Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  * * *

  It was too dark to explore the church at prime, so Michael declared they should wait until after breakfast. Meadowman was still on duty when they returned, and reported that no one had attempted to enter the church. Based on the fact that he believed the intruders were desperate to get what they wanted, Michael had ‘mended’ the lock in a way that made it easily re-breakable, and Meadowman had been told to remain hidden, so that he could catch anyone who arrived illicitly. But Michael’s precautions came to nothing, and a weary, bored Meadowman had not heard a suspicious sound all night.

  Although Michaelhouse’s scholars had completed their devotions and eaten breakfast, the friars of Ovyng still had to say their morning prayers. Like the other hostels that paid Michaelhouse a fee to use the Collegiate church on a regular basis, Ovyng had been allocated specific hours, to ensure the various institutions did not impinge on each other. That week it was Ovyng’s turn to pray at eight o’clock, and Ailred and his students began to file into the church as Bartholomew and Michael were finishing their examination of the chancel.

  ‘Looking for coins between the flagstones, Brother?’ asked Ailred amiably, not seeming at all surprised to see the fat Benedictine on his hands and knees. ‘You may be fortunate. I often find farthings by doing just that, and such explorations are frequently worthwhile.’

  ‘I do not suppose you came here last night, did you?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘To look for pennies in the church, after everyone else had gone home?’

  Ailred was astonished by the suggestion. ‘I would not do it in the dark; I would not be able to see. Once you left us, I barred our doors and allowed us the luxury of an extra log on the fire. It was a bitter evening, and no one in his right mind would have ventured out unless he had no choice.’

  ‘What would give him “no choice”?’ asked Michael, detecting a caveat in Ailred’s denials.

  Ailred was becoming impatient, although whether it was because he genuinely did not understand why Michael was questioning him, or because he had something to hide, Bartholomew could not decide. ‘A number of things,’ the friar snapped. ‘Bartholomew has no choice when he is summoned by a patient; I have no choice when there are sacred offices that need to be recited.’

  ‘But not last night?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Not last night,’ replied Ailred firmly. ‘We had our evening meal at six o’clock, which was fish stew, then we sat around the fire playing merels – the board game, where you have nine holes and must use wit and cunning to prevent your neighbour’s pieces from occupying them. Since it is the Twelve Days, and given that my previous policy of austerity seemed to produce in my students a desire to visit taverns, I decided I should relent and allow them a little fun.’

  ‘Merels!’ said Michael scathingly. ‘That must have made for a thrill-filled evening.’

  ‘It was most entertaining,’ said Ailred, evidently unaware of Michael’s sarcasm. ‘We all enjoyed it very much, and tonight we shall play backgammon. I have borrowed a board and game pieces from Robin of Grantchester for the occasion. But why do you ask about our whereabouts? Have you learned something new about the death of Norbert?’

  ‘Two people visited St Michael’s last night, and we do not know why. It was a passing thought that you might have been one of them, perhaps with a student. We do not know what these folk were doing, so we are not accusing anyone of anything untoward.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ailred firmly. ‘Because it was not me – or any of us, for that matter. You can ask my students, and they will all tell you the same thing: we were at home last night. But now you must excuse me: I have a mass to celebrate.’

  He turned abruptly, and began to lay out the vessels he would need for his devotions. Meanwhile, Godric and his students waited patiently some distance down the chancel, whispering in low voices as they stood with their hands tucked inside their sleeves and their cowls thrown back to reveal their tonsures. Michael caught Godric’s eye, and beckoned him over, confident both that Ailred was too absorbed in his preparations to notice what the monk was doing and that the student had not overheard the exchange with his principal.

  ‘What transpired at Ovyng last night?’ said Michael. ‘What did you do? Where did you go?’

