Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I know,’ said Tulyet tiredly. ‘But I will help you in any way I can, and so will Ailred and the Ovyng students. I take it I am right to promise this, Father?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ailred with a sickly, anxious smile. ‘You can question them now, if you like, Brother. They are inside, waiting for lessons to begin.’

  Bartholomew glimpsed a shadow flicker inside the door when the students were mentioned, and saw they were still eavesdropping on the discussion. He wondered whether Norbert’s killer was among them.

  ‘Who first saw the dogs uncovering the body?’ asked Michael, who fully intended to interview Ailred’s students, but in his own time.

  ‘My assistant, Godric,’ replied Ailred. ‘We were returning from celebrating a mass when he spotted the dogs digging. When he went to drive them away, he saw they had unearthed a hand. He fetched a spade and we all watched while he completed what the mongrels had begun.’

  ‘Did you observe any particular reactions among your charges?’ asked Michael, without much hope. ‘Any guilty glances or unease?’

  ‘We were excavating a corpse, Brother,’ replied Ailred acidly. ‘Of course there was a degree of unease. We did not know whom we were about to discover. However, I can tell you for certain that I saw no “guilty glances”. We were shocked, but none of us will prove to be your culprit.’

  Michael watched while Bartholomew carefully pared away the rest of the snow that covered Norbert, hoping that the killer might have abandoned the weapon he had used, and that it might lead them to its owner. However, the culprit had done no such thing, and the physician had nothing to show for his painstaking excavation. The student had died face down, probably after a violent attack from behind. There was nothing to suggest he had known his assailant, but nothing to suggest he had not. The stab wound was wide and deep, indicating that it had been caused by a fairly large blade, but not one of abnormal size that would be easily identifiable.

  Bartholomew sat on his heels and tucked his frozen hands under his arms in a vain attempt to warm them. He thought about the fear the young man must have felt, as he staggered towards the hostel already fatally wounded, and wondered why he had not shouted for help. The thought jarred something buried deep in his memory.

  ‘You say he failed to come home on Tuesday night?’ he asked. Ailred nodded.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Nothing, but I was summoned to tend Dunstan the riverman then. He has an affliction of the lungs that produces an excess of phlegm, and—’

  ‘We know,’ interrupted Michael, forestalling what might prove to be a detailed description of some particularly unpleasant symptoms. ‘You have been dragged from your bed for Dunstan several times since the weather turned sour. Did you see Norbert on Tuesday night?’

  ‘I heard something: a screech. Then a man jumped out of the shadows and knocked me over. I told you about it the next day.’

  ‘You did,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘But if you heard this scream, and an instant later someone knocked you head over heels, it was not the killer you encountered: he was murdering Norbert at that precise moment.’

  ‘And there is no reason to assume the killer had an accomplice,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘At least, not one that would be lurking so far away. It was just a thought; I was wrong.’

  ‘It may be important,’ said Tulyet, reluctant to abandon what might be a clue. ‘Perhaps Norbert called for help, and you were the only one who heard him. Was it very late?’

  ‘Past midnight,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But the sound I heard may have been from an animal, not a person.’

  ‘There is no reason to assume it was not Norbert,’ pressed Tulyet doggedly. ‘I know he left the King’s Head at midnight on Tuesday, because the landlord hunted me down yesterday and insisted I pay the debts he had incurred. It must have been him you heard, and he was murdered as he walked home. Damn! Why did he have to die like this?’

  Bartholomew was surprised to see the glitter of tears in Tulyet’s blue eyes before he turned away to look towards the High Street – not surprised that Tulyet should show compassion, but that a man like Norbert should warrant it.

  ‘Even if I had gone to his aid I could not have saved him from wounds like this,’ he said gently. ‘The man who pushed me was probably a beggar looking for somewhere to sleep, who had nothing to do with Norbert’s murder.’ He winced as he rubbed his frozen hands together. ‘But I have done all I can here. The killer has left us no clues.’

