‘There you are,’ said the monk accusingly. ‘I have been worried. Why could you not sleep in the hall, like everyone else?’
Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise, then walked to the window to look outside. The sight that greeted him was one he would remember for the rest of his life. The blizzard had blown snow so high against the north wing that it came to the eaves, although the south wing had escaped more lightly, and drifts only reached waist height. Snow lay in great, thick pillows across the roofs, transforming Cambridge into an alien land of soft lines and curves that were a uniform white. In the courtyard below, Langelee was supervising a chain of students as they dug a path between the hall and the gate, while Clippesby and Wynewyk held Michael’s ladder.
‘Do not worry,’ Michael called archly, glancing down at them. ‘He is quite unharmed. He has made himself comfortable near the fire and is eating cake. We need not have hurried after all.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Bartholomew, offering Michael the remains of the slice he had been eating. The monk accepted ungraciously, and crammed it whole into his mouth.
‘A little after ten o’clock, I should think. We have passed the morning digging ourselves back into civilisation. The whole town is like this.’
‘I should see whether Edith needs help,’ said Bartholomew, trying to push past Michael to reach the ladder.
‘Edith needs no help from you,’ said Michael, grabbing the windowsill as the physician’s rough treatment threatened to unbalance him. ‘It was Oswald’s apprentices who came to rescue us. He wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘What about the students?’ asked Bartholomew, looking towards the hall. ‘Is everyone accounted for?’
‘Yes – which we owe to the Lord of Misrule, who passed a decree last night that the first person to leave the hall was to buy the wine for the next feast. Needless to say, everyone remained. You were the only one missing. And now I know why: you intended to pass the night in great comfort, using my personal supply of firewood and eating cakes you ought to have shared. Give me another piece; climbing ladders is hungry work.’
Bartholomew saw his room was likely to remain inaccessible for some time, so he made a parcel of various essential medical supplies before he abandoned the building. One of the things he took was the ball that had been in Gosslinge’s gullet, which he tucked inside his tunic to make sure it did not freeze again. He also collected his four books: they were the most valuable things he owned and he did not want them crushed or damaged should the roof collapse. Meanwhile, Michael’s prized possessions comprised the rest of the cake, a casket of wine and a clanking bag that held his gold crosses and rings. When they had descended the ladder, Michael suggested they examine Gosslinge’s ball at his office at St Mary the Great, where they would have some privacy.
The High Street was barely recognisable. One side was not too bad, but the other contained drifts so high that many of the houses were completely submerged. Some roofs were poking out, but the single-storeyed ones were totally enveloped. People staggered and stumbled, some calling for missing loved ones, others enjoying the confusion. A group of children screamed with delight as a minor snowball fight developed into a massed battle, and a cow lowed balefully, confused and frightened by the strange white world in which it found itself. Dogs trotted here and there, sniffing out what they deemed to be edible morsels, while a cat sat on a wall and looked down on the chaos with aloof uninterest.
‘We shall go to St Michael’s instead,’ gasped Michael. ‘I do not think we will make it to St Mary the Great. Meadowman tells me that the drift outside Bene’t College – which was already huge and causing problems for carts – is now the size of the Castle motte. We should stay away from that end of the town, in case we are asked to help with the digging. Now even you cannot say that this winter is not the worst that has ever been known in the history of the world!’
‘I can,’ replied Bartholomew mildly. ‘I would never make such a wild statement. How can we know what the weather was like after the Flood or in the reign of the Conqueror? For all we know, the drifts could have been twice this size.’
Michael made no reply, and concentrated on hauling his bulk through the soft white snow, obliged to tug one leg free before lifting it to thigh height for the next step. It was strenuous work and left little breath for chatting, especially for a large man like Michael who was unused to exertion. To take the monk’s mind off the exercise, Bartholomew regaled him with a summary of all he had reasoned while ensconced in his womb of snow. Michael listened without comment, although he acknowledged most of the physician’s points with nods to indicate they were accepted.
In the gloom of St Michael’s, Bartholomew lit three candles and used the top of the founder’s tomb for a flat surface. He took the ball from his tunic and carefully unravelled it. Michael watched eagerly, anticipating some clue that would solve the mystery of Gosslinge’s death once and for all. He was to be disappointed.
‘Well?’ he demanded, as Bartholomew teased the material into an irregularly shaped rectangle.
‘I thought it was some kind of cloth last night, but it is only vellum. It probably swelled and distorted when the fluids from Gosslinge’s throat wetted it.’
‘You mean he did not choke within a few moments?’ asked Michael, appalled. ‘It took some time for him to die?’
‘I do not know about that. It may have swollen later; it would not have done so instantly. I was hoping something would be written on it, but it appears to be unused.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘So, Gosslinge choked on vellum. I suppose this means he must have been murdered – I can see no reason why he would willingly thrust vellum into his mouth.’
Bartholomew picked it up and held it near the candle. ‘I have heard of messages being written in onion-juice ink or some such thing. They only appear when it is warmed.’
‘Do not be ridiculous, Matt,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘No adult would write secret messages with onions these days. You …’
He faltered when a series of letters appeared as Bartholomew moved the material back and forth over the flame.
‘Dympna!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in excitement. ‘It says “Dympna” quite clearly. And there are numbers, too. Three, eight and four.’
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Michael, snatching it from him and performing his own set of manoeuvres. In his impatience, he held it too close to the flame. There was a brief flash and he dropped it with a cry, raising singed fingers to his lips. Bartholomew stamped on it quickly, but what remained was too charred to be of any further use.
‘You have just destroyed the only clue we have,’ Bartholomew remarked irritably. ‘I do not think there was any more written on it, but now we will never know for certain.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael wearily. ‘You and I are not having good fortune, Matt. First, you misdiagnose a death and lose a murder weapon in the river, and then I set a clue alight. Now it seems that neither of us is perfect, whereas yesterday I thought it was just you.’
‘What do you think it meant?’ asked Bartholomew, gazing at the blackened mess on the ground. ‘Is it a reference to a book, do you think?’
‘Or numbers in some court roll or legal document. You know – “37, Ed II” means the thirty-seventh section in the Court Rolls of Edward the Second.’
‘That does not work, either. There are too many numbers.’ Bartholomew shook his head in frustration. ‘It could mean anything – from orders of cloth in ells, to astrological computations. We are no further along now than we were before.’