Bartholomew nodded in satisfaction, feeling he was finally deducing some acceptable answers: Gosslinge had gone to the church in his beggarly attire, and was so cold while he waited for his meeting that he wrapped himself in the albs. Then what? Had his assailant seized him while his arms were tangled and forced the ball down his throat? Or had Gosslinge put it in his own mouth? Bartholomew turned the question over and over, but was unable to come up with an answer that satisfied him. The evidence to point him one way or the other was simply not there.
Next, he thought about the scars on Turke’s legs that Philippa had concealed when he was dying. Were the scars the reason for her request that her husband should not be examined? She intended to ensure that no one saw what he wanted to keep private? Or was there another reason? Idly, he sketched the wounds on a scrap of parchment. They comprised a series of small white marks that criss-crossed Turke’s legs from the knees down. They were not especially disfiguring, and looked at least five years old. He racked his brains, but could think of nothing that would cause such injuries other than his original notion – that Turke had been hacked at with weapons while he sat on a horse. However, it did not seem to be a likely scenario, and Turke had not seemed like a warrior.
His mind flipped back to Gosslinge again. He had an ancient injury, too – one that had deprived him of a thumb. Were the two connected? Had Gosslinge lost his digit at the same time as Turke had earned scarred legs? Turke had given Langelee a relic – a finger – that he claimed belonged to St Zeno. Bartholomew wondered whether it was Gosslinge’s thumb, given away once the servant was dead. He grimaced. That would make the relationship between Gosslinge and his master a curious one. But Bartholomew decided that speculating on the thumb was pointless, and likely to lead him astray. Nevertheless, he made a note to ask Langelee whether he could inspect the relic later that day.
Then there was Norbert to consider. While there were many questions and snippets of information pertaining to the deaths of Gosslinge and Turke, there was virtually nothing to identify the killer of Dick Tulyet’s kinsman. Bartholomew thought about Ovyng Hostel. Why had Ailred lied about his whereabouts the night the intruders had invaded St Michael’s? The fact that he had felt obliged to tell untruths suggested something was amiss.
And what about Dympna, who wrote asking Norbert to St Michael’s Church? The meetings obviously involved some unusual or illegal transaction, because she had eluded the nosy Franciscans when they followed Norbert. If the meetings were innocent, then there would have been no need for such subterfuge. Norbert had not cared whether he had broken other University rules, and certainly would not have minded being caught with a woman. Bartholomew supposed Dympna might have been protecting herself – perhaps she was married, or had other reasons why she did not want to be caught associating with him – but he thought it more likely she was trying to keep the purpose of their meetings a secret.
And finally, why did so many strands of the investigation lead to the Chepe Waits? They had been employed to play in Turke’s home, and they had spoken to Gosslinge, Norbert, Harysone and Abigny in Cambridge. Were they merely trying to secure work for the Twelve Days, as Michael believed, or was their timely presence in Cambridge more than coincidence?
Bartholomew scratched his chin, thinking there were too many questions and too little information, and realised he could sit all night and ponder, but he would have no answers until he had more clues. Reluctantly, he turned his mind from the mysteries and concentrated on the mound of parchment that lay in front of him. He sharpened a pen and prepared to make a start.
Writing while wearing two pairs of gloves was not easy, but he managed. He produced a list of the texts that he wanted his students to read over the next few days, which would be discussed in classes once term had started, and then continued writing the current chapter of his treatise on fevers, concentrating on ailments that afflicted people during winter. With sadness, he used Dunstan as an illustration of specific symptoms and rates of decline. That done, he turned his attention to a public lecture he was to give in the new term, entitled ‘Let us debate whether warm rooms in cold weather breed contagion.’ He intended to base his argument on the works of Maimonides, the great Hebrew physician and philosopher.
He was pleased with the amount of work he had completed before any of his colleagues were out of their beds. He laid down his pen and listened, but the silence was absolute: there were no voices in the courtyard, no distant carts rumbling on the High Street and no dogs yapping. In fact the silence was unnatural, and he supposed it was due to the snow. He wondered what time it was, and with a shock he saw that the candle he had set under Gosslinge’s ball of material had burned away to nothing. It had been new when he had set it there the previous evening, and should not have disappeared quite so soon – unless it was a good deal later than he thought. Puzzled, he left his room and went into the hall, which comprised the door to the cupboard he used to store his medical supplies and a wooden staircase that led to the two upstairs chambers, one of which was Michael’s. He could still hear nothing.
Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, he climbed the stairs. He pushed open the door to Michael’s room and found it deserted. The same was true of the one opposite, which was usually inhabited by a trio of retired scholars. Bartholomew assumed they had all opted for the noisier – scholars snored – but warmer alternative of a night in the hall or the conclave.
He closed the door and walked back down the stairs, deciding to go to the kitchen and see whether there was any new bread to steal or a fire to sit near. He opened the door to the courtyard and stared in shock. A blank wall of snow faced him. He remembered the blizzard of the night before, and supposed he should not be surprised that it had drifted. He climbed the stairs again and went back into Michael’s room, to look out of the window and assess the height of the drifts. He started in alarm when he opened the shutter only to find snow filling that opening, too. It must cover the entire building, and he was trapped inside!
