Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  Earlier that evening, Norbert had informed Principal Ailred that he planned to celebrate the Feast of St Thomas with his uncle. Ailred had chosen to believe him, because he was not in the mood for an argument he knew he would not win anyway: Norbert would leave the hostel whether he had permission or not, but Ailred was sure it would not be to visit his family. Ailred was right: Norbert had other business in mind.

  First, Norbert had been obliged to meet men who had lent him money. Their demands for repayment had become more aggressive over the last few days, and this was a problem, because Norbert had already spent the three pounds, eight shillings and fourpence they had lent him, and had none left to give back. Begging another day’s grace, Norbert had escaped to the King’s Head, where he had enjoyed a good meal – still to be paid for – and won a salted fish from another patron in a game of dice. The fish was tucked under his arm in a piece of sacking, and he planned to sell it to his ever-hungry Franciscan classmates. The evening had improved thereafter, and he had passed the next few hours with a woman whose company he enjoyed more each time they met.

  By the time he left the tavern, he was drunk and it was late. Unfortunately for him, the clouds had thinned during the evening, leaving a full moon to illuminate Cambridge’s dismal streets like a great white lantern. The snow reflected the moonlight, making it brighter than ever, and even the drunken Norbert knew it was not a good night for dodging proctors and beadles – the men who prowled the streets looking for scholars breaking the University’s rules. Hoping to avoid such an encounter, he took the towpath along the river, weaving his way along it unsteadily. As he walked, icy water seeped through his shoes in a way that was far from pleasant, and his thoughts turned maudlin.

  Much of his pique was directed against his cousin. It was Richard who had recommended the cut in Norbert’s allowance, which had obliged him to borrow to pay for his pleasures. So, it was Richard’s fault that he was now under pressure from the lenders to give it back. The latest demand had been intimidating, and he wondered whether he should break into his uncle’s house in order to steal what he needed to pay them off. Since the town was full of travelling entertainers, all hoping to make money during the Christmas season, one of them would probably be blamed. Norbert’s wine-soaked mind told him that burglary was a good idea, and he was about to wend his way to the Tulyet home on Bridge Street, when he spotted someone walking towards him.

  He staggered quickly to one of the wall buttresses behind Trinity Hall and waited with a thudding heart. His first thought was that the figure was a beadle, who knew perfectly well that the back of Trinity Hall provided plentiful hiding places for undergraduates. Norbert did not want to be fined for drunkenness or to spend the rest of the night in a miserable cell with others who had enjoyed too much wine. But the man who hastened quickly through the snow was only Doctor Bartholomew from Michaelhouse, who was far too engrossed in thoughts of his patients to notice furtive shadows lurking at the backs of colleges.

  The physician entered one of the hovels that lined that part of the river like a row of broken teeth. A candle burned dimly within, and, with wine-fuelled curiosity, Norbert tottered forward to peer through a gap in the woven willow-twig walls, all thoughts of stealing from his uncle temporarily forgotten. Inside, he saw Bartholomew kneeling on the ground to tend an old man whose painful, hacking cough fractured the silence of the night. The patient was Dunstan, and his equally ancient brother Athelbald hovered anxiously over them like a skeletal angel. Simultaneously fascinated and repelled by the treatment the physician was giving the sick man, Norbert edged around to the rear of the hut, where the twigs were more rotten and afforded a better view of the scene within.

  He had not been watching for long when he became aware that he and Bartholomew were not the only men out at a time when most law-abiding folk were tucked up in their beds. Low voices drifted to him on the still night air, and Norbert stiffened, holding his breath and hoping the speakers would pass by without seeing him.

  ‘I am growing weary of your demands,’ one man hissed furiously, as he and a dark-cloaked companion drew level with the hut. ‘You push me too far.’

  Norbert heard Dark Cloak sneer his contempt. ‘I have only just started.’

  ‘You will be sorry for this,’ warned the first man venomously, his beard wagging in the moonlight. ‘I am not a man who easily forgives, and I have a long memory.’

  ‘So do I,’ claimed Dark Cloak in a furious whisper. ‘You have done me a great wrong, and I do not let such matters pass unremarked. You will pay.’

