‘Another beggar froze to death last night,’ said Michael as they struggled through the snow. ‘I am going to ask Langelee to keep St Michael’s open. Beggars are useful sources of information for us proctors, and I do not want to lose them all this winter.’
Bartholomew smiled, knowing Michael was hiding his compassion for the poor by pretending their welfare was in his own interest. ‘We should visit Dunstan before we go home,’ he said, thinking it might take more than Robin’s provisions to keep the old man alive that night. ‘I want to make sure Yolande has banked the fire.’
They knocked on Ovyng’s door, and were admitted by Godric, who had a smear of ink on his face and held a sheaf of parchment. He wore thick hose and outdoor boots against the cold, and his woollen habit looked bulky, as though he had pulled on as many clothes as he could underneath it. Even so, his fingers had a bluish tinge at their tips, and he was shivering as he stepped aside to let Bartholomew and Michael in.
A small fire was burning in the hearth of the main hall, but it was wholly inadequate to warm a large, stone-built room that had gaps in its window shutters and a wide chimney, both of which allowed the wind to blast through them. All the student friars and Ailred were present, sitting around a table that had been placed as close to the fire as possible, and looking as chilled and miserable as did Godric. Ailred had a pile of sad-looking fish in front of him, which he was patiently gutting. He was leading a debate on the sermons of Thomas Aquinas at the same time.
Some of the fish were cooking over the meagre flames, and the distinctive aroma of food that was past its best pervaded the hostel. Two loaves of bread were being warmed in an attempt to disguise the fact that their outsides were blue with mould, and a bucket of cloudy ale stood behind the hearth, so that some of the chill might be driven from it. Godric kept glancing towards the fire. Bartholomew had the feeling he was hungry, and the visit from the Senior Proctor meant that his meal was being delayed.
‘Finances,’ he said in a subdued voice, seeing the Michaelhouse men absorbing the details of their frigid room and paltry meal. ‘I know we friars are supposed to seek ways to deny ourselves bodily comforts, but freezing solid and eating food unfit even for animals is not generally recommended by our Order. Norbert’s death has been a bitter blow for Ovyng.’ He scowled at Ailred.
‘Tulyet has stopped paying for Norbert’s education,’ said Bartholomew in understanding, thinking the dead man’s family must have been charged some very princely fees if their cessation resulted in such sudden and abject poverty at Ovyng. ‘But you must have anticipated their loss when he died, so you cannot be surprised.’
‘We are not surprised,’ said Ailred, a little testily. ‘But we did not expect the weather to turn quite so bitter before we could think of ways to manage the shortfall. We have food, but little fuel.’
‘Food of sorts,’ muttered Godric under his breath. ‘Stinking fish that even the cat would not touch, and blue bread.’
‘You should mention your plight to Robin of Grantchester,’ said Bartholomew to Ailred. ‘He conjured peat faggots and wood from thin air when Dunstan the riverman was in need.’
‘That is different,’ said Ailred stiffly. ‘Dunstan’s is a case of genuine hardship, whereas we are merely uncomfortable. We will not die from the cold.’
‘We might,’ muttered Godric resentfully, and Bartholomew concluded that their reduced circumstances were something about which the two men did not agree. Some of the students nodded, and the physician saw that they definitely sided with Godric.
‘We shall have to get out our begging bowls,’ said one, while the others muttered rebelliously. ‘We will not survive the winter if we do not do something to help ourselves.’
‘We shall manage,’ said Ailred sharply. ‘You must remember that however cold and hungry you feel there is always someone worse off than you. Do not complain unnecessarily, and give the saints cause to increase your hardship.’
‘I have come to ask you about Master Harysone the pardoner,’ said Michael conversationally in the silence that followed. ‘He speared himself while dancing in the King’s Head, and has accused a Franciscan of holding the knife. Does anyone have anything he would like to tell me?’
Ailred looked horrified. ‘I can assure you that no one here would set foot in a house of sin like the King’s Head.’
