A Killer in Winter

Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, he climbed the stairs. He pushed open the door to Michael’s room and found it deserted. The same was true of the one opposite, which was usually inhabited by a trio of retired scholars. Bartholomew assumed they had all opted for the noisier – scholars snored – but warmer alternative of a night in the hall or the conclave.

He closed the door and walked back down the stairs, deciding to go to the kitchen and see whether there was any new bread to steal or a fire to sit near. He opened the door to the courtyard and stared in shock. A blank wall of snow faced him. He remembered the blizzard of the night before, and supposed he should not be surprised that it had drifted. He climbed the stairs again and went back into Michael’s room, to look out of the window and assess the height of the drifts. He started in alarm when he opened the shutter only to find snow filling that opening, too. It must cover the entire building, and he was trapped inside!

A feeling of dull horror seized Bartholomew as he gazed at the dense whiteness outside Michael’s window. Would anyone notice that he was missing, or would they assume he had gone to spend the night with Edith or Matilde? Would it be days before the snow melted, or someone started to dig? He seized the heavy staff Michael used for travelling, and began to hack at the snow. A good deal toppled inward, but he could detect no glimmer of daylight in the hollow he made. He wondered how the rest of the town had fared, if the drifts were deep enough to bury` Michaelhouse.

The practical side of his mind began to assert itself and he devised a plan. First, he would light a fire. The smoke would alert his colleagues to his predicament and serve to warm him. Next, he would set water to melt and eat a piece of the cake he had downstairs, then he would use Michael’s staff to begin to dig himself out. The snow was not so hard packed that it could not be tunnelled, and he did not want to leave his rescue entirely to his colleagues, lest they had other disasters to manage. Visions of the Blaston house flashed through his mind, its roof crushed by the weight of snow. Michaelhouse’s roofs were also in poor condition, so the same could happen here. The thought spurred him into action.

The fire was blazing nicely, and he was eating his second piece of cake, when it occurred to him that there was something to be said for the silence of being interred. He was free to allow his mind to wander, and it was pleasant sitting quietly without students wanting answers to questions or Michael ordering him to inspect bodies. He had just stoked up the fire and started a third slice of cake when the room was suddenly filled with light. He glanced up to see Michael’s anxious face peering through the window.

‘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.’