  Ailred dispatched a student to fetch a bier and offered to have Norbert delivered to Tulyet’s house. Tulyet nodded his thanks, looked one last time at the place where his cousin had died, and then walked away with Michael and Bartholomew on either side of him.

  ‘My father may feel obliged to ask Sheriff Morice to look into the matter, since Norbert was our kinsman – the nephew of a prominent town merchant,’ he said as they walked. ‘I shall do my best to dissuade him, but do not be surprised if you find a secular investigation in progress, as well as your own.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Michael. ‘But I am not worried by anything Morice might do. He is no Dick Tulyet.’

  Tulyet smiled wanly. ‘I trust you to find the truth, Brother. You will not fail me.’

  ‘Lord, Matt!’ said Michael uneasily, as Tulyet went to break the news of Norbert’s death to his father. ‘I shall do my best to oblige him, but Norbert had many enemies. I am not sure Dick’s confidence in me is warranted this time.’

  Bartholomew expected Michael to begin making enquiries immediately into Norbert’s death, but the monk had different priorities. The physician was surprised to find himself being manoeuvred in the direction of St Michael’s Church, away from Ovyng Hostel and the scholars who were anticipating being interviewed about their classmate’s murder.

  ‘He will not be there now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, astonished to think that Michael should even begin to imagine that Harysone had spent half the morning in that frigid little building. ‘There is not much to do inside, so he will have looked around and left.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Michael firmly. ‘There was real purpose in his movements as he fiddled with the lock. He was determined to enter, and I conclude that there was some specific task he wanted to perform. He will still be there and we shall catch him in the act.’

  ‘You sound deranged,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘You follow him all over the town because you do not like the look of him, and now you assign him some dark and sinister purpose for entering a church. He may have gone inside to pray. People do, you know.’

  ‘Not him,’ said Michael with conviction. ‘He is not the type for prayers.’

  ‘Enough, Brother!’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘I have been up much of the last two nights with Dunstan, and I am too tired for this. It is also freezing out here. I have humoured you long enough today: it is time to go home.’

  ‘Just a few more moments,’ said Michael, not to be diverted from his purpose just because his companion was weary and cold. He smiled when a familiar figure emerged from the north porch as they approached. It was Beadle Meadowman, huddled deep inside his cloak. ‘I left a guard here when we went to see Norbert, to make sure Harysone did not escape.’

  ‘He has not come out,’ said Meadowman, flapping his arms vigorously in a futile attempt to drive the chill from his body. His usual good temper was gone, and he clearly did not appreciate being ordered to lurk in north-facing porches when there was a bitter wind blowing. ‘But then, I did not see him enter, either.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael peevishly. ‘You must have done. We all saw him battling with the latch.’

  ‘I took my eyes off him for a moment – just a moment – but when I looked again, he had gone,’ said Meadowman. He was not at all intimidated by Michael’s irritation, and was not going to apologise for his lapse, either. He was obviously as frustrated and bemused by Michael’s obsession with Harysone as wa
s Bartholomew, and had had enough of orders to stalk the man when there were better and more productive ways to pass a morning. He gave a careless shrug. ‘So, maybe he entered, and maybe he did not.’

  ‘Did you look inside?’ asked Michael testily. ‘To see whether he was there?’

  Meadowman pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘You told me to watch the door. You did not say I should search for him.’

  Bartholomew grinned at Michael’s exasperation, while Meadowman looked defiant. Michael glowered at both of them, then turned to the church.

  The latch on the porch of St Michael’s was notorious for being temperamental. Michaelhouse scholars, who came at least once a day for prayers, were used to its peculiarities, and most were able to open it with a minimum of jiggling. The scholars of Ovyng, Garrett, St Catherine’s and Physwick hostels, who paid Michaelhouse a fee to use the building on a regular basis, were also familiar with it. But to anyone unaware of its idiosyncratic nature, the latch presented a formidable barrier, and more than one would-be visitor had been thwarted by it in the past. Michael gave it one or two expert shakes, and the door sprung open.