‘Which houses of sin do you set foot in, then?’ asked Michael, aware that the students were not so quick to deny the accusation. They were exchanging guilty, anxious glances, and clearly wondering whether their Michaelhouse colleagues had betrayed them.
‘None!’ protested Ailred, appalled at the notion. ‘Such behaviour would break University rules. I do not need to tell you that, Brother.’
‘What about you, Godric?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We are not interested in whether you imbibe in the King’s Head regularly, just whether you were there on St Stephen’s Day, when this particular incident occurred.’
‘I do recall a brief sojourn in a tavern around that time,’ replied Godric ingenuously, making it sound as though it was of so little importance that it had all but slipped his mind. ‘And I do recall a pardoner doing strange things with his body. It was why we left, actually.’
‘We?’ pounced Michael. ‘Who was with you?’
Godric grimaced, angry with himself at being caught out so easily. ‘A few of us,’ he replied, deliberately vague. He turned defensively to Ailred. ‘Well, what do you expect, Father? It is Christmas, and our hostel is as cheerless and cold as a charnel house. All we wanted was a little spiced ale to drive away the chill, and a taste of plum cake.’
Ailred closed his eyes, disgusted. ‘But look where it has brought you, boy. You break the rules and bad things happen. Now you are accused of letting a pardoner dance on to your knife.’
‘We had nothing to do with that,’ declared Godric vehemently. ‘We listened to him spouting all manner of nonsense about fish, but we did not argue with him. He offered to sell us his book, and we declined politely. We watched – appalled – when he began to twist and turn to music, but we did not linger long.’
‘Neither did many other patrons,’ added one of the students helpfully. ‘We were among a number of folk who left when he began his display.’
‘Did you notice anyone taking a particular interest in him or his dancing?’ asked Michael. ‘You say people left, but was the reverse true?’
‘The other pardoners left immediately,’ said Godric thoughtfully. ‘But one stayed. He watched intently when it started, and was still staring when we slipped away.’
‘One of the pardoners,’ said Michael, sounding pleased. Bartholomew was sure the monk would love to arrest a pardoner for the attack on Harysone. ‘What did he look like?’
Godric frowned. ‘I am not sure. He was smaller than me. He wore a dark cloak and a hat.’
‘Disguised?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was odd for someone to be swathed in hat and cloak in a crowded tavern that was likely to be stuffy. And being smaller than Godric was no kind of description – Godric was a sturdy man.
‘The landlord was having problems with snow in his chimney, so the fire was unlit. It was cold, and a number of us were wrapped in outside clothes, with hoods or hats pulled down.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘That is all I remember: one man watching Harysone from under a hat.’
‘Whoever attacked Harysone left the end of his blade in his victim’s back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Can we inspect everyone’s knife, to see whether one matches the break?’
‘Please do,’ said Ailred, gesturing to his friars to comply, although most were already producing blades from belts and scrips. Michael studied each one in turn, but, like those belonging to the Michaelhouse Franciscans, none were missing their tips. Godric’s knife was of a better quality than the rest, and the monk regarded it thoughtfully.
‘It is new,’ said Godric, seeing what Michael was thinking. ‘But I have had it for about a week, not two days. I threw the old one away, bec
ause the hilt was cracked. My sister, who is Prioress at Denny Abbey on the Ely road, sent me another.’ He brightened as a thought occurred to him. ‘She is a kind and generous lady. If I were to write to her about our condition—’
‘No!’ snapped Ailred. ‘We cannot accept alms from nuns. Supposing they deprive others in order to help us? It would be unconscionable.’
‘I do not suppose this is the knife you discarded?̵ Michael extracted Bartholomew’s drawing from his scrip and passed it to Godric, watching him intently for a reaction.
‘No, mine was plain,’ said Godric. He held up the picture for the students to see. ‘Have any of you seen this before?’
There were shaken heads all around, and if any recognised it as being the one ‘with the cracked hilt’ that Godric had discarded, no one said so. Most huddled deeper into their cloaks and denied knowledge of the thing with polite uninterest. Others made more of an effort, and at least examined the parchment first.
