‘Norbert,’ said Dunstan, valiantly trying to reproduce the salacious tones he had used while gossiping with his brother. ‘He was a fellow who did his family no credit.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, forcing himself to smile. ‘Athelbald was right about that.’
‘He guessed what happened to the weapon that killed Norbert,’ said Dunstan, his eyes glittering with proud tears. ‘The beadles have spent days looking for it, but Athelbald knew where it went. He used logic, you see, like you University men.’
‘What did he reason?’ asked Michael, lowering his considerable weight gingerly on to the bench and sharing his cloak with Dunstan while Bartholomew tended the fire.
‘He heard the killer used a knife,’ said Dunstan, carefully wiping his runny nose on the inside of Michael’s cloak. ‘Because Norbert was stabbed. And he concluded that the killer had to get rid of it. But the killer knew if it was thrown away in the snow, it would be discovered – if not by beadles, then when the thaw came. Knives are personal things, and it would have given him away instantly.’
‘True,’ said Bartholomew, who had reasoned much the same thing. Dunstan started to cough, so he opened the door a little, to let some of the smoke out. ‘But the killer may just have wiped it clean and put it back in its sheath. Daggers are expensive, and people do not discard them just because they have been between someone’s ribs.’
‘If you believe that, then you are wrong,’ said Dunstan knowledgeably. ‘Athelbald and I have seen many murders in our time, and we know people do not want to keep weapons that have killed. Some believe it was the weapon, not them, that performed the foul deed, you see.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, nodding acceptance of the point. He poured some of the warmed wine into a beaker and watched the old man sip it. ‘So, the killer dispensed with the knife. Not in the snow, where it would be discovered, but somewhere else.’
Dunstan nodded. ‘And where would you throw a weapon, to get rid of it for ever?’ He gazed meaningfully towards the open door.
‘The river,’ said Bartholomew, understanding. ‘Of course! All the killer needed to do was toss the thing in the water. Is that what you think happened?’
‘It is what Athelbald thought happened,’ said Dunstan, glancing at the frozen form on the pallet. ‘He heard that commotion when you were here to visit me last week. Remember? The bells were chiming to mark the late night offices. He believes the commotion was Norbert’s murder.’
‘The timing ties in with what I know from my other enquiries,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘We have been reliably informed that Norbert left the tavern around midnight.’
‘It was cold that night,’ Dunstan went on. ‘So, not many folk attended the mass, including Ovyng’s other scholars. If they had, then Norbert would have been discovered sooner – before he was buried by the snow that fell later that night.’
‘But it was clear then,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘The moon lit the towpath. I remember it very well.’
‘It clouded over and snowed before dawn,’ corrected Dunstan impatiently. ‘I was awake for the whole night, whereas you went home to sleep. Now, to continue. Athelbald heard from the servants at Ovyng that Norbert was injured but travelled some distance before he was struck on the head. He reckoned what happened was this: Norbert met his attacker nearby, probably at the Mill Pool, which is deserted at that time of night, and had some kind of discussion. They argued and Norbert was stabbed. Norbert struggled along the towpath to Ovyng, but was brained just as he reached the door. Athelbald said that would explain all the sounds he heard.’
‘And what about the man who pushed me over, and the tench?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The fish was Norbert’s,’ replied Dunstan confidently. ‘Athelbald heard he won it in a game of dice. Obviously, if Norbert was stabbed and was fleeing for his life, then he would drop such a burden as soon as he could. It was then retrieved by a beggar.’
‘Athelbald was undoubtedly right,’ said Michael kindly. ‘His theory fits the facts precisely.’
The conversation ended when Dunstan began to sob again. Bartholomew looked helplessly at Michael, then tried to persuade the old man to go to Michaelhouse with them, sure Langelee would let him stay until the weather broke. But Dunstan refused to leave his home, claiming he could never rest easy under a strange roof. In the end, sensing he would bring about the elderly fellow’s demise even sooner if he forced the issue, Bartholomew relented. He checked the contents of his bag, and found he had enough money to buy firewood for another day. Michael said he had more at Michaelhouse, which could be stretched for a week if used prudently.
‘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.’