A feeling of dull horror seized Bartholomew as he gazed at the dense whiteness outside Michael’s window. Would anyone notice that he was missing, or would they assume he had gone to spend the night with Edith or Matilde? Would it be days before the snow melted, or someone started to dig? He seized the heavy staff Michael used for travelling, and began to hack at the snow. A good deal toppled inward, but he could detect no glimmer of daylight in the hollow he made. He wondered how the rest of the town had fared, if the drifts were deep enough to bury` Michaelhouse.
The practical side of his mind began to assert itself and he devised a plan. First, he would light a fire. The smoke would alert his colleagues to his predicament and serve to warm him. Next, he would set water to melt and eat a piece of the cake he had downstairs, then he would use Michael’s staff to begin to dig himself out. The snow was not so hard packed that it could not be tunnelled, and he did not want to leave his rescue entirely to his colleagues, lest they had other disasters to manage. Visions of the Blaston house flashed through his mind, its roof crushed by the weight of snow. Michaelhouse’s roofs were also in poor condition, so the same could happen here. The thought spurred him into action.
The fire was blazing nicely, and he was eating his second piece of cake, when it occurred to him that there was something to be said for the silence of being interred. He was free to allow his mind to wander, and it was pleasant sitting quietly without students wanting answers to questions or Michael ordering him to inspect bodies. He had just stoked up the fire and started a third slice of cake when the room was suddenly filled with light. He glanced up to see Michael’s anxious face peering through the window.
‘There you are,’ said the monk accusingly. ‘I have been worried. Why could you not sleep in the hall, like everyone else?’
Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise, then walked to the window to look outside. The sight that greeted him was one he would remember for the rest of his life. The blizzard had blown snow so high against the north wing
that it came to the eaves, although the south wing had escaped more lightly, and drifts only reached waist height. Snow lay in great, thick pillows across the roofs, transforming Cambridge into an alien land of soft lines and curves that were a uniform white. In the courtyard below, Langelee was supervising a chain of students as they dug a path between the hall and the gate, while Clippesby and Wynewyk held Michael’s ladder.
‘Do not worry,’ Michael called archly, glancing down at them. ‘He is quite unharmed. He has made himself comfortable near the fire and is eating cake. We need not have hurried after all.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Bartholomew, offering Michael the remains of the slice he had been eating. The monk accepted ungraciously, and crammed it whole into his mouth.
‘A little after ten o’clock, I should think. We have passed the morning digging ourselves back into civilisation. The whole town is like this.’
‘I should see whether Edith needs help,’ said Bartholomew, trying to push past Michael to reach the ladder.
‘Edith needs no help from you,’ said Michael, grabbing the windowsill as the physician’s rough treatment threatened to unbalance him. ‘It was Oswald’s apprentices who came to rescue us. He wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘What about the students?’ asked Bartholomew, looking towards the hall. ‘Is everyone accounted for?’
‘Yes – which we owe to the Lord of Misrule, who passed a decree last night that the first person to leave the hall was to buy the wine for the next feast. Needless to say, everyone remained. You were the only one missing. And now I know why: you intended to pass the night in great comfort, using my personal supply of firewood and eating cakes you ought to have shared. Give me another piece; climbing ladders is hungry work.’
Bartholomew saw his room was likely to remain inaccessible for some time, so he made a parcel of various essential medical supplies before he abandoned the building. One of the things he took was the ball that had been in Gosslinge’s gullet, which he tucked inside his tunic to make sure it did not freeze again. He also collected his four books: they were the most valuable things he owned and he did not want them crushed or damaged should the roof collapse. Meanwhile, Michael’s prized possessions comprised the rest of the cake, a casket of wine and a clanking bag that held his gold crosses and rings. When they had descended the ladder, Michael suggested they examine Gosslinge’s ball at his office at St Mary the Great, where they would have some privacy.
The High Street was barely recognisable. One side was not too bad, but the other contained drifts so high that many of the houses were completely submerged. Some roofs were poking out, but the single-storeyed ones were totally enveloped. People staggered and stumbled, some calling for missing loved ones, others enjoying the confusion. A group of children screamed with delight as a minor snowball fight developed into a massed battle, and a cow lowed balefully, confused and frightened by the strange white world in which it found itself. Dogs trotted here and there, sniffing out what they deemed to be edible morsels, while a cat sat on a wall and looked down on the chaos with aloof uninterest.
‘We shall go to St Michael’s instead,’ gasped Michael. ‘I do not think we will make it to St Mary the Great. Meadowman tells me that the drift outside Bene’t College – which was already huge and causing problems for carts – is now the size of the Castle motte. We should stay away from that end of the town, in case we are asked to help with the digging. Now even you cannot say that this winter is not the worst that has ever been known in the history of the world!’
‘I can,’ replied Bartholomew mildly. ‘I would never make such a wild statement. How can we know what the weather was like after the Flood or in the reign of the Conqueror? For all we know, the drifts could have been twice this size.’