  Their voices faded as they moved along the towpath towards Small Bridges. Norbert rubbed his chin, trying to make sense of their conversation. He left his hiding place and set off after them; he was fortunate that all their attention was on their quarrel, or they would have heard his clumsy pursuit far sooner. They walked stiffly, as though being in such close proximity to each other was anathema, and Norbert was fairly sure the bearded one held a knife. He tried to walk closer, to hear more of their discussion. The disagreement reached a climax when the towpath met the Mill Pool, and the two men stopped dead in their tracks, facing each other like enraged fighting cocks.

  ‘You committed a foul crime!’ Dark Cloak was shouting, all attempt to keep his voice low forgotten. Norbert supposed it did not matter, since there were no houses nearby and no one was likely to overhear him anyway. ‘You should think about that before you make those kind of threats.’

  ‘I do not care what you—’ Both men turned abruptly when Norbert trod on a rotten piece of wood and its sudden crack gave away his presence.

  Norbert was not afraid. His drunken mind had been mulling over what he had heard, and it occurred to him that their argument could be turned to his advantage. What he had in mind was a tempting and easy alternative to burgling his uncle’s house.

  ‘Crimes,’ he slurred with a dissolute leer, waving his fish at them. ‘And blackmail. I heard you both, gentlemen. Crimes and blackmail are illegal, and unless you want me to repeat this conversation to the King’s justices, you will make it worth my while to keep silent.’

  The two men gazed at him in astonishment, before glancing at each other, then returning their mystified stares to the dishevelled, red-eyed spectre that swayed before them. Norbert became aware that the hostility that they had aimed at each other was now focused wholly on him. Suddenly he felt uneasy.

  ‘It strikes me that you are attempting to blackmail us,’ said the bearded man eventually, not bothering to hide his contempt at the ludicrous nature of Norbert’s demand. ‘You will also be fined or imprisoned if you take this tale to the Sheriff.’

  This had not occurred to Norbert. He stood still for a moment, his mouth working like that of a landed fish as his alcohol-soaked mind thrashed about for an answer. But the bearded man was taking no chances. The knife was in his hand when he stepped forward. With horror, but far too late, Norbert realised that he had made a serious mistake in attempting to extort money from this pair. Gripping his fish like a talisman, he turned to flee, but he had taken no more than two or three steps before he felt something thump hard into his back. A searing pain drove all else from his mind. He felt his legs give way, and he slumped to the ground.

  Dark Cloak eyed his companion uneasily. ‘That was unnecessary.’

  ‘What would you have me do? Pay him, as well as you? One of your kind is more than enough for me, thank you very much.’

  Dark Cloak took a step away, not liking the expression on his companion’s face, and was glad he had thought to mention earlier that others knew his whereabouts and his business, or he suspected he might well have suffered the same fate as the unfortunate drunk. The bearded man made an annoyed sound when he saw that Norbert’s blood had splattered up his sleeve. His weapon was stained, too, and he hurled it with all his might into the river, before scooping up a ball of snow to clean his hand.

  Tossing away the knife had been premature, however. While Dark Cloak argued with the killer, Norbert st
ruggled to his feet, trying to ignore the agonising ache in his back that made it difficult to breathe, and started to run. But his legs were heavy and unresponsive, as though he were moving through a vat of treacle. Terror drove him to put one foot in front of the other, forcing him along the towpath. He was aware that his attacker was coming up behind him, but pushed the knowledge from his mind, obeying some deep-rooted instinct that urged him to reach Ovyng Hostel. He passed the huts where he had watched Bartholomew tend the sick man just moments before, and felt the fish slip from his numb fingers. He glanced at it with regret as he staggered on, sorry to abandon it when it would have fetched a few pennies. But he no longer had the strength to carry it. He turned up Henney Lane, his breath coming in painful, laboured gasps, irrationally reasoning that his attacker would leave him alone now that he was no longer on the towpath.

  He was wrong. The bearded man was behind him, watching dispassionately as Norbert’s movements became increasingly erratic. Since he no longer had a dagger, he picked up a heavy stone. He hoped he would not have to use it: braining someone would be a messy business, and he did not want any more damage to his fine clothes.