‘What about the blades used for cooking?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the metal he had extracted from Harysone was from a fairly substantial implement, not from something small like the knives the friars carried for cutting their food.
‘Please look,’ invited Ailred. ‘Godric will help you. And while you play with our greasy cooking utensils, Brother Michael can tell me about the progress he has made with Norbert’s case.’
Godric took Bartholomew across to a bread oven set into the wall near the hearth. Two pots stood there, one scrubbed, clean and ready for use, the other half full of some grey material that was evidently the remains of the meal the friars had eaten the day before. It looked worse than the fish they planned to dine on that evening, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Godric and his students sought edibles from outside. The knives were hanging on the wall and the physician inspected each one with care: none was missing its end.
‘We still know very little about Norbert’s death,’ Michael admitted to Ailred. ‘Although we think we have discovered the weapon that killed him.’ He nodded to the illustration lying on the table, where the last of the friars to inspect it had set it down.
‘That?’ asked Ailred eagerly, moving forward to look at the picture again. ‘Are you sure?’
The friars craned towards the diagram a second time, more interested now they knew it had caused the death of their colleague and was not just a weapon used to injure a pardoner. But despite their apparent willingness to help, no one was able to say he had seen it before.
‘You can take it to the taverns,’ suggested Ailred. ‘Someone there might recognise it.’
‘I know,’ said Michael sharply, not needing to be told how to do his job. ‘The King’s Head is a good place to start.’ He looked hard at the novices. ‘Why did you not tell me you were all there the night Norbert was killed?’
‘What is this?’ cried Ailred in horror. ‘What are you saying?’ He turned to his students. ‘Tell him this is not true.’
‘It is true,’ said Godric softly. ‘But the reason we did not mention it was because we did not know Norbert was there. Ulfrid has since told us he was frolicking in a private chamber with a lady while we drank our ale, but, as God is my witness, none of us set eyes on him that night.’
‘You should not have concealed this,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You must see how it appears.’
Godric hung his head. ‘I know we were wrong to visit the King’s Head. But since we could tell you nothing about Norbert’s death, we saw no point in confessing that we had broken the University’s rules. We have enough spare coins for the occasional hot ale, but we cannot afford to pay the kind of fines Father William will now levy on us. He is the reason we have remained silent on the matter.’
There was a growl of agreement from the others. ‘I shall say nothing about it to William,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘However, more important than your rule-breaking at the moment is gathering information about Dympna. I am sure she is relevant.’
‘Not this again,’ groaned Ailred. ‘How many more times will you raise this subject? We have told you all we know, and I cannot see how she relates to Norbert’s death.’
‘I think she does,’ countered Michael. He eyed the students coolly. ‘So, I repeat: what can you tell me about her?’
‘No more than we told you the first time you asked,’ said Godric, watching Bartholomew take a meat knife and examine it, while Ailred sighed his annoyance at the monk’s persistence. ‘Surprisingly, her notes to Norbert were not romantic or filled with affection; they just told him to be in St Michael’s at a particular time, and were followed by a set of numbers.’
‘Why surprisingly?’ asked Michael.
Godric gave an abashed grin and gazed down at his booted feet. ‘Well, if a woman takes the trouble to write to a man, you assume she would pen something loving, to encourage him to meet her and sample the delights of her company.’
‘You have very colourful ideas about courtship,’ said Michael, eyeing him sceptically.
‘Godric believes in romantic love,’ said Ailred wearily to Michael. ‘I mentioned that before. It is as well he decided to become a friar and forgo relationships with women, because otherwise he would have been wounded deeply when he learned that not all are virtuous virgins.’
‘Many are,’ protested Godric, offended. ‘Dympna must be. She could have dispatched some grubby boy with a spoken message to Norbert, but she chose to write. That shows she cared for him: she took time and trouble to pen a message – or she hired someone to scribe it for her.’
