’s murder, although he was less certain about their Ovyng colleagues. Perhaps they had seen Norbert in the King’s Head, and had merely declined to enter the tavern as long as the man was flaunting himself in the main chamber. It was also possible that one had doubled back and had lain in wait for him, stabbing him by the Mill Pool. And perhaps it had been another of them who had finished what the first had started, using a stone when Norbert had finally crawled to where he thought he would be safe. Michael’s sense of unease intensified, and he saw he would have no peace until he had Norbert’s killer under lock and key – whoever he transpired to be.

Bartholomew presented his finished illustration to Michael with a flourish. The monk was impressed. The drawing was very precise, even down to the way the blood had crusted where the hilt met the blade, and he realised the physician had quite a talent for sketching. The monk studied the diagram carefully. The dagger’s handle was depicted as relatively plain, but there was green and yellow glass that would make the thing very distinctive.

‘You saw all this before you dropped it?’ he asked, hoping that his friend had not added the beads to the picture to make it more attractive.

Bartholomew shot him a withering glance. ‘I have included nothing I did not see. Will it do?’

‘It will do very nicely,’ said Michael, nodding his satisfaction. ‘And the first people we shall try it on are the Franciscan friars of Ovyng, who may know more than they are telling about this peculiar business. I have just learned they were in the King’s Head the night Norbert died, although Ulfrid believes the friars and Norbert did not see each other. However, I shall reserve judgement on that.’

‘I think you will achieve more success when you show it to Philippa and Giles. You know what I think Turke was doing when he fell through the ice.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘You cannot be more wrong. In order to kill someone you need a motive, and Turke had no reason to murder Norbert. However, now Agatha has revealed that Harysone was asking after Dympna, we can conclude he had a connection with Norbert – more than just two men dicing for fish together. I shall show your picture to him, too.’

‘Agatha’s information must have pleased you. You have had Harysone marked down for a criminal act ever since he arrived.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael happily. ‘And it is good to know my instincts have not misled me. But we should hurry, or the Ovyng lads will be in their beds. These Franciscans retire early in the winter, and it is almost six o’clock already.’

They walked briskly to Ovyng. The temperature had fallen dramatically with the approach of night, and the air almost cracked with cold. The ground underfoot was as hard as stone, and any moisture had long since frozen like iron. Few people were out, and those that were huddled deep inside their cloaks.

‘Another beggar froze to death last night,’ said Michael as they struggled through the snow. ‘I am going to ask Langelee to keep St Michael’s open. Beggars are useful sources of information for us proctors, and I do not want to lose them all this winter.’

Bartholomew smiled, knowing Michael was hiding his compassion for the poor by pretending their welfare was in his own interest. ‘We should visit Dunstan before we go home,’ he said, thinking it might take more than Robin’s provisions to keep the old man alive that night. ‘I want to make sure Yolande has banked the fire.’

They knocked on Ovyng’s door, and were admitted by Godric, who had a smear of ink on his face and held a sheaf of parchment. He wore thick hose and outdoor boots against the cold, and his woollen habit looked bulky, as though he had pulled on as many clothes as he could underneath it. Even so, his fingers had a bluish tinge at their tips, and he was shivering as he stepped aside to let Bartholomew and Michael in.

A small fire was burning in the hearth of the main hall, but it was wholly inadequate to warm a large, stone-built room that had gaps in its window shutters and a wide chimney, both of which allowed the wind to blast through them. All the student friars and Ailred were present, sitting around a table that had been placed as close to the fire as possible, and looking as chilled and miserable as did Godric. Ailred had a pile of sad-looking fish in front of him, which he was patiently gutting. He was leading a debate on the sermons of Thomas Aquinas at the same time.

Some of the fish were cooking over the meagre flames, and the distinctive aroma of food that was past its best pervaded the hostel. Two loaves of bread were being warmed in an attempt to disguise the fact that their outsides were blue with mould, and a bucket of cloudy ale stood behind the hearth, so that some of the chill might be driven from it. Godric kept glancing towards the fire. Bartholomew had the feeling he was hungry, and the visit from the Senior Proctor meant that his meal was being delayed.

‘Finances,’ he said in a subdued voice, seeing the Michaelhouse men absorbing the details of their frigid room and paltry meal. ‘I know we friars are supposed to seek ways to deny ourselves bodily comforts, but freezing solid and eating food unfit even for animals is not generally recommended by our Order. Norbert’s death has been a bitter blow for Ovyng.’ He scowled at Ailred.

‘Tulyet has stopped paying for Norbert’s education,’ said Bartholomew in understanding, thinking the dead man’s family must have been charged some very princely fees if their cessation resulted in such sudden and abject poverty at Ovyng. ‘But you must have anticipated their loss when he died, so you cannot be surprised.’

‘We are not surprised,’ said Ailred, a little testily. ‘But we did not expect the weather to turn quite so bitter before we could think of ways to manage the shortfall. We have food, but little fuel.’

‘Food of sorts,’ muttered Godric under his breath. ‘Stinking fish that even the cat would not touch, and blue bread.’

‘You should mention your plight to Robin of Grantchester,’ said Bartholomew to Ailred. ‘He conjured peat faggots and wood from thin air when Dunstan the riverman was in need.’

‘That is different,’ said Ailred stiffly. ‘Dunstan’s is a case of genuine hardship, whereas we are merely uncomfortable. We will not die from the cold.’

‘We might,’ muttered Godric resentfully, and Bartholomew concluded that their reduced circumstances were something about which the two men did not agree. Some of the students nodded, and the physician saw that they definitely sided with Godric.

‘We shall have to get out our begging bowls,’ said one, while the others muttered rebelliously. ‘We will not survive the winter if we do not do something to help ourselves.’

‘We shall manage,’ said Ailred sharply. ‘You must remember that however cold and hungry you feel there is always someone worse off than you. Do not complain unnecessarily, and give the saints cause to increase your hardship.’

‘I have come to ask you about Master Harysone the pardoner,’ said Michael conversationally in the silence that followed. ‘He speared himself while dancing in the King’s Head, and has accused a Franciscan of holding the knife. Does anyone have anything he would like to tell me?’

Ailred looked horrified. ‘I can assure you that no one here would set foot in a house of sin like the King’s Head.’

‘Which houses of sin do you set foot in, then?’ asked Michael, aware that the students were not so quick to deny the accusation. They were exchanging guilty, anxious glances, and clearly wondering whether their Michaelhouse colleagues had betrayed them.

