A Killer in Winter

Next, he thought about the scars on Turke’s legs that Philippa had concealed when he was dying. Were the scars the reason for her request that her husband should not be examined? She intended to ensure that no one saw what he wanted to keep private? Or was there another reason? Idly, he sketched the wounds on a scrap of parchment. They comprised a series of small white marks that criss-crossed Turke’s legs from the knees down. They were not especially disfiguring, and looked at least five years old. He racked his brains, but could think of nothing that would cause such injuries other than his original notion – that Turke had been hacked at with weapons while he sat on a horse. However, it did not seem to be a likely scenario, and Turke had not seemed like a warrior.

His mind flipped back to Gosslinge again. He had an ancient injury, too – one that had deprived him of a thumb. Were the two connected? Had Gosslinge lost his digit at the same time as Turke had earned scarred legs? Turke had given Langelee a relic – a finger – that he claimed belonged to St Zeno. Bartholomew wondered whether it was Gosslinge’s thumb, given away once the servant was dead. He grimaced. That would make the relationship between Gosslinge and his master a curious one. But Bartholomew decided that speculating on the thumb was pointless, and likely to lead him astray. Nevertheless, he made a note to ask Langelee whether he could inspect the relic later that day.

Then there was Norbert to consider. While there were many questions and snippets of information pertaining to the deaths of Gosslinge and Turke, there was virtually nothing to identify the killer of Dick Tulyet’s kinsman. Bartholomew thought about Ovyng Hostel. Why had Ailred lied about his whereabouts the night the intruders had invaded St Michael’s? The fact that he had felt obliged to tell untruths suggested something was amiss.

And what about Dympna, who wrote asking Norbert to St Michael’s Church? The meetings obviously involved some unusual or illegal transaction, because she had eluded the nosy Franciscans when they followed Norbert. If the meetings were innocent, then there would have been no need for such subterfuge. Norbert had not cared whether he had broken other University rules, and certainly would not have minded being caught with a woman. Bartholomew supposed Dympna might have been protecting herself – perhaps she was married, or had other reasons why she did not want to be caught associating with him – but he thought it more likely she was trying to keep the purpose of their meetings a secret.

And finally, why did so many strands of the investigation lead to the Chepe Waits? They had been employed to play in Turke’s home, and they had spoken to Gosslinge, Norbert, Harysone and Abigny in Cambridge. Were they merely trying to secure work for the Twelve Days, as Michael believed, or was their timely presence in Cambridge more than coincidence?

Bartholomew scratched his chin, thinking there were too many questions and too little information, and realised he could sit all night and ponder, but he would have no answers until he had more clues. Reluctantly, he turned his mind from the mysteries and concentrated on the mound of parchment that lay in front of him. He sharpened a pen and prepared to make a start.

Writing while wearing two pairs of gloves was not easy, but he managed. He produced a list of the texts that he wanted his students to read over the next few days, which would be discussed in classes once term had started, and then continued writing the current chapter of his treatise on fevers, concentrating on ailments that afflicted people during winter. With sadness, he used Dunstan as an illustration of specific symptoms and rates of decline. That done, he turned his attention to a public lecture he was to give in the new term, entitled ‘Let us debate whether warm rooms in cold weather breed contagion.’ He intended to base his argument on the works of Maimonides, the great Hebrew physician and philosopher.

He was pleased with the amount of work he had completed before any of his colleagues were out of their beds. He laid down his pen and listened, but the silence was absolute: there were no voices in the courtyard, no distant carts rumbling on the High Street and no dogs yapping. In fact the silence was unnatural, and he supposed it was due to the snow. He wondered what time it was, and with a shock he saw that the candle he had set under Gosslinge’s ball of material had burned away to nothing. It had been new when he had set it there the previous evening, and should not have disappeared quite so soon – unless it was a good deal later than he thought. Puzzled, he left his room and went into the hall, which comprised the door to the cupboard he used to store his medical supplies and a wooden staircase that led to the two upstairs chambers, one of which was Michael’s. He could still hear nothing.