Surprisingly, most were pleased to be asked. William offered to sing some troubadour ballads, learned while persecuting heretics in southern France. Kenyngham read a religious poem – but just the one; the students declined a second on the grounds that they only had until dawn before the evening’s entertainment was over. Clippesby’s tavern songs were by far the most popular turn, while Suttone’s peculiar jig, he claimed, had been copied from a Castilian sailor. Wynewyk played his lute to the Carmelite’s ponderous, uncoordinated moves.
Deynman wanted Michael to sing, and Bartholomew to perform the magic tricks he used to distract or cheer sick children. Gray, however, had heard about Dunstan, and with uncharacteristic sensitivity had instructed Deynman to excuse them. Bartholomew had experienced a profound sense of gratitude towards Gray as he and Michael left the noisy revelry of the hall for the steamy, yeasty warmth of the kitchen.
There were cobwebs on the ceiling, Bartholomew noticed, as he tipped his head back and listened to the distant rumble of William’s singing. Bunches of herbs hung there, too, tied with twine and drying for future use. The wall behind the hearth glistened black with grease and soot, and the kitchen smelled of ancient fat, wood-smoke and burnt milk. All around were pots and pans, some half filled with the remains of the evening meal, and others already scoured clean for the following day. Vast ladles lay in a neat line on the scrubbed table, and flour had been weighed and sifted into bowls, ready for baking the morning’s bread. It was a scene simultaneously chaotic and organised.
The College cat rubbed itself around Bartholomew’s legs, so he picked it up and set it on his lap. Immediately it began digging its claws into his thigh. Bartholomew had always been puzzled by the fact that cats often found themselves a comfortable spot, only to lose it by their painful habit of clawing. He set it back on the floor, and it went to try its luck with Michael. The monk allowed it into the cradle formed by the sagging habit between his knees and at once began to sneeze. He chuckled as he wiped his nose on a piece of fine linen.
‘It was dusk by the time they retrieved the camp-ball. Agatha will be remembered for that particular trick for a very long time. Apparently, when Cynric finally managed to reach it, it was so deeply jammed into the gargoyle’s maw that he was obliged to use his knife to prise it out.’
‘I heard that Morice declared the game a draw, and said neither Castles nor Gates should have the prize money. He was almost lynched, and has been obliged to set a date for a rematch.’
‘He was going to keep the money for himself. Foolish man. Some of his unorthodox ways of accumulating wealth can be ignored, but not brazen appropriation of funds on that scale. People will be watching him constantly now he has revealed himself to be openly dishonest. He has done himself a grave disservice.’
‘I am glad we were able to bury Dunstan and Athelbald today.’ Bartholomew stared into the flames.
‘Thanks to you,’ said Michael. ‘I thought you were being ghoulish when you persuaded each church to dig graves before the weather turned foul. But it was good to lay my old tenors in the ground today, rather than storing them in the charnel house to wait for a thaw. It is a pity you did not demand more holes: it is time Gosslinge was gone, too.’
Now that the day was spent, and Bartholomew was free to let his mind dwell on what had happened during it, he was weary and dispirited. There was a nagging ache behind his eyes, and he found it hurt to think about the two old men they had buried. He was also still disgusted with himself for failing to see the signs that Gosslinge had choked, and for being caught by Philippa with his tweezers down a corpse’s throat. All in all, it had been a miserable day, and he was heartily glad it was over.
‘We need to talk to Giles when his sister is not there,’ said Michael, sneezing so violently that the cat was catapulted from his lap. ‘He seems to have a different view of Turke and Gosslinge than she does, and I would like to hear his side in more detail.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm.
‘The more I see of your old sweetheart, the more I sense she is not as honest as she was. She was angry with you for examining Turke’s body, but her ire dissipated as soon as you said you had found nothing amiss. She was anticipating you would, and was relieved to learn you had not.’
‘You are reading too much into it,’ said Bartholomew, wincing as the cat ascended to his knees again, claws at the ready. ‘She was cross at first, but I think she saw there was no point in remaining angry as long as she is obliged to stay with my sister.’
‘No, I am right. She was worried you would find something when you looked at Turke.’ Michael fixed the physician with a penetrating look. ‘You did not miss anything, did you?’
‘Now you do not trust me,’ said Bartholomew glumly. ‘I made a mistake with Gosslinge, and you are wondering how many more I have made – starting with Turke.’
‘I am merely ensuring we should not return to St Michael’s and shove a pair of tweezers into Turke’s lungs, as you did to Gosslinge’s.’
‘Turke spoke. He could not have done that if something had been lodged in his throat. I wonder if those scars on his legs were what she did not want us to see.’
‘But we did see them, and you even asked her about them, but she did not react suspiciously when they were mentioned. She merely said he had come by them before they met. Is that true? Are they old wounds?’
‘Some years. I have seen nothing like them before. What do you think about the knife? Was it Gosslinge’s, do you think?’
Michael sighed heavily. ‘Who knows? Your picture is detailed, but it is not like showing folk the real thing. I could not decide whether Giles recognised it or not, and the differences he mentioned might have been due to errors in your illustration. However, just for argument’s sake let us assume they are one and the same. So, how did Gosslinge’s knife come to kill Norbert? We believe Gosslinge and Norbert met their Maker on the same day, so was Gosslinge killed just to provide the killer with a suitable weapon to use on Norbert? That seems harsh!’
‘Perhaps Gosslinge was the killer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘That would be the simplest solution. Then he went to the church dressed in rags as some kind of atonement.’
‘Perhaps we should ignore the knife and its implications for now,’ said Michael, seeing an infinite range of possibilities, none of which could be proven one way or another. ‘Where is that thing you extracted from Gosslinge? And, more importantly, what was it?’
‘It was crushed into a ball and frozen solid, and is now in my room, being thawed slowly over a candle. We can unravel it when it is pliant.’
‘When? Tonight?’
‘Recent experience has shown that we should do this kind of thing in daylight, when we can see. So, we will do it tomorrow morning. Damn this cat! It has claws like daggers.’
‘How did this ball get inside Gosslinge?’ asked Michael. ‘Did someone put it there?’
Absently, Bartholomew ruffled the cat’s fur, making it purr and ready its claws for more kneading. ‘I was thinking about that all through dinner. The answer is that I am not sure. Gosslinge’s lips were bruised and his fingernail was damaged, so he was probably involved in some kind of struggle. Perhaps someone rammed it down his throat – literally. Giles and Philippa said he was not strong, so it probably would not have been difficult.’
‘Nasty,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘You do not think he did it himself? Tried to eat it and choked, and the bruises were made by his desperation to breathe?’
‘It is possible. What do you think happened? Gosslinge went to St Michael’s, dressed in his livery, and ate the ball of material. Then he ran to the albs, wrapped himself up and died?’
‘Changing his clothes as he did so,’ mused Michael. ‘It does not make sense, does it? How about if he entered the church and met someone there. Let us say Harysone, for the sake of argument. He and Harysone fought, and Harysone rammed this ball into Gosslinge’s throat. Gosslinge died. Harysone stole his clothes and concealed the body among the albs.’