Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Some years. I have seen noth
ing like them before. What do you think about the knife? Was it Gosslinge’s, do you think?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘When? Tonight?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He drew a three-legged stool to the table and sat. Regarding the various tasks that awaited without enthusiasm, he found his thoughts returning to the mysteries that confronted him. Foremost in his mind was Philippa. He still could not decide whether the stricken d
istress 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?