‘None!’ protested Ailred, appalled at the notion. ‘Such behaviour would break University rules. I do not need to tell you that, Brother.’

‘What about you, Godric?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We are not interested in whether you imbibe in the King’s Head regularly, just whether you were there on St Stephen’s Day, when this particular incident occurred.’

‘I do recall a brief sojourn in a tavern around that time,’ replied Godric ingenuously, making it sound as though it was of so little importance that it had all but slipped his mind. ‘And I do recall a pardoner doing strange things with his body. It was why we left, actually.’

‘We?’ pounced Michael. ‘Who was with you?’

Godric grimaced, angry with himself at being caught out so easily. ‘A few of us,’ he replied, deliberately vague. He turned defensively to Ailred. ‘Well, what do you expect, Father? It is Christmas, and our hostel is as cheerless and cold as a charnel house. All we wanted was a little spiced ale to drive away the chill, and a taste of plum cake.’

Ailred closed his eyes, disgusted. ‘But look where it has brought you, boy. You break the rules and bad things happen. Now you are accused of letting a pardoner dance on to your knife.’

‘We had nothing to do with that,’ declared Godric vehemently. ‘We listened to him spouting all manner of nonsense about fish, but we did not argue with him. He offered to sell us his book, and we declined politely. We watched – appalled – when he began to twist and turn to music, but we did not linger long.’

‘Neither did many other patrons,’ added one of the students helpfully. ‘We were among a number of folk who left when he began his display.’

‘Did you notice anyone taking a particular interest in him or his dancing?’ asked Michael. ‘You say people left, but was the reverse true?’

‘The other pardoners left immediately,’ said Godric thoughtfully. ‘But one stayed. He watched intently when it started, and was still staring when we slipped away.’

‘One of the pardoners,’ said Michael, sounding pleased. Bartholomew was sure the monk would love to arrest a pardoner for the attack on Harysone. ‘What did he look like?’

Godric frowned. ‘I am not sure. He was smaller than me. He wore a dark cloak and a hat.’

‘Disguised?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was odd for someone to be swathed in hat and cloak in a crowded tavern that was likely to be stuffy. And being smaller than Godric was no kind of description – Godric was a sturdy man.

‘The landlord was having problems with snow in his chimney, so the fire was unlit. It was cold, and a number of us were wrapped in outside clothes, with hoods or hats pulled down.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘That is all I remember: one man watching Harysone from under a hat.’

‘Whoever attacked Harysone left the end of his blade in his victim’s back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Can we inspect everyone’s knife, to see whether one matches the break?’

‘Please do,’ said Ailred, gesturing to his friars to comply, although most were already producing blades from belts and scrips. Michael studied each one in turn, but, like those belonging to the Michaelhouse Franciscans, none were missing their tips. Godric’s knife was of a better quality than the rest, and the monk regarded it thoughtfully.

‘It is new,’ said Godric, seeing what Michael was thinking. ‘But I have had it for about a week, not two days. I threw the old one away, because the hilt was cracked. My sister, who is Prioress at Denny Abbey on the Ely road, sent me another.’ He brightened as a thought occurred to him. ‘She is a kind and generous lady. If I were to write to her about our condition–’

‘No!’ snapped Ailred. ‘We cannot accept alms from nuns. Supposing they deprive others in order to help us? It would be unconscionable.’

‘I do not suppose this is the knife you discarded?’ Michael extracted Bartholomew’s drawing from his scrip and passed it to Godric, watching him intently for a reaction.

‘No, mine was plain,’ said Godric. He held up the picture for the students to see. ‘Have any of you seen this before?’

There were shaken heads all around, and if any recognised it as being the one ‘with the cracked hilt’ that Godric had discarded, no one said so. Most huddled deeper into their cloaks and denied knowledge of the thing with polite uninterest. Others made more of an effort, and at least examined the parchment first.

‘What about the blades used for cooking?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the metal he had extracted from Harysone was from a fairly substantial implement, not from something small like the knives the friars carried for cutting their food.

‘Please look,’ invited Ailred. ‘Godric will help you. And while you play with our greasy cooking utensils, Brother Michael can tell me about the progress he has made with Norbert’s case.’

Godric took Bartholomew across to a bread oven set into the wall near the hearth. Two pots stood there, one scrubbed, clean and ready for use, the other half full of some grey material that was evidently the remains of the meal the friars had eaten the day before. It looked worse than the fish they planned to dine on that evening, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Godric and his students sought edibles from outside. The knives were hanging on the wall and the physician inspected each one with care: none was missing its end.

‘We still know very little about Norbert’s death,’ Michael admitted to Ailred. ‘Although we think we have discovered the weapon that killed him.’ He nodded to the illustration lying on the table, where the last of the friars to inspect it had set it down.

‘That?’ asked Ailred eagerly, moving forward to look at the picture again. ‘Are you sure?’

The friars craned towards the diagram a second time, more interested now they knew it had caused the death of their colleague and was not just a weapon used to injure a pardoner. But despite their apparent willingness to help, no one was able to say he had seen it before.

‘You can take it to the taverns,’ suggested Ailred. ‘Someone there might recognise it.’

‘I know,’ said Michael sharply, not needing to be told how to do his job. ‘The King’s Head is a good place to start.’ He looked hard at the novices. ‘Why did you not tell me you were all there the night Norbert was killed?’

‘What is this?’ cried Ailred in horror. ‘What are you saying?’ He turned to his students. ‘Tell him this is not true.’

‘It is true,’ said Godric softly. ‘But the reason we did not mention it was because we did not know Norbert was there. Ulfrid has since told us he was frolicking in a private chamber with a lady while we drank our ale, but, as God is my witness, none of us set eyes on him that night.’

‘You should not have concealed this,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You must see how it appears.’

Godric hung his head. ‘I know we were wrong to visit the King’s Head. But since we could tell you nothing about Norbert’s death, we saw no point in confessing that we had broken the University’s rules. We have enough spare coins for the occasional hot ale, but we cannot afford to pay the kind of fines Father William will now levy on us. He is the reason we have remained silent on the matter.’

There was a growl of agreement from the others. ‘I shall say nothing about it to William,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘However, more important than your rule-breaking at the moment is gathering information about Dympna. I am sure she is relevant.’

‘Not this again,’ groaned Ailred. ‘How many more times will you raise this subject? We have told you all we know, and I cannot see how she relates to Norbert’s death.’

‘I think she does,’ countered Michael. He eyed the students coolly. ‘So, I repeat: what can you tell me about her?’