  ‘We played merels,’ replied Godric heavily. It was evident that while Ailred considered the board game a risqué form of enjoyment, Godric did not share his enthusiasm. ‘I have not played merels since I was a child, and I confess it is not what I had in mind when I pressed Father Ailred to allow us a little levity during the Christmas season. Still, merels will be better than backgammon, which is what he has planned for tonight.’

  ‘When did you start these games? Immediately after your meal?’

  ‘Later. Ailred had some errands to run, and I wanted to go the Market Square, to see whether the traders would sell me anything cheaply, since the day was over.’

  ‘Really,’ said Michael, his eyes gleaming. ‘And what time did you all return?’

  ‘I do not know. Ailred buys cheap hour candles, and they burn at variable rates, so we never really know what the time is. But I think we barred the door, with all inside, by perhaps half-past eight or a little later.’

  ‘Thank you, Godric,’ said Michael, grinning wolfishly. ‘However, this is not what Ailred told me, so we had better keep this discussion between you and me, eh?’

  ‘What did he tell you?’ asked Godric in alarm, horrified by the notion that he might have done something wrong. He shot an agitated look at his principal, but Ailred had not yet noticed that the monk had taken him at his word and was indeed asking the scholars to confirm his story.

  ‘He told me you all stayed in,’ said Michael. ‘Return to your prayers, lad, before Ailred sees that you have gone.’

  Godric hurried back to his friends, but his mind was no longer on his devotions. He seemed pale in the dim light, and nervous fingers twisted one of his sleeves. He was late with his responses, and his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully, thinking he seemed more dismayed than he should have been by Michael’s mention of discrepancies between his and his principal’s stories. Did he know that Ailred or one of the other students had been doing something he should not have been, and was aware that he had just ruined what could have been a perfectly sound alibi? Or was he afraid for himself, realising that the differences in stories revealed him to be a liar?

  Ailred completed his preparations, then turned to the waiting scholars. ‘Before we start, Brother Michael would like to ask about our activities last night. He wants to know what we did after we ate our fish and immediately turned to our games of merels.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘No leading statements here.’

  ‘Nothing,’ came a quiet chorus of voices.

  ‘Did any of you go out after the meal?’ asked Michael.

  Godric stared ahead and did not answer, and Bartholomew saw his hands were clenched so hard that his knuckles were white. No such agonies afflicted the other friars. They glanced at each other as though they were mystified, and shook their heads to deny that they had left Ovyng.

  ‘And after the merels?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘We retired to bed,’ said Godric, meeting his eyes. The others chorused their agreement, and Bartholomew supposed they were telling the truth about that, at least. However, according to Godric’s initial statement, the games could have started relatively late – perhaps even after the escape of the two intruders from the church. It was entirely possible that they had fled immediately to Ovyng and settled down to play merels until it was time to sleep.

  ‘And what about the interval between the meal and the games?’ pressed Michael, to be sure of his facts.

  There was a brief pause as the friars exchanged more uncertain glances, and then someone seemed to recall that Ailred had already told them the answer he wanted them to give. ‘There was no interval,’ he said, and everyone obligingly agreed, although
there were a few downcast eyes and shuffling feet: some of the friars were uncomfortable about lying in a church. Godric was one of them; he gazed at the floor with his cheeks burning. Ailred, however, was smiling his victory at Michael, and did not notice his colleagues’ discomfort.

  ‘Interesting,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew as they went to continue their search of the north aisle. ‘I think Godric is telling the truth and Ailred is lying. Now, why would Ailred lie, do you think? I did not seriously imagine last night’s intruders would be from Ovyng, because I cannot imagine why they would feel a need to enter by force when they own a key, but something odd is going on. Something very odd indeed.’

  When their devotions were completed, the Franciscans lined up to walk back to Ovyng, leaving the church deserted and silent again. Bartholomew and Michael turned their attention to the nave and then the Stanton Chapel. The nave was basically bare, and there was not so much as a leaf on the flagstones, since it had been swept and cleaned for the Christmas season. There was a bench against the back wall, set there for the old or the infirm who were unable to stand, but there was nothing else except the line of smelly albs and a chest so ancient and fragile that only water jugs for flowers were kept in it.