  The two scholars walked through the timber porch and entered the short nave, while Meadowman seized the opportunity to slip away to his other duties. It was even colder inside the church than it was out, which was probably the real reason why the beadle had declined to search it for Harysone. The air was still and damp, and ice-glazed puddles showed where water had leaked through the roof during the last sleety downpour and had collected in depressions on the floor. Most of the window shutters were open, but the glass was thick and opaque, the building shadowy, and the winter day dull and grey, so it was difficult to see anything at all.

  The church smelled of cheap incense and damp plaster, with an underlying musty odour emanating from an array of ancient vestments that were hanging on a row of hooks near the porch. Michaelhouse’s scholars believed that these grimy robes, which were liberally spotted with mould, should be either cleaned or thrown away, but the Master always demurred, claiming that they might ‘come in useful one day’. Bartholomew supposed they would remain festering on their rusty hooks until they turned to dust, since he could not imagine anyone willingly donning the things when there were newer and less odorous ones available.

  Harysone was not in the nave, so Bartholomew and Michael walked towards the chancel, their feet on the flagstones making the only sound. The church comprised the nave and chancel, two aisles and two chapels. The south chapel was usually called the Stanton Chapel, named for Michaelhouse’s founder who was buried there. It was one of the finest examples of modern architecture in Cambridge, but the chancel was the building’s crowning glory. It was larger than the nave, and boasted simple, but elegant, tracery in its arched windows, while its walls were painted with scenes from the Bible in brilliant reds, blues, yellows and greens. When the sun shone, light pooled in delicate patterns on the creamy-white of the floor, although that day the whole building was gloomy, and no lights pooled anywhere.

  Bartholomew noticed that one of the candles on the high altar had wilted, and that wax was dripping on the floor. He went to straighten it and scrape away the mess with a knife, while Michael gazed around in agitation.

  ‘Harysone is not here!’ he muttered angrily.

  Bartholomew shrugged as he worked. ‘We were at least an hour – probably longer – with Norbert. I am not surprised that your quarry has left.’

  Michael was disgusted. ‘Now we shall never know what he was doing.’

  ‘Meadowman said he may not have come in at all. Perhaps he gave up on the latch and went away. Or perhaps he exited through the south door.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ called Michael testily, prowling around the lovely Stanton Chapel, as though anticipating that Harysone might be hiding behind the founder’s tomb.

  ‘Because the latch jammed and he found himself unable to leave through the north one?’ suggested Bartholomew, giving the pewter candle-holder a quick polish on his sleeve.

  ‘You are right!’ exclaimed Michael triumphantly, when he went to inspect the exit in the south aisle. It was larger than the north door, but using the smaller entrance tended to keep the building warmer. The south aisle was occasionally employed as a mortuary chapel for parishioners, but most of the time it stood empty and its door was permanently barred. ‘Someone has been out this way.’

  The door had been left ajar, and the monk opened it fully to peer out, before shutting it again. A stout plank of wood prevented anyone from entering from the outside, and he studied it thoughtfully before replacing it in its two metal clasps. Bartholomew pointed out that anyone might have opened it, and that its use did not necessarily imply wrongdoing on Harysone’s part. Michael listened patiently, but did not agree. Seeing neither was going to accept the other’s point of view, they abandoned the discussion and headed to the north door. As Bartholomew jiggled the latch, the monk forgot his tirade against Harysone, wrinkling his nose and indicating the row of robes that hung nearby.

  ‘The stench of those things is growing stronger by the day. They are too rotten ever to wear again, and I cannot imagine why Master Langelee does not throw them away.’

  ‘Langelee never throws anything away if he thinks it may be useful. Michaelhouse is not wealthy, and he is just being prudent, I suppose. Shoes.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Michael, confused.

  ‘Shoes,’ repeated Bartholomew, pointing at the robes. ‘I think someone is hiding from you.’

