A Killer in Winter

The face that looked back at him was not Harysone’s. Nor was it the face of any living man. It was a corpse, with a pallid blue tinge about its mouth and lips, and unseeing eyes that were half open, half closed.

Michael leapt back with a yell of alarm, bouncing into Bartholomew and almost knocking the physician from his feet. The sound was loud in the otherwise silent church, and it startled some pigeons that had been roosting in the rafters. They flapped in agitation, showering the floor below with dried droppings and floating feathers.

It was odd to see a corpse standing as though it were alive, and even Bartholomew – no stranger to sudden and unusual death, thanks to his association with the University’s Senior Proctor – found it disconcerting. Carefully, he pushed a fold of cloth away, and saw that several of the robes were wrapped around the man’s arms and upper body, holding it upright. The hood of an alb lay in a tangled chain across the corpse’s chin so that its head was raised, as though looking forward.

‘Who is it?’ demanded Michael, as if Bartholomew should know.

‘He looks like a beggar,’ said Bartholomew, pointing at the man’s threadbare clothes. ‘He must have come here to escape from the cold.’

‘He should have chosen another church, then,’ remarked Michael, placing a flabby white hand across his chest to indicate that the presence of a corpse among the decaying ceremonial robes had given him a serious shock. ‘Everyone knows St Michael’s is the chilliest building in Christendom. Is that what killed him? Cold? Not Harysone?’

‘Harysone?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘Why should he kill a beggar?’

‘To prevent him from revealing Harysone’s intention to steal from our church. You saw for yourself that one of the candles had been tampered with.’

‘Harysone is well-dressed and has been spending money on inks and parchment in the Market Square,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘If he is a thief – and there is nothing to suggest that he is, other than an irrational suspicion on your part – he would not be interested in our paltry pewter. He would go to St Mary the Great and help himself to gold crosses and silver patens.’

‘Those are guarded,’ countered Michael. ‘One of my beadles is always on duty there, and it would be impossible to steal anything.’

Bartholomew made a dismissive gesture. ‘You are quibbling, Brother. My point is that a well-heeled thief would not choose St Michael’s when other places offer better potential. And you certainly cannot accuse Harysone of killing this man. He might have been here for hours before Harysone arrived – assuming Harysone entered at all, that is.’

‘Then you have some work to do,’ said Michael, indicating the body with a peremptory wave of his hand. ‘This fellow died on University property, and his death must be investigated by me.’

‘You will have to find someone else to help,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘As I told you, I was up most of the last two nights with Dunstan, and I have already examined one corpse for you today.’

‘This cannot wait,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I need to know how this man died and whether someone – such as Harysone – gave him a helping hand to Paradise. You would not want a killer to evade justice just because you are chilly and had an interrupted night of sleep, would you?’

With a long-suffering sigh, Bartholomew moved the robes away from the slight figure that nestled inside them. It would have been simple for the beggar to escape the enveloping folds had he wanted to do so, and Bartholomew supposed that he had wrapped them around himself in an attempt to be invisible and keep warm at the same time. It was a clever ploy, and would probably have ensured that he would not be evicted to spend the day – or night – outside.

Bartholomew shivered and wondered whether he should experiment to see whether the particular angles of the cloth would reveal whether the man had wrapped them himself, or whether someone else had done it for him. But he was so cold that he could barely think, and he did not feel like inserting himself among the damp, smelly robes to assess the varying ways in which they might end up around him. Instead, he unravelled the folds and forced them to release their grisly burden. It did not take long, and he soon had the body resting on the floor.

Trying not to rush, just because he wanted to return to Michaelhouse and huddle near the fire, he sat back on his heels and studied what lay in front of him. He realised that thicker clouds must have massed outside, because the church was so dark he could barely see the body, let alone examine it. Michael fetched the candle from the altar, but its cheap tallow did little to help, and its main contribution to the task was to release an oily, pungent odour that competed valiantly with the stench of rotting cloth.