Michael made no reply, and concentrated on hauling his bulk through the soft white snow, obliged to tug one leg free before lifting it to thigh height for the next step. It was strenuous work and left little breath for chatting, especially for a large man like Michael who was unused to exertion. To take the monk’s mind off the exercise, Bartholomew regaled him with a summary of all he had reasoned while ensconced in his womb of snow. Michael listened without comment, although he acknowledged most of the physician’s points with nods to indicate they were accepted.
In the gloom of St Michael’s, Bartholomew lit three candles and used the top of the founder’s tomb for a flat surface. He took the ball from his tunic and carefully unravelled it. Michael watched eagerly, anticipating some clue that would solve the mystery of Gosslinge’s death once and for all. He was to be disappointed.
‘Well?’ he demanded, as Bartholomew teased the material into an irregularly shaped rectangle.
‘I thought it was some kind of cloth last night, but it is only vellum. It probably swelled and distorted when the fluids from Gosslinge’s throat wetted it.’
‘You mean he did not choke within a few moments?’ asked Michael, appalled. ‘It took some time for him to die?’
‘I do not know about that. It may have swollen later; it would not have done so instantly. I was hoping something would be written on it, but it appears to be unused.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘So, Gosslinge choked on vellum. I suppose this means he must have been murdered – I can see no reason why he would willingly thrust vellum into his mouth.’
Bartholomew picked it up and held it near the candle. ‘I have heard of messages being written in onion-juice ink or some such thing. They only appear when it is warmed.’
‘Do not be ridiculous, Matt,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘No adult would write secret messages with onions these days. You …’
He faltered when a series of letters appeared as Bartholomew moved the material back and forth over the flame.
‘Dympna!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in excitement. ‘It says “Dympna” quite clearly. And there are numbers, too. Three, eight and four.’
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Michael, snatching it from him and performing his own set of manoeuvres. In his impatience, he held it too close to the flame. There was a brief flash and he dropped it with a cry, raising singed fingers to his lips. Bartholomew stamped on it quickly, but what remained was too charred to be of any further use.
‘You have just destroyed the only clue we have,’ Bartholomew remarked irritably. ‘I do not think there was any more written on it, but now we will never know for certain.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael wearily. ‘You and I are not having good fortune, Matt. First, you misdiagnose a death and lose a murder weapon in the river, and then I set a clue alight. Now it seems that neither of us is perfect, whereas yesterday I thought it was just you.’
‘What do you think it meant?’ asked Bartholomew, gazing at the blackened mess on the ground. ‘Is it a reference to a book, do you think?’
‘Or numbers in some court roll or legal document. You know – “37, Ed II” means the thirty-seventh section in the Court Rolls of Edward the Second.’
‘That does not work, either. There are too many numbers.’ Bartholomew shook his head in frustration. ‘It could mean anything – from orders of cloth in ells, to astrological computations. We are no further along now than we were before.’
‘It must have been important, though. Why else would it have figured so prominently in Gosslinge’s death?’
‘Who knows?’ asked Bartholomew, dispirited. ‘I certainly do not.’
The winds had raged so hard the previous night they seemed to have blown the cold away, and the weather had grown milder. This brought its own dangers, for it weakened the snow’s grip on roofs and trees, and huge loads were constantly being precipitated downward. There were rumours that a potter’s neck had been broken as he walked down Henney Lane, and people were vying for space in the very centre of the High Street, away from eaves and overhangs. The narrower lanes and alleyways were conspicuously empty of people.
A group of singers stood in the Market Square, performing secular and
religious songs. Their faces were red from the cold, and all had their hands under their arms in an attempt to keep them warm. Their discomfort did not improve their performance, and what should have been cheerful, celebratory tunes sounded like dirges. Bartholomew felt sorry for them, and tossed them some coins as he passed. One detached himself from the group and followed them.
‘Now look what you have done,’ grumbled Michael disapprovingly. ‘We will never be rid of the fellow now that he believes you have funds to spare.’
‘We sing for private houses and institutions,’ said the musician hopefully. ‘All we ask is a little bread for our supper and a cup of warmed ale.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We have the misfortune of owning our own band of entertainers this season.’
‘You mean the Chepe Waits?’ asked the singer, his face displaying a good deal of disgust. ‘You are from Michaelhouse? Frith said he had secured a good arrangement with Michaelhouse.’
‘He certainly did,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Food, beds and, because they are not very good, they are not even obliged to perform that often.’
‘Why keep them, then?’ demanded the singer eagerly. ‘Why not hire us instead?’
‘Because we are loath to throw folk into the streets while the weather is bad.’ Michael did not sound at all compassionate.
The singer sneered. ‘You should keep your sympathy for those who need it. The Chepe Waits will never spend a night in the open. They will always inveigle themselves a bed somewhere, and if that fails, they can use their personal fortunes to hire a room in a tavern.’
‘Their funds do not run to those sorts of expenses,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that the singer needed to be told this. ‘They are itinerants, like you.’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 32