‘No more than we told you the first time you asked,’ said Godric, watching Bartholomew take a meat knife and examine it, while Ailred sighed his annoyance at the monk’s persistence. ‘Surprisingly, her notes to Norbert were not romantic or filled with affection; they just told him to be in St Michael’s at a particular time, and were followed by a set of numbers.’

‘Why surprisingly?’ asked Michael.

Godric gave an abashed grin and gazed down at his booted feet. ‘Well, if a woman takes the trouble to write to a man, you assume she would pen something loving, to encourage him to meet her and sample the delights of her company.’

‘You have very colourful ideas about courtship,’ said Michael, eyeing him sceptically.

‘Godric believes in romantic love,’ said Ailred wearily to Michael. ‘I mentioned that before. It is as well he decided to become a friar and forgo relationships with women, because otherwise he would have been wounded deeply when he learned that not all are virtuous virgins.’

‘Many are,’ protested Godric, offended. ‘Dympna must be. She could have dispatched some grubby boy with a spoken message to Norbert, but she chose to write. That shows she cared for him: she took time and trouble to pen a message – or she hired someone to scribe it for her.’

‘Did any of you ever follow Norbert to see what happened when he met this paragon?’ asked Michael, more interested in Norbert than in Godric’s misguided ideas. Ailred made an impatient sound at the back of his throat, as though he could scarcely credit that Michael was still pursuing the subject when there were far more relevant and important issues to be considered.

‘Several times,’ replied Godric, ignoring his principal’s reaction. ‘But whomever he met was elusive. We shadowed him to the church, but when we entered through the north porch, she left through the south entrance, and when we had someone posted at both doors, she slipped away through the tower. I glimpsed a hooded figure once, but could tell nothing about her.’

‘Could it have been a man?’ asked Michael.

Godric gazed uncertainly at him. ‘Are you saying Norbert’s heart was captured by a man?’

‘Better than by a pig,’ muttered Michael, thinking of Agatha’s theory. ‘But can you say for certain that this hooded figure was a woman?’

‘Well, it was not a pig,’ said Godric firmly. ‘But it could have been a man, I suppose. It is possible it was not Dympna at all, but someone else who just happened to be there.’

‘Enough of this,’ said Ailred irritably. ‘It is taking us nowhere. You will find some tavern patron will be your culprit, Brother, not this mysterious figure who vanishes from churches. You should look into anyone who has connections to the King’s Head – including wealthy folk who hire the best chambers. Rich men murder just as capably as poor ones.’

‘Are you thinking of Harysone?’ asked Michael immediately.

Ailred shook his head crossly. ‘I am not thinking of anyone specifically. I am only saying you are wasting time with Dympna when you could be investigating the real culprit.’

‘You did not try very hard to discover the identity of the person Norbert met,’ said Michael to Godric, sounding accusatory and ignoring the principal’s advice. ‘It could not have taken much skill to catch her, once she was inside.’

‘It took more than we had,’ said Godric ruefully. ‘We are not experienced at that kind of thing. We were just being nosy – to see what kind of wench would be attracted to Norbert. Had we known it would lead to a line of enquiry relating to his murder, we would have tried harder.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘So, none of you stabbed Harysone, and none of you can tell me about Dympna?’ He sighed. ‘Then I suppose I shall bid you goodnight.’


Bartholomew and Michael walked to the hovels on the river bank, feeling frozen snow crunch under their feet. For the first time in many days, the evening was clear, and millions of stars glittered overhead in a spectacle of indescribable beauty. The beauty had its price, however, and the temperature had plummeted even further. Sudden cracks rent the air when water expanded into ice and split walls, wood and stone, and the still night air was thick with smoke from hearths.

Michael sat with Dunstan, holding his hand and allowing him to reminisce about his brother, while exaggerating the quality of Athelbald’s singing. Bartholomew banked up the fire so its heat filled the single room, then made sure the blankets were tucked around Dunstan’s thin shoulders. He tried again to persuade the old man to stay at Michaelhouse, but Dunstan claimed his brother’s soul was still in the house, and said he would not leave until it had gone.

They had not been there for long before there was a perfunctory knock on the door and Matilde entered. Bartholomew felt a lurch of pleasure when he saw her, standing tall and graceful in the centre of the shabby hut. She wore her cloak of bright blue with the silver clasp, and her feet were clad in stout, practical boots. Robert de Blaston was with her, flapping his arms and stamping in an attempt to warm himself. Bartholomew recalled that Matilde had taken the carpenter and his brood into her house when it became apparent that their own home was unsafe, and had probably saved their lives by doing so. Matilde greeted the scholars, then indicated Blaston, who had declined to enter the crowded hut.

‘Rob insisted on accompanying me, because you know what this town can be like for a lone woman after dark. I wanted to make sure Dunstan was settled for the night, but it seems you have already done that. How is Philippa?’

Bartholomew was startled by the abrupt question. ‘Well enough, I suppose. Her husband is being embalmed and prepared for travel, so I imagine she will go home when the weather breaks.’

‘Good,’ said Matilde. She blushed when she realised how that sounded. ‘I mean it is good for her to complete this grim business and be about her life. She will be obliged to search for new suitors soon and will want to make a start.’

‘Will she be courting you, Doctor?’ asked Dunstan. But his eyes lacked the mischievous sparkle such teasing usually brought, and his voice was lustreless and flat.

‘I do not think she is in a hurry to remarry,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Matilde was waiting for his answer. ‘She will not think it seemly for a widow to be soliciting husbands until a decent amount of time has passed.’

‘That depends on what Turke left her in his will,’ said Matilde practically. ‘She may have time for a leisurely approach, but then she may be obliged to begin the hunt immediately.’

‘I hope she does not hunt around here,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I do not think she would make a good wife for Matt. She has changed since we first met, and I cannot say I like her as much as I did. Besides, I do not think she would welcome my visits to her home or offer me the best food in her larder.’

‘I do not think she would appreciate visits from Matthew’s other friends, either,’ said Matilde meaningfully. ‘And I would miss his company terribly.’

‘You need not worry,’ said Bartholomew, amused by their flagrant self-interest. ‘I doubt I am any more Philippa’s idea of the perfect husband now than I was five years ago. We are not as easy in each other’s company as we were, and she is often irritable.’

‘She is not a happy woman,’ agreed Matilde. ‘And it is not because she has lost her husband. Her sadness goes deeper than that, and has lasted for more than a few days.’