  Michael followed the line of the physician’s outstretched finger and his lips compressed in grim satisfaction. Poking from under the untidy, bulky folds of material was a pair of scruffy leather shoes. Someone had evidently slipped in among the albs and chasubles in the hope that he would be hidden – as he would have been, had he not left his feet in full view. Michael marched across to the line of hooks, and ripped the gowns aside.

  The face that looked back at him was not Harysone’s. Nor was it the face of any living man. It was a corpse, with a pallid blue tinge about its mouth and lips, and unseeing eyes that were half open, half closed.

  Michael leapt back with a yell of alarm, bouncing into Bartholomew and almost knocking the physician from his feet. The sound was loud in the otherwise silent church, and it startled some pigeons that had been roosting in the rafters. They flapped in agitation, showering the floor below with dried droppings and floating feathers.

  It was odd to see a corpse standing as though it were alive, and even Bartholomew – no stranger to sudden and unusual death, thanks to his association with the University’s Senior Proctor – found it disconcerting. Carefully, he pushed a fold of cloth away, and saw that several of the robes were wrapped around the man’s arms and upper body, holding it upright. The hood of an alb lay in a tangled chain across the corpse’s chin so that its head was raised, as though looking forward.

  ‘Who is it?’ demanded Michael, as if Bartholomew should know.

  ‘He looks like a beggar,’ said Bartholomew, pointing at the man’s threadbare clothes. ‘He must have come here to escape from the cold.’

  ‘He should have chosen another church, then,’ remarked Michael, placing a flabby white hand across his chest to indicate that the presence of a corpse among the decaying ceremonial robes had given him a serious shock. ‘Everyone knows St Michael’s is the chilliest building in Christendom. Is that what killed him? Cold? Not Harysone?’

  ‘Harysone?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘Why should he kill a beggar?’

  ‘To prevent him from revealing Harysone’s intention to steal from our church. You saw for yourself that one of the candles had been tampered with.’

  ‘Harysone is well-dressed and has been spending money on inks and parchment in the Market Square,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘If he is a thief – and there is nothing to suggest that he is, other than an irrational suspicion on your part – he would not be interested in our paltry pewter. He would
go to St Mary the Great and help himself to gold crosses and silver patens.’

  ‘Those are guarded,’ countered Michael. ‘One of my beadles is always on duty there, and it would be impossible to steal anything.’

  Bartholomew made a dismissive gesture. ‘You are quibbling, Brother. My point is that a well-heeled thief would not choose St Michael’s when other places offer better potential. And you certainly cannot accuse Harysone of killing this man. He might have been here for hours before Harysone arrived – assuming Harysone entered at all, that is.’

  ‘Then you have some work to do,’ said Michael, indicating the body with a peremptory wave of his hand. ‘This fellow died on University property, and his death must be investigated by me.’

  ‘You will have to find someone else to help,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘As I told you, I was up most of the last two nights with Dunstan, and I have already examined one corpse for you today.’

  ‘This cannot wait,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I need to know how this man died and whether someone – such as Harysone – gave him a helping hand to Paradise. You would not want a killer to evade justice just because you are chilly and had an interrupted night of sleep, would you?’

  With a long-suffering sigh, Bartholomew moved the robes away from the slight figure that nestled inside them. It would have been simple for the beggar to escape the enveloping folds had he wanted to do so, and Bartholomew supposed that he had wrapped them around himself in an attempt to be invisible and keep warm at the same time. It was a clever ploy, and would probably have ensured that he would not be evicted to spend the day – or night – outside.

  Bartholomew shivered and wondered whether he should experiment to see whether the particular angles of the cloth would reveal whether the man had wrapped them himself, or whether someone else had done it for him. But he was so cold that he could barely think, and he did not feel like inserting himself among the damp, smelly robes to assess the varying ways in which they might end up around him. Instead, he unravelled the folds and forced them to release their grisly burden. It did not take long, and he soon had the body resting on the floor.