  Meanwhile, Dark Cloak had been startled by the speed and brutality with which his companion had reacted to Norbert. He was relieved that Norbert would not live to relate the incident to the Sheriff, but a murder was bound to spark off an investigation, and he had enough to worry about without being obliged to dodge one of those. He began to follow them. He watched his companion turn into Henney Lane after his victim, and supposed he should not have been surprised that the man had met the drunken challenge with instant and unhesitating violence. After all, he had done so before.

  As Norbert’s panicky gasps disrupted the silence of the night, the door to Athelbald’s hut opened and the old fellow stepped out, pulling the physician with him. Cursing under his breath, Dark Cloak ducked quickly under cover and stood still and silent, while Bartholomew peered down the path in both directions, urged on by Athelbald, whose eyesight was poor.

  ‘I heard breathing,’ Athelbald insisted, shaking the physician’s arm, as if that would give more credence to his claim. ‘Heavy breathing.’

  ‘Well, there is no one here now,’ Bartholomew replied, looking down the moon-shadowed path, from which Norbert and his assailant had already turned.

  ‘What is that?’ demanded Athelbald, poking at the sack-covered fish with his foot. The wrapping parted and the faint gleam of scales could be seen within.

  ‘A fish,’ said Bartholomew, sounding amused as he bent to inspect it. ‘Tench, by the look of it. Salted.’

  ‘For us?’ asked Athelbald eagerly. ‘Someone has left us a gift of salted fish?’

  Bartholomew bent to inspect it. ‘Not unless you like it rotten. It must have been thrown away, and a cat dragged it here. But there is nothing to see out here. Come back inside.’

  The night was bitterly cold, and the old man willingly obliged, although Bartholomew continued to gaze around uncertainly, as if he sensed something was wrong. Dark Cloak held his breath, willing the physician to go back to his patient and mind his own business.

  Eventually, Bartholomew turned to re-enter the hovel. Plenty of rats inhabited the river bank; perhaps one of them had made the noises that had disturbed the old man. Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek cut through the air, and the physician took a step back outside. To Dark Cloak, the sound had been unmistakably human, but he hoped with all his heart that Bartholomew would assume it was just an owl hunting among the rubbish.

  The physician listened hard, looking around him carefully. Then he gazed directly at Dark Cloak. Dark Cloak had no idea whether Bartholomew could see him, but decided he had better act while he still had the element of surprise. With a screech of his own, he exploded from the shadows and pushed Bartholomew with all his might, sending the physician crashing backward. With an easy, sinuous movement, he grabbed the fish before darting along the towpath in the opposite direction to the one Norbert had taken. He zigzagged through the cemetery surrounding the church of St John Zachary and made his escape, confident that Bartholomew would never recognise him, moonlight or not.

  Bartholomew fell into the hut with such force that, for a moment, he was afraid the whole thing would come tumbling down, leaving the two old men homeless. Dunstan coughed in protest, while his brother made his way unsteadily through the door to see what was going on.

  ‘Slipped on the ice, did you?’ he asked with a cackle of amusement when he saw the physician sprawled on his back. ‘I told you to watch your footing.’

  ‘Someone pushed me,’ said Bartholomew indignantly, scrambling to his feet. He knew there was no point in giving chase: his assailant could be hiding anywhere by now. It was cold and dark anyway, and the physician had no desire to be out longer than was absolutely necessary.

  ‘He must have wanted his fish,’ said Athelbald, a little resentfully when he saw the package had gone. ‘You told me it was no good for eating.’

  ‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least, I would not have eaten it.’

  ‘Not everyone can afford fastidious tastes like yours,’ grumbled Athelbald. ‘It would probably have been all right with a few fish guts begged from the eel catchers and a good long boil in water from the river.’

  Bartholomew felt faintly queasy.

  ‘Come inside,’ said Athelbald, taking the physician’s arm to guide him back into the hut. ‘Whoever it was meant you no harm, or he would have used a knife and not his fists. We would do well to mind our own affairs, and ignore whatever happened here tonight.’

