‘What do we do when we run out?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily, watching Dunstan kneel next to his brother and weep. He moved towards the door, where the smoke from the fire was less choking. ‘It is not just fuel that he needs, but food, too. Meat and eggs. Agatha will give us some and Matilde will help, but neither can be expected to do it for long.’
‘You are a physician, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘You must see that it will not be for long.’
‘Do not worry,’ came a voice at his elbow. Bartholomew was surprised to see the surgeon Robin of Grantchester standing there, the tools of his trade hanging in a jangling bracelet around his waist. He wore a thick cloak of what appeared to be ferret pelts, although it was matted with the blood of some unfortunate patient. Yolande de Blaston, the carpenter’s wife, stood behind him holding a large basket. ‘I am here to supply everything you need.’
‘He does not need the services of a surgeon,’ said Bartholomew quickly, assuming Robin had heard about Dunstan’s misfortune and was there to offer a little phlebotomy.
Robin’s ugly face creased into an expression of indignation. ‘I am here to help!’
‘I thought you were in prison,’ said Michael. ‘Ailred of Ovyng told me you had been arrested for Norbert’s murder.’
Robin scowled. ‘So has every other respectable man who can produce a noble for his release. So far, Morice has confined his extortion to townfolk, but it will not be long before he fixes greedy eyes on scholars, you mark my words. But enough of my affairs: I have brought Dunstan kindling, mutton and eggs. And Yolande de Blaston, the whore, has been paid to cook twice a day.’
‘I am not a whore,’ objected Yolande, pushing past him and bustling into the small space beyond. ‘I am a businesswoman, making an honest penny, just like you.’
Bartholomew gaped at them. ‘What is happening? Who is paying for this?’
‘That is none of your concern,’ said Robin severely, beginning to walk away, satisfied that his duties had been properly discharged. ‘Dunstan will have peat faggots, wood, meat, bread and wine for the next week. By then, the weather may be warmer and he may be better.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘How do you know about Dunstan?’
‘I listen to gossip in the Market Square, and everyone knows Athelbald died last night,’ said Robin superiorly. ‘I do occasionally arrange for folk to have necessary victuals, as you may have heard. Good morning, gentlemen. Do not stay out too long, or you will be calling on me to sever ice-eaten fingers.’
‘God forbid!’ muttered Michael, tucking his hands quickly inside his cloak. He gnawed on his lip thoughtfully when the surgeon had gone. ‘This is not the first time Robin has been associated with acts of mercy recently – ungraciously, it is true, but acts of mercy nonetheless. That is why Langelee invited him to the Christmas feast, hoping he might bestow a few merciful favours on Michaelhouse. Still, they say God moves in mysterious ways. This must be one of them.’
‘This has nothing to do with God,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a human hand behind Robin’s charity – and it is not his own. Still, since it has lightened Dunstan’s life, I am not inclined to question it. Come on, Brother. You and I have a river to skate across.’
Michael stared at him. ‘Skate? Are you insane? After what happened to Turke? I know Deynman said the river had set like stone, but I am not prepared to stake my life on his judgement.’
‘Athelbald is right about the knife that killed Norbert,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer probably did throw it in the river. But the river was partially frozen that night, and with luck, the dagger may still be on the surface.’
Searching the river for murder weapons was a dangerous business. A layer of ice lay across the surface, mottled like marble. In places it was as thick as a millstone, while in others it was so brittle and thin that the smallest of pebbles dropped straight through it. The strongest parts were at the edges, where the current was slackest, and it was here that Bartholomew decided they should begin their search. For want of a better idea, he accepted Althebald’s thesis that Norbert had been killed near the Mill Pool, and concentrated his hunt there. He gathered stones and hurled them, as the killer might have done with his knife, until he had a rough idea of where the weapon might have fallen.