  The Stanton Chapel was much the same. There was the founder’s elaborate tomb, which had been decorated with holly boughs and a sprig of ivy, and on a windowsill stood a tiny chest containing pebbles that were supposed to have come from Jerusalem – although Bartholomew thought they were identical to ones in the river near the Great Bridge. He rummaged through the box, wondering whether something might have been stored among the stones, but found nothing there.

  ‘This is hopeless, Brother. What did you think you might find? Documents? A knife with a broken blade? What?’

  ‘It was your idea to return this morning and search, not mine,’ Michael pointed out testily. ‘And I have no idea what I expected to find. All I know is that it must have been fairly important to warrant that pair waiting until Kenyngham finished his prayers. You know how long-winded he can be while he is about his devotions.’

  ‘But the intruders would not necessarily know that. Perhaps they imagined it would be a matter of a few moments, and found themselves waiting a good deal longer than they anticipated.’ Bartholomew sighed. ‘I have finished, Brother. There is nothing here and nowhere left to look.’

  ‘There is one thing we have not examined,’ said Michael, his eyes straying to the mortal remains that inhabited the chapel.

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think they wanted something from Turke’s body?’

  Michael raised his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Why not? We were going to have another look at it last night, so perhaps they were, too. Maybe there is something hidden on it, which you missed when you gave Turke that very cursory examination the day he died.’

  Bartholomew lifted the sheet that covered the fishmonger and pointed. ‘He has been washed and dressed in a shroud. We will find nothing here.’

  ‘Look anyway,’ instructed Michael.

  Hoping Philippa would not choose that moment to pay her respects to her husband, Bartholomew began a careful examination of Turke. The corpse’s skin was icy to the touch, and in places it felt hard, where it was partially frozen. There were ancient scars on the calves, although Bartholomew could not begin to imagine what had caused them – short of riding a horse through knife-brandishing foot-soldiers. He found cuts on the hands and a mark on Turke’s face that had probably occurred when he had fallen through the ice and attempted to claw his way clear. Bartholomew completed his examination, replaced the sheet and shroud, and gave Michael a helpless shrug.

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘Turke’s corpse was my last hope. I thought that someone might have left something with it – a letter or some message – that last night’s intruders wanted to collect, but I see I was mistaken.’

  ‘I suppose there is always Gosslinge’s body,’ suggested Bartholomew, unable to think of anything else. ‘I cannot see why anyone would leave a message with him, but it may be worth looking. But then I am leaving this freezing church. There is nothing here, and I think we should go elsewhere for clues – like trying to find out what Ailred was up to last night, or interviewing Harysone again.’

  Gosslinge was in the south aisle, tucked out of sight behind a pile of broken benches. Bartholomew noticed that candles had been placed at his head and feet, although these had already burned away, leaving nothing but a saucer of cream-coloured wax and a mess on the floor. A piece of cloth had been tucked around him, but he was still dressed in the mean clothes he had worn when they had first discovered his body. Someone had pressed a flower into his hands. It was a Christmas rose – Edith’s favourite – and Bartholomew suspected that the small kindnesses to his body were her work.

  It was gloomy in the aisle, almost as dark as it had been when Bartholomew had first examined Gosslinge, so he opened the south door to allow the daylight to flood in. It made a huge difference. He noticed for the first time that Gosslinge’s nose and mouth had a blue tinge, and that his lips looked bruised. They were small things, but they made Bartholomew’s stomach feel as though it had been punched. He rubbed a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

  ‘Lord help us, Brother!’ he muttered. ‘I think I have made a terrible mistake.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘What is wrong with you? You look as though you have seen a ghost. Have you found what that pair were looking for?’

  ‘Something more important than that. Now I can see Gosslinge in good light, I think his death was not from natural causes, as I told you days ago.’

