A Killer in Winter (36 page)

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

‘When? Tonight?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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