A Killer in Winter

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.’