‘She was not sad at the feast,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by Matilde’s assertions. ‘And that was before Turke died. She is not the woman I remember – who laughed a good deal – but she did not seem despondent. Just older and wiser, like all of us.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Matilde. ‘She is carrying a burden that is hard to bear. I noticed it when Edith introduced us days ago, when Turke was still alive. Perhaps she realised what a mistake she made in declining you in favour of him. I am sure it is something to do with love – or the lack of it. We women can tell these things.’

‘It is probably indigestion,’ said Michael, eliciting a husky chortle from Dunstan. ‘God knows, the woman eats enough!’

Amused by the monk’s unashamed hypocrisy and Matilde’s wild assumptions about a woman she did not know, Bartholomew mixed Dunstan a mild dose of laudanum to induce the sleep he felt the old man needed. Then he sat in mute sympathy when Dunstan’s laughter dissolved into tears. When he began to doze, Bartholomew and Michael left him with Matilde, and slipped away. Michael sniffed hard as they walked along the towpath, and when he spoke his voice was unsteady.

‘I hate winter, Matt. It is a cruel and uncaring season.’

‘Summer can be as bad,’ Bartholomew replied sombrely. ‘Hot-weather agues claim people, too, and so does marsh fever.’

Michael took a deep breath and tilted his head to look at the bright stars overhead. ‘We have so much to do,’ he said eventually. His voice was steadier, and he was evidently finding solace in thinking about his duties, pushing Athelbald and Dunstan from his mind. ‘We have the picture of the knife to show folk in order to identify Norbert’s killer. And I should speak to the town’s other Franciscans about Godric – I am suspicious he has a new knife just after Norbert’s murder.’

‘And there is Harysone’s stabbing. We have to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the Michaelhouse lads did not do it before he complains to the Chancellor. Tynkell will do almost anything to avert a riot, and may order Michaelhouse to pay Harysone to keep him quiet. We cannot afford to compensate the man for his injury – unless we want to spend the rest of the winter living like Ovyng.’

‘You are right. But things are beginning to come together and I can see connections now that were not obvious before. For example, we know Harysone played dice with Norbert and lost a tench to him. Meanwhile, Harysone has also been asking about Dympna, who we know sent missives to Norbert.’

‘Dympna connects Norbert to Turke, too. He said her name as he died. And fish links all three men to each other: Norbert’s tench, Harysone’s book, and Turke’s chosen trade.’

‘I disagree with you about Turke’s dying words, as you know,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But your fishy associations look promising. However, I will not accept that Turke killed Norbert. The culprit is far more likely to be Harysone.’

‘Then there are the Chepe Waits,’ added Bartholomew, not wanting to argue about it. His conclusions had been built solely on the fact that Turke had died near where the murder weapon had been found, and he knew this was a weak foundation for any theory. He also accepted that the visiting fishmonger had no reason to murder Norbert. Although he did not want to admit it to Michael, he had reconsidered the hasty suppositions he had made relating to Turke’s place of death, and was inclined to believe that the monk was correct after all. Turke did not kill Norbert.

‘What about the Waits?’ asked Michael.

‘Quenhyth saw them conversing with Harysone in the King’s Head; they played in Turke’s house and admitted talking to Gosslinge in Cambridge; and they spoke to Norbert. They have connections to the three dead men, too.’

‘We know they were desperately looking for someone to employ them, so they probably spoke to lots of people,’ said Michael, unconvinced as he mulled over the information. ‘I think that particular connection is spurious.’

‘But it is odd that Philippa should not mention she had hired them – and that Giles immediately left when they appeared. And what about Quenhyth? He is a connection, too. He knows the Waits, he hails from near Chepe, and he is the son of a fishmonger.’

‘That must be coincidence,’ determined Michael. ‘I can accept he might kill a Wait, but he, like Turke, has no motive for murdering Norbert. So, we are left with a lot of questions. It seems there are strands linking Norbert, Harysone and the Turke household together, but we cannot be sure what – if anything – they mean. Meanwhile, Stanmore believes – and I concur – that the circumstances of Turke’s death warrant a little probing by the Senior Proctor. You yourself said it is odd that he and his servant should die in quite such quick succession.’

‘But there is nothing on either body to suggest foul play: Turke died because he fell through ice, and Gosslinge seems to have been a victim of the cold weather.’

Michael’s expression was crafty. ‘Both still lie in the church, because there is too much snow to bury one, while the other is awaiting transport to London. Will you look at them again? To make sure there is nothing you missed?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I can look at them until I am blue in the face, but I still will not be able to tell you more than we already know.’

‘You think Turke was looking for the knife that killed Norbert,’ pressed Michael, still unaware of Bartholomew’s recapitulation on that point. ‘We need to continue our search for connections, and the best way to do that is to examine the bodies again. Tonight.’ He raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections. ‘I know you promised Philippa you would not tamper with Turke, but it is obvious she has her own reasons for making such a request, and they may not be innocent.’

‘But it is freezing tonight,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘If I die of an ague brought on by cold, you will have no one to inspect your corpses when it is really necessary.’

‘I think it is really necessary now,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is an excellent time for looking at corpses. It is late – probably long past eight o’clock – and no one will be looking.’

‘You make it sound so underhand,’ grumbled Bartholomew, reluctantly turning towards St Michael’s. ‘Looking at bodies in the dark, when no one can see what we are doing.’

The air was so cold that it hurt Bartholomew’s throat when he inhaled, exacerbated by the thick wood-smoke that clogged the town. The physician was revolted to note that, near the church, the fumes had all but blocked the stars from the sky, and he could taste soot and cinders in his mouth, crunching between his teeth. He unravelled part of his hood turban and used it to cover his mouth. His ears ached from the chill, while his nose was so numb he could not tell whether it was dripping. He longed to be back in Michaelhouse, even if it meant another evening of the Waits. They reached the church, squat and mysterious in the smoke that swirled down the High Street from the great fires in King’s Hall. Michael fumbled in his scrip for the key, but when he inserted it the door swung open of its own accord.

‘That is odd,’ said the monk. ‘I have not spoken to Langelee about the beggars yet, and I doubt he would leave the church unlocked without being prompted.’

Bartholomew inspected the latch. ‘It is not unlocked, Brother. The mechanism has been smashed. And there is a light inside. Someone is in there!’