  Bartholomew conceded that he was right, and returned to his duties with the old man’s ailing brother.

  Meanwhile, Norbert had headed for Ovyng’s door, hoping that once he reached it he would be safe. Already he had tried screaming for help, but few folk were rash enough to respond to howls in the night, and all that had happened was that he had wasted valuable energy. He gained the door and grasped the latch, praying that the officious friars had not locked it after he had been careful to leave it open. He never found out. No sooner had his fingers touched the metal than there was a crushing pain in his head that all but blinded him.

  The bearded man watched Norbert crumple into the snow. Dispassionately, he saw his victim’s eyes close, and a few moments later, heard his breathing stop. Norbert was dead. He dropped the stone and wiped his hand in the snow. It was too dark in the shadows of the lane to see whether the skull-shattering blow had stained his clothes, but he was fairly certain that it had not. He knew from experience that the first strike was relatively clean. He straightened his cloak, dried his wet hand on his jerkin, and made his way towards the High Street, thinking grimly about the unfinished business he still had to resolve with his dark-cloaked companion.

  CHAPTER 1

  22 December 1354, Cambridge

  MATTHEW BARTHOLOMEW STUDIED THE MAN BROTHER Michael pointed out to him. The fellow’s narrow face was framed by long grey hair that glistened with a generous coating of grease, and his unevenly bushy beard was dappled with white. He had moist hazel eyes and a set of enormous horse-like teeth, so large that his lips would never cover them without considerable effort and concentration from their owner. His clothes, however, were well-cut and elaborate, and he carried himself with a self-satisfied swagger, indicating that he considered himself to be the height of sartorial elegance and dashing good looks, even if the reality was somewhat different.

  ‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused as he turned his attention to the dark-robed monk who knelt beside him. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘I have already told you. Were you not listening? I need you to give me your medical opinion of the man.’

  Bartholomew regarded the burly Benedictine uneasily. ‘You want me to examine him? On what pretext? I cannot just march up and foist my attentions on him out of the blue. He would complain to the Sheriff – and he would be quite right to do so.’

  ‘Of co
urse I do not want you to examine him,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘Well, not up close, at least. I want you to study him from a distance, and tell me what you think.’

  Bartholomew laughed, amused by the bizarre nature of the request. They were crouching in the churchyard of St Mary the Great, peering over a lichen-encrusted tomb to the Market Square, where the object of Michael’s attentions was purchasing ink and parchment from one of the stall holders. The man was apparently unaware that he was being observed, although Bartholomew suspected it would not be long before he found out, given that the monk was far too large to be properly concealed by the ancient stone, nor was he making any effort to keep his voice low. Michael had already attracted curious glances from several passers-by, while a small dog cocked its head with pert interest as it watched his antics.

  The Market Square was lively that morning, despite the bleak weather, as traders competed to sell their wares. Folk were more inclined to spend their money with the prospect of twelve nights of festivities looming ahead of them, so competition between vendors was fierce. The stalls’ awnings snapped and hummed in the wind, people shouted, and animals neighed, bleated, crowed and honked. The air was rich with the odour of manure, fish and spices, and the market was a bright, cheerful rainbow in a town dominated by winter browns and greys. There was another splash of colour near Holy Trinity Church, where a troupe of entertainers dressed in red and gold juggled and tumbled for pennies, accompanied by a musician who played a pipe and tabor. The trill of the whistle and the thud of the drum were all but drowned out by the bustle and noise from the Market Square, and only the highest notes were audible.

  Abruptly, Bartholomew stood up. It was a bitterly cold morning, with a frigid wind slicing in from the north-east and the threat of more snow in the air. Underfoot, the frozen ground crackled, and ice glazed the puddles in the High Street. It was no kind of weather to be hiding behind tombs in churchyards, and he decided it was time he returned to Michaelhouse, the College at the University where, as a Fellow and Master of Medicine, he lived, taught his students and saw his patients. Michaelhouse was not the warmest of places to be, either – there were fires in the kitchen and the communal halls, but not in the scholars’ private rooms – but it was preferable to being outside.