‘But that solution would have Harysone carrying a full set of beggarly clothes when he went to meet Gosslinge.’
‘Perhaps that was why Harysone visited St Michael’s Church the time we followed him: he had already killed Gosslinge and was returning to exchange the clothes. I knew he had something to do with Gosslinge’s death!’ Michael rubbed his hands together, pleased with his reasoning.
‘First, Harysone was not carrying anything when we saw him,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘His hands were empty, except for the ink and parchment he had bought in the Market Square. And second, we saw him enter St Michael’s on the Thursday, whereas we have reasoned that Gosslinge died on the Tuesday. Why bother to change the clothes two days later?’
Michael said nothing, although the very fact that he declined to argue suggested he was aware there was a flaw in his reasoning. ‘What do you think about the people who broke into St Michael’s last night?’ he asked eventually. ‘Were they Philippa and Giles? Ailred and Godric? Frith and one of his friends? Or was it Harysone and an accomplice?’
‘There is nothing to suggest Harysone has an accomplice.’
‘He has enemies, though,’ said Michael. ‘Someone put a knife in his spine, do not forget.’
‘Perhaps we should not read too much into the attack on Harysone, either. The King’s Head is famous for its fights, and stabbings are not infrequent there, as you know.’
‘People do not get stabbed because they dance badly,’ said Michael irritably.
‘He is not a bad dancer, but his movements are provocative. Sexual. Perhaps he aimed his hips at someone’s wife or daughter, and that person took offence. Or perhaps he writhed into someone, and stabbed himself accidentally. His movements are very powerful.’
‘No,’ said Michael, giving the matter serious thought. ‘Someone stabbed him. But tomorrow, we shall do three things. First, we shall look at the ball thawing in your room. Secondly, we shall talk to Harysone again – I want to know where he was when those intruders were in our church. And thirdly, we shall have words with Ailred of Ovyng and ask why he lied to us.’
Bartholomew slept poorly that night. The students were carousing in the conclave, and he knew he would have no rest if he used the hall or the kitchens. There was little choice but to stay in his room. It was bitterly cold, and another blizzard raged, making him reluctant to move across the courtyard to the hall, even when it was so late he knew the students would be sleeping.
Snow worked its way under the window shutters to powder the floor white, and sometimes flakes caught in the draught from the door and went spiralling upwards to land on him. His blankets had been dusted with a thin layer of frost when he had first gone to bed, and the heat from his body melted it to release a clammy dampness. He curled up, trying to conserve warmth, and if he moved so much as a muscle, he felt tendrils of cold begin to attack.
When he did manage to doze, his dreams teemed with disjointed images. He had innumerable conversations with all manner of people, including the two dead rivermen, Michael, Philippa and Abigny. He grew confused, knowing that he was dreaming, but becoming uncertain about what had actually happened and what had not. He watched cold earth shovelled on the stiff, brown sacking bundles that represented Dunstan and Athelbald again and again, and he argued with Michael about Gosslinge. Meanwhile, Gosslinge himself sat on his bier and fixed Bartholomew with baleful eyes, cursing the physician for failing to notice that his death was not from natural causes.
Bartholomew woke with a start, then shook his head half in disgust and half in amusement at the tricks a sleeping mind could play. His feet were so cold he could not tell whether they were still attached, and he felt as though he would instantly freeze if he moved so much as a finger outside the humid cocoon of blankets that encased him. A low, golden light filled the room, giving it a misleading sense of cosiness. The candle still burned, while above it, on a small tripod he had rigged with metal rods and a broken spoon, was the ball of material he had salvaged from Gosslinge. Bracing himself, he threw off the covers and went to inspect the object, leaping from foot to foot so neither would be in contact with the snow-covered flagstones for too long.
His patience had paid off and the ball was now pliable. He glanced through the crack in his window shutter in an attempt to gauge the time, to see whether it was too early to wake Michael. It was pitch black, but he knew he would not sleep any more that night. It was too cold and he was restless. He decided to dress and make an early start on his daily duties. Besides examining the ball and going to visit Harysone and Ailred, there were the following term’s lectures to be prepared.
He scraped half-heartedly at his face with a knife, then rubbed a handful of snow over it, gathered from the miniature drifts that had piled up on the floor. Then he took every item of clothing he possessed from the chest at the end of the bed, and put all of them on with hands that shook almost uncontrollably with cold. By the time he had finished, he was so well wrapped that he could barely move and, with his black cloak thrown around his shoulders, he looked like Brother Michael. The candles he lit cast his shadow against the wall, making him look monstrously vast.
He drew a three-legged stool to the table and sat. Regarding the various tasks that awaited without enthusiasm, he found his thoughts returning to the mysteries that confronted him. Foremost in his mind was Philippa. He still could not decide whether the stricken distress she had first shown over Turke’s death was grief for the loss of a loved protector and companion, or whether it was something else completely.
His thoughts turned to Gosslinge, at which point he cringed. He wondered whether he had missed clues on other victims, allowing their killers to go free. He inspected a large number of corpses for Michael – any member of the University who died, usually. Many did perish from natural causes: being near the marshes, Cambridge was an unhealthy place to live, and fevers and agues were commonplace. It was also smoky, with hundreds of fires belching fumes that became trapped in the dense fogs that plagued the Fen-edge town, and the choking, stinking mists took their toll on scholars with weak chests. And then, of course, there were the usual accidents that occurred with distressing regularity: falls from buildings, collapsing roofs, bites from animals that turned poisonous, bad food, crushings by carts, drownings and many more. He smiled ruefully. Perhaps his misdiagnosis of Gosslinge had a positive side: he knew he would never be complacent about a cause of death again.
Next, he considered the fact that Gosslinge had been trussed up among the albs wearing beggarly clothes. Did it mean a thief – not the killer – had come across the body and had taken a fancy to its fine clothes? But why bother to dress a corpse in the discarded items? Why not leave it naked, thus giving the thief more time to escape? Bartholomew frowned thoughtfully. Now he was getting somewhere. No thief would bother to dress a corpse – which was not an easy thing to do, nor a pleasant one – unless he had some powerful reason for doing so. But what?
Bartholomew pondered the question, but concluded it was more likely that Gosslinge had dressed in the rags himself. Perhaps he had arranged to meet someone in the church and did not want to be recognised, so he dispensed with his livery and wore rags instead. People tended to ignore beggars and, since no one liked being accosted with demands for money, eye contact was usually avoided wherever possible. It would be a good disguise. And then what? Gosslinge had his meeting, choked on the ball and was wrapped in the albs by the person he was meeting? Or was he hiding in the albs anyway, trying to keep warm, because he was wearing thinner, cheaper clothes than he was used to and he was cold?