‘Stay here and make sure he does not escape, while I fetch the beadles,’ instructed Michael. ‘We will not attempt to apprehend this intruder by ourselves. We tried that last summer in Ely, and we allowed a killer to go free and claim more victims. This time, we will do it properly. If he comes out, hide. I do not want to return and find you dead.’

He slipped away into the night, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician huddled into his cloak and tried not to think about his icy feet. The monk had not been gone for more than a few moments before the door opened and two people emerged. Bartholomew cursed softly. What should he do? Hide himself, as Michael had instructed? Or should he try to grab one?

Boldly, but rashly, he opted for the latter. With an earsplitting yell that he hoped would bring Michael rushing back, he launched himself at the shadowy figures. Both were startled into releasing howls of their own, voicing their terror at being assailed from a shadowy graveyard. One began to lay about him with clumsy, panicky punches, none of which met their intended target, while the other dropped to his knees and began a prayer. Bartholomew recognised the voice and promptly abandoned his attempts to seize the fellow’s companion.

‘Kenyngham?’ he asked in confusion. He reeled backwards, as the second man found himself with a stationary target and a fist grazed the physician’s right ear.

‘Got him!’ yelled Suttone victoriously, jumping up and down in glee. He stopped jigging and shrank back in alarm as Bartholomew turned to face him. ‘No! Please do not hit me back! It was an accident. I will give you anything – the key to Michaelhouse’s silver chest, if you would like it.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, rubbing his ear. ‘And you should not have it, either, if you are prepared to give it up so easily. What are you doing here at this time of night?’

‘Matthew! Thank the Lord!’ Kenyngham pulled himself up from his knees and gave a sigh of relief, crossing himself vigorously. ‘I thought you were a robber. What made you throw yourself at us with that unholy screech? I feared it was Turke’s tortured soul, come to haunt us for not saying more masses.’

‘I assumed you were burglars,’ said Bartholomew lamely. Since the scuffle, the door had swung open, illuminating them with faint candlelight from inside. It seemed impossible that he could mistake Kenyngham and Suttone, with their wide-sleeved habits and pointed cowls, for thieves. He could only plead that it had been very dark. ‘The latch has been smashed.’

‘I noticed that when we arrived,’ said Kenyngham, sounding careless of the fact that it meant someone had forced an illicit entry. ‘But you were the one who asked us to pray for Turke, so I am surprised that you should attack us for being here.’

‘I am sorry, Father,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I hope I did not alarm you too much.’

‘You did, actually,’ said Suttone coolly. ‘I do not like being screamed at by spectres that launch themselves from graveyards.’ He turned to Kenyngham with accusing eyes. ‘You did not mention the lock was broken. I assumed you used your key to enter.’

‘I did not want earthly concerns to distract you from your meditations,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I planned to ask Langelee to mend it tomorrow.’

‘But this means that the pair who are in there now are intruders,’ said Suttone in a hushed, appalled whisper.

‘I suppose so,’ acknowledged Kenyngham, sounding as though he did not much care. ‘They could also be folk who are weary of fiddling with our awkward latch. It seems to be much worse these days, and I am often obliged to use the south door when I want to leave.’

‘How often?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the day when Michael had discovered the south door open and had immediately drawn the conclusion that Harysone had done it.

‘Once or twice a week,’ came the alarming reply. ‘Why? Have I done something wrong? I do not–’

‘The people inside right now must have forced the lock,’ said Suttone, rudely cutting across his words. His voice grew unsteady, as the implications slowly sank in. ‘I wondered why they seemed nervous until we knelt and started to pray. They imagined they had been caught red-handed, and were anticipating a fight.’ He swallowed hard and leaned against the door, unnerved by his narrow escape.

‘Where are they now?’ demanded Bartholomew, pushing past him. He advanced cautiously, not wanting to barge in and have his brains dashed out with one of the heavy pewter candlesticks from the altar. ‘Who are they? And what are they doing?’

‘There are two of them,’ said Kenyngham helpfully, following him into the nave. ‘They are cloaked and hooded, so we did not see their faces – and they were in the Stanton Chapel, anyway. They were there the whole time we were saying our prayers, moving about and muttering. I assumed they were troubled souls, seeking the peace only a church can offer.’

‘Or the silver only a church can offer,’ muttered Suttone, who appreciated that folk entered churches for reasons other than to pray, even if Kenyngham did not.

‘Are you sure they are still here?’ asked Bartholomew, inching down the nave, keeping well away from pillars that might conceal an attacker. ‘They did not leave through the south door, as you have just confessed to doing?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Kenyngham. ‘They were in the Stanton Chapel when Suttone and I completed our devotions and left.’

Heart thumping, Bartholomew headed towards the chapel. He held one of the knives he used for surgery, and was aware that his hand was sweating, despite the chill, so the weapon felt slippery in his grasp. Kenyngham began to remonstrate with him for drawing a dagger in a church, but the physician silenced him with an urgent order to remain behind a column, out of harm’s way. The cowardly Suttone needed no such advice, and had chosen to remain outside while Bartholomew hunted the interlopers.

The physician reached the chapel and explored it carefully. But whoever had been there, ‘moving about and muttering’, had gone. Only Athelbald and Turke were there, shrouded and silent in their coffins.

Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, Bartholomew went to the south aisle, where the body of Gosslinge lay – as a mere servant and a stranger to the town, Gosslinge did not warrant use of the Stanton Chapel, like the wealthy Turke or members of the Michaelhouse choir. The south door had been unbarred and opened, and Bartholomew saw that the two intruders had slipped away quietly into the night.

Michael rounded up his beadles and ordered them to make a search for the two people who had been in the church, but he held no real hope of finding them. It was not difficult to remain undetected at night in a place like Cambridge, where there were plenty of cemeteries in which to hide, and taverns and alleyways into which to duck. Briefly, the monk entertained a notion that the snow might help, and that the intruders might have left footprints that could be followed, but the ground was frozen so hard it was barely possible to make an imprint by stamping. Normal walking made no kind of mark at all.

‘Damn Suttone!’ muttered Michael, watching Meadowman escort the two friars back to Michaelhouse. ‘I expect eccentric, gullible behaviour from Kenyngham, but if Suttone had been more observant, we might have had this pair by now. What were they doing, do you think?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing in the Stanton Chapel that could interest them, so I suspect they were disturbed when Kenyngham and Suttone arrived and hid there.’

‘Then they heard you scuffling with Kenyngham in the churchyard, and realised they had better escape while they could.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping softly on his bristles. ‘However, the fact that they were prepared to linger suggests they had not finished what they were doing when Kenyngham came, but that it was sufficiently important to warrant them waiting for him to leave.’