‘Did any of you ever follow Norbert to see what happened when he met this paragon?’ asked Michael, more interested in Norbert than in Godric’s misguided ideas. Ailred made an impatient sound at the back of his throat, as though he could scarcely credit that Michael was still pursuing the subject when there were far more relevant and important issues to be considered.
‘Several times,’ replied Godric, ignoring his principal’s reaction. ‘But whomever he met was elusive. We shadowed him to the church, but when we entered through the north porch, she left through the south entrance, and when we had someone posted at both doors, she slipped away through the tower. I glimpsed a hooded figure once, but could tell nothing about her.’
‘Could it have been a man?’ asked Michael.
Godric gazed uncertainly at him. ‘Are you saying Norbert’s heart was captured by a man?’
‘Better than by a pig,’ muttered Michael, thinking of Agatha’s theory. ‘But can you say for certain that this hooded figure was a woman?’
‘Well, it was not a pig,’ said Godric firmly. ‘But it could have been a man, I suppose. It is possible it was not Dympna at all, but someone else who just happened to be there.’
‘Enough of this,’ said Ailred irritably. ‘It is taking us nowhere. You will find some tavern patron will be your culprit, Brother, not this mysterious figure who vanishes from churches. You should look into anyone who has connections to the King’s Head – including wealthy folk who hire the best chambers. Rich men murder just as capably as poor ones.’
‘Are you thinking of Harysone?’ asked Michael immediately.
Ailred shook his head crossly. ‘I am not thinking of anyone specifically. I am only saying you are wasting time with Dympna when you could be investigating the real culprit.’
‘You did not try very hard to discover the identity of the person Norbert met,’ said Michael to Godric, sounding accusatory and ignoring the principal’s advice. ‘It could not have taken much skill to catch her, once she was inside.’
‘It took more than we had,’ said Godric ruefully. ‘We are not experienced at that kind of thing. We were just being nosy – to see what kind of wench would be attracted to Norbert. Had we known it would lead to a line of enquiry relating to his murder, we would have tried harder.’
Michael pursed his lips. ‘So, none of you stabbed Harysone, and none of you can tell me about Dympna?’ He sighed. ‘Then I suppose I shall bid you goodnight.’
Bartholomew and Michael walked to the hovels on the river bank, feeling frozen snow crunch under their feet. For the first time in many days, the evening was clear, and millions of stars glittered overhead in a spectacle of indescribable beauty. The beauty had its price, however, and the temperature had plummeted even further. Sudden cracks rent the air when water expanded into ice and split walls, wood and stone, and the still night air was thick with smoke from hearths.
Michael sat with Dunstan, holding his hand and allowing him to reminisce about his brother, while exaggerating the quality of Athelbald’s singing. Bartholomew banked up the fire so its heat filled the single room, then made sure the blankets were tucked around Dunstan’s thin shoulders. He tried again to persuade the old man to stay at Michaelhouse, but Dunstan claimed his brother’s soul was still in the house, and said he would not leave until it had gone.
They had not been there for long before there was a perfunctory knock on the door and Matilde entered. Bartholomew felt a lurch of pleasure when he saw her, standing tall and graceful in the centre of the shabby hut. She wore her cloak of bright blue with the silver clasp, and her feet were clad in stout, practical boots. Robert de Blaston was with her, flapping his arms and stamping in an attempt to warm himself. Bartholomew recalled that Matilde had taken the carpenter and his brood into her house when it became apparent that their own home was unsafe, and had probably saved their lives by doing so. Matilde greeted the scholars, then indicated Blaston, who had declined to enter the crowded hut.
‘Rob insisted on accompanying me, because you know what this town can be like for a lone woman after dark. I wanted to make sure Dunstan was settled for the night, but it seems you have already done that. How is Philippa?’
Bartholomew was startled by the abrupt question. ‘Well enough, I suppose. Her husband is being embalmed and prepared for travel, so I imagine she will go home when the weather breaks.’
‘Good,’ said Matilde. She blushed when she realised how that sounded. ‘I mean it is good for her to complete this grim business and be about her life. She will be obliged to search for new suitors soon and will want to make a start.’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 26
