A Killer in Winter

‘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?’