‘I recommend you post a guard and return in the morning, when you will be able to see. We should not look at the bodies of Turke and Gosslinge now, because we may miss or destroy clues about these intruders that will be obvious in daylight.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘Of course, the presence of these burglars may have nothing to do with our investigation. They may just be opportunistic thieves.’

‘I disagree. It is common knowledge that St Michael’s does not leave its silver lying around. Consequently, there is little for anyone to do here, except stand and pray. However, we are well endowed with corpses at the moment, and it seems to me that the intruders were here in connection with them. There can be no other reason.’

‘In that case, we shall return at dawn tomorrow and search every nook and cranny of this building until we find the clues we need to sort out this mess. No shadowy figures who lurk in cold churches shall gain the better of me!’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, not liking the sound of the ‘we’ who would conduct the exhaustive survey the following day.

‘So, which of the corpses do you think warranted this pair spending all evening here?’ asked Michael. ‘Turke or Gosslinge?’

‘I have no idea. And I cannot imagine who the intruders were, either – unless you think Philippa and Giles have a penchant for this kind of thing.’

‘Or Ailred and Godric,’ suggested Michael. ‘Or Harysone and an accomplice. But speculating will do us no good. Let us do as you suggest and come back tomorrow – at first light.’


It was too dark to explore the church at prime, so Michael declared they should wait until after breakfast. Meadowman was still on duty when they returned, and reported that no one had attempted to enter the church. Based on the fact that he believed the intruders were desperate to get what they wanted, Michael had ‘mended’ the lock in a way that made it easily re-breakable, and Meadowman had been told to remain hidden, so that he could catch anyone who arrived illicitly. But Michael’s precautions came to nothing, and a weary, bored Meadowman had not heard a suspicious sound all night.

Although Michaelhouse’s scholars had completed their devotions and eaten breakfast, the friars of Ovyng still had to say their morning prayers. Like the other hostels that paid Michaelhouse a fee to use the Collegiate church on a regular basis, Ovyng had been allocated specific hours, to ensure the various institutions did not impinge on each other. That week it was Ovyng’s turn to pray at eight o’clock, and Ailred and his students began to file into the church as Bartholomew and Michael were finishing their examination of the chancel.

‘Looking for coins between the flagstones, Brother?’ asked Ailred amiably, not seeming at all surprised to see the fat Benedictine on his hands and knees. ‘You may be fortunate. I often find farthings by doing just that, and such explorations are frequently worthwhile.’

‘I do not suppose you came here last night, did you?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘To look for pennies in the church, after everyone else had gone home?’

Ailred was astonished by the suggestion. ‘I would not do it in the dark; I would not be able to see. Once you left us, I barred our doors and allowed us the luxury of an extra log on the fire. It was a bitter evening, and no one in his right mind would have ventured out unless he had no choice.’

‘What would give him “no choice”?’ asked Michael, detecting a caveat in Ailred’s denials.

Ailred was becoming impatient, although whether it was because he genuinely did not understand why Michael was questioning him, or because he had something to hide, Bartholomew could not decide. ‘A number of things,’ the friar snapped. ‘Bartholomew has no choice when he is summoned by a patient; I have no choice when there are sacred offices that need to be recited.’

‘But not last night?’ asked Michael.

‘Not last night,’ replied Ailred firmly. ‘We had our evening meal at six o’clock, which was fish stew, then we sat around the fire playing merels – the board game, where you have nine holes and must use wit and cunning to prevent your neighbour’s pieces from occupying them. Since it is the Twelve Days, and given that my previous policy of austerity seemed to produce in my students a desire to visit taverns, I decided I should relent and allow them a little fun.’

‘Merels!’ said Michael scathingly. ‘That must have made for a thrill-filled evening.’

‘It was most entertaining,’ said Ailred, evidently unaware of Michael’s sarcasm. ‘We all enjoyed it very much, and tonight we shall play backgammon. I have borrowed a board and game pieces from Robin of Grantchester for the occasion. But why do you ask about our whereabouts? Have you learned something new about the death of Norbert?’

‘Two people visited St Michael’s last night, and we do not know why. It was a passing thought that you might have been one of them, perhaps with a student. We do not know what these folk were doing, so we are not accusing anyone of anything untoward.’

‘Good,’ said Ailred firmly. ‘Because it was not me – or any of us, for that matter. You can ask my students, and they will all tell you the same thing: we were at home last night. But now you must excuse me: I have a mass to celebrate.’

He turned abruptly, and began to lay out the vessels he would need for his devotions. Meanwhile, Godric and his students waited patiently some distance down the chancel, whispering in low voices as they stood with their hands tucked inside their sleeves and their cowls thrown back to reveal their tonsures. Michael caught Godric’s eye, and beckoned him over, confident both that Ailred was too absorbed in his preparations to notice what the monk was doing and that the student had not overheard the exchange with his principal.

‘What transpired at Ovyng last night?’ said Michael. ‘What did you do? Where did you go?’

‘We played merels,’ replied Godric heavily. It was evident that while Ailred considered the board game a risqué form of enjoyment, Godric did not share his enthusiasm. ‘I have not played merels since I was a child, and I confess it is not what I had in mind when I pressed Father Ailred to allow us a little levity during the Christmas season. Still, merels will be better than backgammon, which is what he has planned for tonight.’

‘When did you start these games? Immediately after your meal?’

‘Later. Ailred had some errands to run, and I wanted to go the Market Square, to see whether the traders would sell me anything cheaply, since the day was over.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, his eyes gleaming. ‘And what time did you all return?’

‘I do not know. Ailred buys cheap hour candles, and they burn at variable rates, so we never really know what the time is. But I think we barred the door, with all inside, by perhaps half-past eight or a little later.’

‘Thank you, Godric,’ said Michael, grinning wolfishly. ‘However, this is not what Ailred told me, so we had better keep this discussion between you and me, eh?’

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Godric in alarm, horrified by the notion that he might have done something wrong. He shot an agitated look at his principal, but Ailred had not yet noticed that the monk had taken him at his word and was indeed asking the scholars to confirm his story.

‘He told me you all stayed in,’ said Michael. ‘Return to your prayers, lad, before Ailred sees that you have gone.’