The biggest problem they faced was the fact that the ice was covered with a layer of snow, which effectively blanketed everything from sight. Michael regarded it in dismay and suggested they should wait until it had melted. Bartholomew pointed out that if the knife had indeed fallen on ice and not in the water, then a thaw would simply send the weapon to the place it had been destined to go in the first place: the bottom of the river. If they wanted it, he argued, then they needed to search while the river was still frozen.
Once they had started, however, they realised it was not as difficult as they had feared. The previous night’s blizzard had deposited vast quantities of snow, but it had also brought fierce winds, which had scoured flakes from the hard surface of the river and piled them in drifts near the banks. Because the wind had been northerly, it had effectively cleared the area they wanted to search.
‘It does not seem possible that just four months ago we went swimming in this,’ said Michael, poking about with a long stick among the reeds as he recalled their visit to Ely in the summer.
Bartholomew was walking, very carefully, on the ice that covered the river, testing it with a heavy staff that Michael used for excursions outside the town before he entrusted his weight to it. There was a rope around his waist, the other end of which was tied to the monk. The wind was bitterly cold, and he felt the frigid river begin to send chilly fingers through his boots and up his legs. He could do little to warm himself, since any sudden movement might send him crashing through the ice. The current ran powerfully at that point, and he did not relish the prospect of being swept along with it. The rope would stop him from being dragged too far, but he was not sure that Michael would be able to rescue him soon enough to prevent him from drowning.
He stopped for a moment to stretch shoulders that ached from tension, and looked around, admiring the jumble of roofs that formed the nearby colleges and the Carmelite Friary. Most were dusted with snow, but here and there heat from fires had resulted in exposed patches of red tile and manure-brown thatch. A thick pall of smoke hung over the whole town, formed by the hundreds of fires that warmed houses and cooked food, and the stench of burning wood and peat was throat-searing, even down by the river. Suddenly, as he allowed his mind to wander, a horrible thought struck him like a thunderbolt.
‘Turke died here.’
Michael nodded. ‘Doing what you are doing – walking on the river – so be careful. I do not want you to go the same way.’
‘Doing what I am doing,’ repeated Bartholomew slowly. ‘Looking for a murder weapon.’
Michael stared at him in startled disbelief. ‘You think Turke was looking for the knife that killed Norbert? Why should he do that? They did not even know each other, and it is not as if we are short of suspects for Norbert’s murder. Rather the reverse, in fact.’
‘How do you know they did not know each other?’
Michael sighed. ‘Why should they? Turke was a stranger here and Norbert was dead before Turke arrived in Cambridge.’
‘Norbert died after he arrived,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Turke came on the fifteenth of December, and Norbert died on the twentieth. And do not forget that Norbert received a summons to meet someone called Dympna, while Turke muttered that name as he died.’
‘He did not,’ objected Michael. ‘You thought you heard him say Dympna, but I heard him say Templar. But even if you are right about Turke’s last words, the association between him and Norbert is a little far-fetched, if you want the truth.’
‘Then what was Turke doing here?’ demanded Bartholomew, irritated by Michael’s reluctance to accept his reasoning. ‘Philippa said he was not the kind of man to go skating. So, if he was not here for pleasu
re, then it means he was here for some other purpose. I do not see why you think looking for a knife is so improbable.’
‘Because if he was looking for the knife, then it implies that he was Norbert’s killer,’ said Michael, equally exasperated. ‘And I do not see how that can be possible.’
‘We already know that Turke had a murderous streak,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He slew Fiscurtune quite casually. And Fiscurtune was stabbed, just like Norbert.’
‘Do you have any idea how many people are stabbed each year?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Since virtually every man, woman and child carries a knife for everyday use, it is the weapon of choice when ridding yourself of enemies. That both Norbert and Fiscurtune were stabbed means nothing.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Bartholomew, seeing they had reached an impasse, and neither was prepared to accept the other’s point of view. ‘Ah! Here it is.’
