‘Let him go, Matt,’ said the monk softly. ‘You have done all you can. Now it is our turn.’
Horsey moaned and dropped to his knees, taking one of Unwin’s hands and cradling it to his chest. Michael crouched next to him and chanted a requiem, his strong baritone echoing around the church, while Father William began to anoint the body and grant it absolution. William, like many priests, believed that the soul remained in the body for a short time after death, and that giving a corpse absolution would help with the soul’s journey to wherever it was bound. Alcote’s reedy tenor joined in Michael’s dismal dirge, while Horsey wept silently.
Bartholomew moved away and sat with his back against one of the pillars, watching his colleagues. He was suddenly reminded of the plague, when dying people were far more grateful for the absolutions and masses of Michael and William than any feeble, useless treatments Bartholomew had to offer. So engrossed was he in his morbid thoughts that he was not aware that Michael had finished his prayers until he was tapped smartly on the shoulder.
‘I need you to tell me what happened to him,’ said the monk. He peered at Bartholomew in the gloom. ‘What is the matter? You are as white as snow.’
‘I wish I could have done more to help him,’ said Bartholomew, scrubbing tiredly at his face with fingers that felt clammy and cold. ‘And that poor man at the gibbet. I am not used to losing two people in such quick succession – at least, not since the plague.’
‘Their hour had come,’ announced William, in a voice that was kinder than usual. ‘You did all you could to snatch them back, but even your heretic medicine cannot cheat Death of his prey.’
Bartholomew supposed William was trying to be comforting, but to be reminded of his own mortality as well as the limits of his medical knowledge was not particularly consoling.
‘Come on,’ said Michael, holding out a hand to pull the physician to his feet. ‘We are all shocked by this, but we must try to understand what happened. Was Unwin stabbed? There is blood everywhere.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew went to look at the dead student. One sleeve was soaked with blood, and there was more of it on his stomach. Bartholomew knelt, and used one of his surgical knives to make a slit in Unwin’s habit. Below the ribs there was a puncture wound about the width of two fingers. Bartholomew probed it carefully. It looked deep, certainly deep enough to kill him.
‘Stabbed,’ he said in answer to Michael’s query, although the amount of blood and the gash should have made the cause of death obvious, even to a monk.
‘By someone else?’ asked William, somewhat indignantly. ‘He was murdered?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In my experience, most people driving knives into their own stomach use two hands – only one of Unwin’s is bloodstained. And the weapon seems to have disappeared.’
‘So,’ said William, when a quick search of the church failed to locate any knife or other sharp instrument, ‘we can conclude that someone murdered him, because had he killed himself the weapon would still be here?’
Bartholomew nodded.
‘But why?’ demanded Alcote crossly, as though the murder of Unwin was a personal affront to his dignity. ‘Is it something to do with you cutting down that hanged man, do you think? Was it a villager who does not want Michaelhouse to be granted the advowson? Or was it just that someone did not like the look of Unwin for their parish priest?’
No one could answer him, and they stood in silence around the dead student, looking down at him helplessly.
‘How did you come to find him?’ asked Michael of Horsey. ‘He is still slightly warm, and so has not been dead for long. Were you with him? Did you see anyone else in the church?’
Horsey shook his head, tears glistening on his cheeks. ‘After the spectacle of that food frenzy, Unwin said he wanted to pray for the people who would soon be under his care. I think he was deeply shocked by their behaviour. I should have gone with him to the church, and then this would not have happened.’
‘You cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘How long was he in the church before you came to find him?’
Horsey shook his head, distressed. ‘Not long. I was listening to Lady Isilia talking about her husband’s sheep. Sheep! While some vicious killer was slaying poor Unwin in a church!’
‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew, sensing Horsey was about to become hysterical. ‘So what made you decide to come to look for him?’
Horsey swallowed. ‘Unwin is my closest friend, and I know he is terribly anxious about his future responsibilities here. I felt I should be with him, so I excused myself to Lady Isilia, and came to find him. There was no one else here – the church seemed empty. Then I saw him lying on the floor, and all that blood… I just ran to fetch you. I thought you might be able to save him.’
The last part held the hint of an accusation, and Bartholomew winced. But once a knife or a sword had been thrust deep into a man’s innards, there was very little that could be done to save him. Vital organs were ripped and punctured and they could not be repaired. If the damage did not kill him, the resulting infection would. Bartholomew’s Arab teacher had told him it was possible to suture organs, and that the victim might live to tell the tale, but Bartholomew had seen him try many times on battlefields, and never with success. Bartholomew’s attempts to start Unwin’s heart with punches and foxglove were as futile as had been Ibn Ibrahim’s struggles to mend the slippery intestines of injured soldiers.
‘Why is one sleeve drenched in blood?’ asked William. He answered his own question. ‘I suppose he fell on to his arm, and it leaked out from his stomach wound.’
‘No, he was lying just as you found him,’ said Horsey shakily. ‘Both arms were above his head, and he was resting on his face.’
‘He must have been moved, then,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘I noticed both arms were stretched above his head before Matt moved him, and yet the blood on his sleeve must mean that he lay in a different position immediately after his death. I can only conclude that he was killed elsewhere, then brought to the chancel.’
Bartholomew pushed up Unwin’s sleeve, and pointed to a small gash near the elbow. ‘It looks as though he was injured defending himself, but the fatal wound was the one to the stomach.’
‘But we have not answered Roger’s question,’ said Michael, rubbing his chins thoughtfully. ‘Why should anyone kill Unwin? He has not been here long enough to make enemies, surely?’
‘Unlike Roger himself,’ muttered William, eyeing Alcote with dislike. He spoke aloud. ‘Perhaps Unwin caught some thieves trying to make off with the church silver.’
‘What silver?’ asked Michael, gesturing to the plain wooden cross and the rough table that served as an altar. ‘There is nothing here worth stealing. Anyway, Wauncy does not strike me as the kind of priest to leave valuables lying around – especially if that feast were anything to go by.’
‘I hope Unwin’s death was not a deliberate attack on Michaelhouse,’ said Alcote darkly. ‘It might mean that we are not safe here, and that we will be picked off one by one until we are all dead.’
‘Foolish monk!’ snapped William. ‘Why should anyone want to do that?’
‘Unwin probably caught someone doing something he – or she – was not supposed to be doing,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘The people are wild tonight, because it is the end of the Fair. Perhaps there were lovers here, enjoying the solitude, and he caught them.’