Godric hurried back to his friends, but his mind was no longer on his devotions. He seemed pale in the dim light, and nervous fingers twisted one of his sleeves. He was late with his responses, and his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully, thinking he seemed more dismayed than he should have been by Michael’s mention of discrepancies between his and his principal’s stories. Did he know that Ailred or one of the other students had been doing something he should not have been, and was aware that he had just ruined what could have been a perfectly sound alibi? Or was he afraid for himself, realising that the differences in stories revealed him to be a liar?

Ailred completed his preparations, then turned to the waiting scholars. ‘Before we start, Brother Michael would like to ask about our activities last night. He wants to know what we did after we ate our fish and immediately turned to our games of merels.’

‘Nicely put,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘No leading statements here.’

‘Nothing,’ came a quiet chorus of voices.

‘Did any of you go out after the meal?’ asked Michael.

Godric stared ahead and did not answer, and Bartholomew saw his hands were clenched so hard that his knuckles were white. No such agonies afflicted the other friars. They glanced at each other as though they were mystified, and shook their heads to deny that they had left Ovyng.

‘And after the merels?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows.

‘We retired to bed,’ said Godric, meeting his eyes. The others chorused their agreement, and Bartholomew supposed they were telling the truth about that, at least. However, according to Godric’s initial statement, the games could have started relatively late – perhaps even after the escape of the two intruders from the church. It was entirely possible that they had fled immediately to Ovyng and settled down to play merels until it was time to sleep.

‘And what about the interval between the meal and the games?’ pressed Michael, to be sure of his facts.

There was a brief pause as the friars exchanged more uncertain glances, and then someone seemed to recall that Ailred had already told them the answer he wanted them to give. ‘There was no interval,’ he said, and everyone obligingly agreed, although there were a few downcast eyes and shuffling feet: some of the friars were uncomfortable about lying in a church. Godric was one of them; he gazed at the floor with his cheeks burning. Ailred, however, was smiling his victory at Michael, and did not notice his colleagues’ discomfort.

‘Interesting,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew as they went to continue their search of the north aisle. ‘I think Godric is telling the truth and Ailred is lying. Now, why would Ailred lie, do you think? I did not seriously imagine last night’s intruders would be from Ovyng, because I cannot imagine why they would feel a need to enter by force when they own a key, but something odd is going on. Something very odd indeed.’

When their devotions were completed, the Franciscans lined up to walk back to Ovyng, leaving the church deserted and silent again. Bartholomew and Michael turned their attention to the nave and then the Stanton Chapel. The nave was basically bare, and there was not so much as a leaf on the flagstones, since it had been swept and cleaned for the Christmas season. There was a bench against the back wall, set there for the old or the infirm who were unable to stand, but there was nothing else except the line of smelly albs and a chest so ancient and fragile that only water jugs for flowers were kept in it.

The Stanton Chapel was much the same. There was the founder’s elaborate tomb, which had been decorated with holly boughs and a sprig of ivy, and on a windowsill stood a tiny chest containing pebbles that were supposed to have come from Jerusalem – although Bartholomew thought they were identical to ones in the river near the Great Bridge. He rummaged through the box, wondering whether something might have been stored among the stones, but found nothing there.

‘This is hopeless, Brother. What did you think you might find? Documents? A knife with a broken blade? What?’

‘It was your idea to return this morning and search, not mine,’ Michael pointed out testily. ‘And I have no idea what I expected to find. All I know is that it must have been fairly important to warrant that pair waiting until Kenyngham finished his prayers. You know how long-winded he can be while he is about his devotions.’

‘But the intruders would not necessarily know that. Perhaps they imagined it would be a matter of a few moments, and found themselves waiting a good deal longer than they anticipated.’ Bartholomew sighed. ‘I have finished, Brother. There is nothing here and nowhere left to look.’

‘There is one thing we have not examined,’ said Michael, his eyes straying to the mortal remains that inhabited the chapel.

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think they wanted something from Turke’s body?’

Michael raised his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Why not? We were going to have another look at it last night, so perhaps they were, too. Maybe there is something hidden on it, which you missed when you gave Turke that very cursory examination the day he died.’

Bartholomew lifted the sheet that covered the fishmonger and pointed. ‘He has been washed and dressed in a shroud. We will find nothing here.’

‘Look anyway,’ instructed Michael.

Hoping Philippa would not choose that moment to pay her respects to her husband, Bartholomew began a careful examination of Turke. The corpse’s skin was icy to the touch, and in places it felt hard, where it was partially frozen. There were ancient scars on the calves, although Bartholomew could not begin to imagine what had caused them – short of riding a horse through knife-brandishing foot-soldiers. He found cuts on the hands and a mark on Turke’s face that had probably occurred when he had fallen through the ice and attempted to claw his way clear. Bartholomew completed his examination, replaced the sheet and shroud, and gave Michael a helpless shrug.

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘Turke’s corpse was my last hope. I thought that someone might have left something with it – a letter or some message – that last night’s intruders wanted to collect, but I see I was mistaken.’

‘I suppose there is always Gosslinge’s body,’ suggested Bartholomew, unable to think of anything else. ‘I cannot see why anyone would leave a message with him, but it may be worth looking. But then I am leaving this freezing church. There is nothing here, and I think we should go elsewhere for clues – like trying to find out what Ailred was up to last night, or interviewing Harysone again.’

Gosslinge was in the south aisle, tucked out of sight behind a pile of broken benches. Bartholomew noticed that candles had been placed at his head and feet, although these had already burned away, leaving nothing but a saucer of cream-coloured wax and a mess on the floor. A piece of cloth had been tucked around him, but he was still dressed in the mean clothes he had worn when they had first discovered his body. Someone had pressed a flower into his hands. It was a Christmas rose – Edith’s favourite – and Bartholomew suspected that the small kindnesses to his body were her work.

It was gloomy in the aisle, almost as dark as it had been when Bartholomew had first examined Gosslinge, so he opened the south door to allow the daylight to flood in. It made a huge difference. He noticed for the first time that Gosslinge’s nose and mouth had a blue tinge, and that his lips looked bruised. They were small things, but they made Bartholomew’s stomach feel as though it had been punched. He rubbed a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

‘Lord help us, Brother!’ he muttered. ‘I think I have made a terrible mistake.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘What is wrong with you? You look as though you have seen a ghost. Have you found what that pair were looking for?’

‘Something more important than that. Now I can see Gosslinge in good light, I think his death was not from natural causes, as I told you days ago.’

‘You mean he was murdered?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘But you said that he had died of the cold.’

‘I said the cold had probably killed him. But now I see signs to suggest that was not the case.’