  ‘You mean he was murdered?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘But you said that he had died of the cold.’

  ‘I said the cold had probably killed him. But now I see signs to suggest that was not the case.’

  ‘God’s teeth, Matt!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified. ‘We could have been looking for his killer days ago!’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew miserably. ‘You do not need to tell me that.’

  Michael sighed irritably. ‘You had better tell me what you think now, then. Is it his swollen lips that made you change your mind? Or the fact that one of his fingernails is ripped?’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew weakly. He lifted the stiff limb and saw that Michael was right. Gosslinge had possessed long, yellowish nails, and one of these had ripped jaggedly near the top of one finger. It was only a broken nail, not an actual injury, but no living person would have left it sticking at right angles to his finger; he would have pulled it off completely. It indicated the damage had probably occurred at about the time of Gosslinge’s death, and that he had been involved in something physical.

  Bartholomew gazed at Gosslinge in disbelief. He knew he had not conducted a thorough examination of the body when they had first discovered it; the church had been too dark and he had been tired from watching over Dunstan the two previous nights. He had also been cold, and recalled that his numb fingers and feet had felt like lumps of wood. But these were no excuse. He saw now that he should have moved the corpse out of the church and examined it in the cemetery, where he would have been able to see. He also knew he should have pushed his physical discomfort to the back of his mind, and done his duty properly. He felt sick with self-recrimination.

  ‘Are you going to examine him now?’ asked Michael, growing tired of waiting while the physician did nothing but stare. ‘Or are you hoping he will sit up and tell you what happened?’

  Bartholomew forced himself to move. He removed the poor clothes that covered Gosslinge, cutting them with his knife, since there seemed to be no next of kin who would claim them. Then he assessed every part of the body, beginning with the feet and working up. He palpated to test for broken bones, and looked at the corpse from every possible angle, to ensure he missed no abrasions. Carefully, he ran his fingers through the hair, to see whether he could detect a blow to the head, and finally, he spent a long time exploring Gosslinge’s neck.
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br />   ‘Now you are going too far the other way,’ complained Michael, stamping his feet in an attempt to keep warm. ‘You missed evidence last time, so you are compensating by being overly fussy now. What can you tell me? How did he die?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I doubt it was from natural causes – because of the swelling around his mouth and that chipped tooth. And there is the fingernail. Everything points to some kind of suffocation – smothering, perhaps – but I cannot pinpoint it.’

  ‘Suffocation will do,’ said Michael. ‘How do you know he did not do it himself?’

  ‘It is not easy to suffocate yourself. You lose consciousness before you die, and whatever you are pressing against your face falls away. And I cannot see him choking himself while wrapped in the albs, anyway. I think the lack of air would have driven him away from them.’

  ‘Not if he intended to die, and he hid so his body would not be discovered before he was dead. You said yourself that you had no idea how long he had been there.’

  ‘We know he disappeared shortly after arriving in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Turke told us at the Christmas Day feast that he had been missing for five days.’

  ‘That means he disappeared on the twentieth of December,’ said Michael. ‘A Tuesday, and – coincidentally – the day Norbert went missing. I wonder whether that is significant. But what was Gosslinge doing to warrant ending up smothered in St Michael’s mouldy robes? Does this mean his corpse stood hidden in here for two whole days before we happened to come across him?’

  ‘It looks that way, Brother.’

  ‘You do not think these marks – I hesitate to call them injuries, since they are so minor – were caused by Gosslinge himself in his death throes?’

  ‘There is no way to tell, but I would imagine not. I think it more likely someone harmed him – but I could be wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps he was lonely,’ suggested Michael, reluctant to abandon the suicide theory. ‘Perhaps he did not want to go to Walsingham. Perhaps Turke drove him to take his own life. Gosslinge knew no one else here, so if anyone drove him to suicide, it must have been his master.’