‘You have the weapon?’ asked Michael, moving forward eagerly, as Bartholomew stooped to retrieve something. He grinned in triumph when the physician held up a dagger that was far too highly decorated and expensive to have been thrown away for no good reason. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Michael, no!’ cried Bartholomew. But it was too late. The monk’s bulk was already on the ice, which immediately began to bow. Both scholars watched in horror as a series of small cracks began to zigzag away from him, accompanied by sharp snapping sounds. For an instant, nothing happened. And then the ice broke.
Bartholomew felt the surface under his feet begin to tip as though it were a small boat on a stormy sea. Instinctively, he hurled himself forward, landing flat on his stomach on a part that was solid. From Michael’s direction he heard a splash, and the rope around his waist was tugged so sharply that it took his breath away. A distant part of his mind noted that it was ironic that he had borrowed the rope so that Michael would be able to pull him to safety, not the other way around. He glanced behind him, expecting to see the top of the monk’s head bobbing among shards of ice.
Michael, however, had apparently broken through at a point where the river was shallow, because the water did not even reach the top of his boots. He stood among the ice like some vast, black Poseidon, and began reeling in the rope that connected him to Bartholomew. There was a sharp tug around the physician’s waist, and then he felt himself begin to move.
‘Do not worry,’ the monk called, as he hauled on the line in powerful hand-over-hand motions that made Bartholomew feel like a landed fish. ‘I have you.’
He certainly did, thought Bartholomew, powerless against the mighty force that was heaving him shoreward. He wanted to stand, to make his own way to the bank, but his fingers scrabbled ineffectually on the slick surface and there was no purchase for his feet. With a grimace, he gave up his struggle and submitted to Michael’s ‘rescue’ with ill grace, sighing with irritation when a sharp piece of ice ripped a gash in his best winter cloak. By the time he was on the river bank, he had ruined a perfectly good tabard, his cloak would need some serious attention from the laundress’s needle, and the knee was hanging from his hose. Still, he thought wryly, at least the ice was hard and dry, and his uncomfortable journey across it had not rendered him soaking wet.
‘You should have been more careful,’ said Michael, looking him up and down critically.
‘Me be careful?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly. ‘It was you who started to surge forward like Poseidon emerging from the deep.’
‘Where is the knife?’
‘I dropped it,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how it had slipped from his fingers when he had made his headlong dive for safety.
‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, aghast. ‘How?’
‘While trying to save myself from drowning,’ Bartholomew replied tartly. ‘You should not have tried to come for it.’
‘I only wanted to look,’ said Michael sulkily, realising that the fault lay with him, but not prepared to admit it. ‘Where did you drop it? Is it retrievable?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I saw it go into the water at a point where the river runs fast and strong. It will have been swept forward, and I have no idea where it will be now.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That thing might have allowed us to trace Norbert’s killer. And now it has gone.’
‘I can describe it,’ offered Bartholomew.
‘Well, that is something, I suppose,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘Go on, then.’
‘The hilt was decorated, but not with precious stones. I think they were glass, because the thing looked well used. You do not have a jewelled knife for everyday use.’
‘That very much depends on who you are,’ said Michael sourly. ‘But, in this case, you may be right. Continue.’
‘The blade was scratched, again suggesting it was a favoured, much-used item, and wide – which is consistent with the wound in Norbert’s back. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, there was blood on it.’
‘Then damn it again!’ snapped Michael. ‘It must be the murder weapon, and you lost it!’
Bartholomew ignored the accusation. ‘I can make a drawing with coloured inks, and we can see if anyone recognises it. Philippa, for example.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Very well, if you do not mind offending her by suggesting that her recently dead and much-lamented husband crept around the town at night knifing students in the back. More usefully, though, I can ask Meadowman to show it in the taverns when he does his rounds tonight.’ He gave the physician a rueful smile. ‘I suppose something may emerge from our incompetence.’
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.’
&nbs
p; ‘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.
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