‘God’s teeth, Matt!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified. ‘We could have been looking for his killer days ago!’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew miserably. ‘You do not need to tell me that.’

Michael sighed irritably. ‘You had better tell me what you think now, then. Is it his swollen lips that made you change your mind? Or the fact that one of his fingernails is ripped?’

‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew weakly. He lifted the stiff limb and saw that Michael was right. Gosslinge had possessed long, yellowish nails, and one of these had ripped jaggedly near the top of one finger. It was only a broken nail, not an actual injury, but no living person would have left it sticking at right angles to his finger; he would have pulled it off completely. It indicated the damage had probably occurred at about the time of Gosslinge’s death, and that he had been involved in something physical.

Bartholomew gazed at Gosslinge in disbelief. He knew he had not conducted a thorough examination of the body when they had first discovered it; the church had been too dark and he had been tired from watching over Dunstan the two previous nights. He had also been cold, and recalled that his numb fingers and feet had felt like lumps of wood. But these were no excuse. He saw now that he should have moved the corpse out of the church and examined it in the cemetery, where he would have been able to see. He also knew he should have pushed his physical discomfort to the back of his mind, and done his duty properly. He felt sick with self-recrimination.

‘Are you going to examine him now?’ asked Michael, growing tired of waiting while the physician did nothing but stare. ‘Or are you hoping he will sit up and tell you what happened?’

Bartholomew forced himself to move. He removed the poor clothes that covered Gosslinge, cutting them with his knife, since there seemed to be no next of kin who would claim them. Then he assessed every part of the body, beginning with the feet and working up. He palpated to test for broken bones, and looked at the corpse from every possible angle, to ensure he missed no abrasions. Carefully, he ran his fingers through the hair, to see whether he could detect a blow to the head, and finally, he spent a long time exploring Gosslinge’s neck.

‘Now you are going too far the other way,’ complained Michael, stamping his feet in an attempt to keep warm. ‘You missed evidence last time, so you are compensating by being overly fussy now. What can you tell me? How did he die?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I doubt it was from natural causes – because of the swelling around his mouth and that chipped tooth. And there is the fingernail. Everything points to some kind of suffocation – smothering, perhaps – but I cannot pinpoint it.’

‘Suffocation will do,’ said Michael. ‘How do you know he did not do it himself?’

‘It is not easy to suffocate yourself. You lose consciousness before you die, and whatever you are pressing against your face falls away. And I cannot see him choking himself while wrapped in the albs, anyway. I think the lack of air would have driven him away from them.’

‘Not if he intended to die, and he hid so his body would not be discovered before he was dead. You said yourself that you had no idea how long he had been there.’

‘We know he disappeared shortly after arriving in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Turke told us at the Christmas Day feast that he had been missing for five days.’

‘That means he disappeared on the twentieth of December,’ said Michael. ‘A Tuesday, and – coincidentally – the day Norbert went missing. I wonder whether that is significant. But what was Gosslinge doing to warrant ending up smothered in St Michael’s mouldy robes? Does this mean his corpse stood hidden in here for two whole days before we happened to come across him?’

‘It looks that way, Brother.’

‘You do not think these marks – I hesitate to call them injuries, since they are so minor – were caused by Gosslinge himself in his death throes?’

‘There is no way to tell, but I would imagine not. I think it more likely someone harmed him – but I could be wrong.’

‘Perhaps he was lonely,’ suggested Michael, reluctant to abandon the suicide theory. ‘Perhaps he did not want to go to Walsingham. Perhaps Turke drove him to take his own life. Gosslinge knew no one else here, so if anyone drove him to suicide, it must have been his master.’

‘Or Giles or Philippa,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But do not forget he knew the Waits. Quenhyth saw them with Gosslinge, and so did Harysone. And the Waits said Gosslinge ate a meal with Harysone – something Harysone admitted, too.’

‘I do not see why the Waits should drive him to take his own life – unless they threatened to inflict their juggling on him. But Harysone is another matter. I knew he was up to something when we saw him trying to get into the church, just a short time before we discovered Gosslinge’s corpse.’ Michael’s eyes gleamed with triumph, and Bartholomew saw the monk thought he had a workable theory.

‘No one in the Turke household mentioned any malaise or unhappiness on Gosslinge’s part,’ the physician said, still trying to think of reasons why Gosslinge might have killed himself. Some instinct told him that Gosslinge had not intended to die and, because of his earlier negligence, he felt obliged to give the matter his best attention now. He sighed despondently as he considered the scant evidence. ‘Suicide makes no sense. If Gosslinge took his own life, why was he not wearing his livery? And how did he end up among the albs?’

Although he was too embarrassed to admit it to Michael, Bartholomew was painfully aware that he had not taken the time to assess the nature of the folds that had held Gosslinge in the rotten robes. He knew now that he should have unravelled them slowly, so that he could have seen whether Gosslinge had tied them himself or whether someone else had done it for him. He had been careless and irresponsible, and that knowledge would haunt him for a very long time.

Michael sighed. ‘It would help, of course, if we knew for certain whether this was a suicide or murder. Are you sure there is nothing lodged in his mouth that may tell us one way or the other?’

Bartholomew was sure, but his confidence had suffered a serious blow, so he looked again. There was nothing. He tipped Gosslinge’s head back, and peered down the corpse’s throat for so long that Michael began to mutter in exasperation. Eventually, he rummaged in his medical bag and produced a knife, which he placed against Gosslinge’s wind-pipe.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Michael in alarm. He glanced around in agitation. ‘Put that thing away, man! You cannot start carving up Christian men as though they were slabs of meat on a butcher’s stall! I know you enjoy indulging in surgery now and again, but you cannot do it here, and you cannot do it on him. Someone will be sure to notice.’

‘But I want to see whether there is anything stuck in his throat,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘Then use tweezers, and go to his throat via his mouth. Do not start hacking him about in places where it will show. God’s teeth, Matt! You should not need me to tell you this.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew complied, declining to point out that if Michael wanted answers to his questions, then he should not be squeamish about the ways in which those answers were provided. He found a fairly long pair of forceps and inserted them into Gosslinge’s mouth, pushing them as far to the back of the throat as he could.

‘There is something here,’ he exclaimed, leaning to one side to gain a better purchase on the object that was lodged just beyond his reach. He pressed harder, hoping Michael did not hear the snap as Gosslinge lost another of his front teeth.

‘I sincerely hope you did not submit my husband to this kind of treatment,’ came a cold voice from behind them.

Загрузка...