‘Dympna connects Norbert to Turke, too. He said her name as he died. And fish links all three men to each other: Norbert’s tench, Harysone’s book, and Turke’s chosen trade.’
‘I disagree with you about Turke’s dying words, as you know,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But your fishy associations look promising. However, I will not accept that Turke killed Norbert. The culprit is far more likely to be Harysone.’
‘Then there are the Chepe Waits,’ added Bartholomew, not wanting to argue about it. His conclusions had been built solely on the fact that Turke had died near where the murder weapon had been found, and he knew this was a weak foundation for any theory. He also accepted that the visiting fishmonger had no reason to murder Norbert. Although he did not want to admit it to Michael, he had reconsidered the hasty suppositions he had made relating to Turke’s place of death, and was inclined to believe that the monk was correct after all. Turke did not kill Norbert.
‘What about the Waits?’ asked Michael.
‘Quenhyth saw them conversing with Harysone in the King’s Head; they played in Turke’s house and admitted talking to Gosslinge in Cambridge; and they spoke to Norbert. They have connections to the three dead men, too.’
‘We know they were desperately looking for someone to employ them, so they probably spoke to lots of people,’ said Michael, unconvinced as he mulled over the information. ‘I think that particular connection is spurious.’
‘But it is odd that Philippa should not mention she had hired them – and that Giles immediately left when they appeared. And what about Quenhyth? He is a connection, too. He knows the Waits, he hails from near Chepe, and he is the son of a fishmonger.’
‘That must be coincidence,’ determined Michael. ‘I can accept he might kill a Wait, but he, like Turke, has no motive for murdering Norbert. So, we are left with a lot of questions. It seems there are strands linking Norbert, Harysone and the Turke household together, but we cannot be sure what – if anything – they mean. Meanwhile, Stanmore believes – and I concur – that the circumstances of Turke’s death warrant a little probing by the Senior Proctor. You yourself said it is odd that he and his servant should die in quite such quick succession.’
‘But there is nothing on either body to suggest foul play: Turke died because he fell through ice, and Gosslinge seems to have been a victim of the cold weather.’
Michael’s expression was crafty. ‘Both still lie in the church, because there is too much snow to bury one, while the other is awaiting transport to London. Will you look at them again? To make sure there is nothing you missed?’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘I can look at them until I am blue in the face, but I still will not be able to tell you more than we already know.’
‘You think Turke was looking for the knife that killed Norbert,’ pressed Michael, still unaware of Bartholomew’s recapitulation on that point. ‘We need to continue our search for connections, and the best way to do that is to examine the bodies again. Tonight.’ He raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections. ‘I know you promised Philippa you would not tamper with Turke, but it is obvious she has her own reasons for making such a request, and they may not be innocent.’
‘But it is freezing tonight,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘If I die of an ague brought on by cold, you will have no one to inspect your corpses when it is really necessary.’
‘I think it is really necessary now,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is an excellent time for looking at corpses. It is late – probably long past eight o’clock – and no one will be looking.’
‘You make it sound so underhand,’ grumbled Bartholomew, reluctantly turning towards St Michael’s. ‘Looking at bodies in the dark, when no one can see what we are doing.’
The air was so cold that it hurt Bartholomew’s throat when he inhaled, exacerbated by the thick wood-smoke that clogged the town. The physician was revolted to note that, near the church, the fumes had all but blocked the stars from the sky, and he could taste soot and cinders in his mouth, crunching between his teeth. He unravelled part of his hood turban and used it to cover his mouth. His ears ached from the chill, while his nose was so numb he could not tell whether it was dripping. He longed to be back in Michaelhouse, even if it meant another evening of the Waits. They reached the church, squat and mysterious in the smoke that swirled down the High Street from the great fires in King’s Hall. Michael fumbled in his scrip for the key, but when he inserted it the door swung open of its own accord.
‘That is odd,’ said the monk. ‘I have not spoken to Langelee about the beggars yet, and I doubt he would leave the church unlocked without being prompted.’
Bartholomew inspected the latch. ‘It is not unlocked, Brother. The mechanism has been smashed. And there is a light inside. Someone is in there!’
‘Stay here and make sure he does not escape, while I fetch the beadles,’ instructed Michael. ‘We will not attempt to apprehend this intruder by ourselves. We tried that last summer in Ely, and we allowed a killer to go free and claim more victims. This time, we will do it properly. If he comes out, hide. I do not want to return and find you dead.’
He slipped away into the night, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician huddled into his cloak and tried not to think about his icy feet. The monk had not been gone for more than a few moments before the door opened and two people emerged. Bartholomew cursed softly. What should he do? Hide himself, as Michael had instructed? Or should he try to grab one?
Boldly, but rashly, he opted for the latter. With an earsplitting yell that he hoped would bring Michael rushing back, he launched himself at the shadowy figures. Both were startled into releasing howls of their own, voicing their terror at being assailed from a shadowy graveyard. One began to lay about him with clumsy, panicky punches, none of which met their intended target, while the other dropped to his knees and began a prayer. Bartholomew recognised the voice and promptly abandoned his attempts to seize the fellow’s companion.
‘Kenyngham?’ he asked in confusion. He reeled backwards, as the second man found himself with a stationary target and a fist grazed the physician’s right ear.
‘Got him!’ yelled Suttone victoriously, jumping up and down in glee. He stopped jigging and shrank back in alarm as Bartholomew turned to face him. ‘No! Please do not hit me back! It was an accident. I will give you anything – the key to Michaelhouse’s silver chest, if you would like it.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, rubbing his ear. ‘And you should not have it, either, if you are prepared to give it up so easily. What are you doing here at this time of night?’
‘Matthew! Thank the Lord!’ Kenyngham pulled himself up from his knees and gave a sigh of relief, crossing himself vigorously. ‘I thought you were a robber. What made you throw yourself at us with that unholy screech? I feared it was Turke’s tortured soul, come to haunt us for not saying more masses.’
‘I assumed you were burglars,’ said Bartholomew lamely. Since the scuffle, the door had swung open, illuminating them with faint candlelight from inside. It seemed impossible that he could mistake Kenyngham and Suttone, with their wide-sleeved habits and pointed cowls, for thieves. He could only plead that it had been very dark. ‘The latch has been smashed.’
‘I noticed that when we arrived,’ said Kenyngham, sounding careless of the fact that it meant someone had forced an illicit entry. ‘But you were the one who asked us to pray for Turke, so I am surprised that you should attack us for being here.’
‘I am sorry, Father,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I hope I did not alarm you too much.’
‘You did, actually,’ said Suttone coolly. ‘I do not like being screamed at by spectres that launch themselves from graveyards.’ He turned to Kenyngham with accusing eyes. ‘You did not mention the lock was broken. I assumed you used your key to enter.’