‘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 pleasure, 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.