A Killer in Winter

‘Believe me, I know,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But the man is impossible to reason with, so we may have to resort to desperate measures if no answer to this crime is forthcoming. He is making no serious effort to investigate himself, but is concentrating on thwarting me. He does not care about avenging Norbert, only about seeing whether he can turn the situation to his advantage. We have not had a corrupt Sheriff for so long that I barely recall how to deal with them.’

They were silent for a while, each thinking his own thoughts. Michael and William considered the problem of an awkward Sheriff and a difficult murder, while Bartholomew found his mind returning to Philippa’s pretty face, flowing golden curls and slender figure. He was disconcerted to find he could not remember certain details – what her hands looked like, for example – although other things were etched deeply in his memory. He knew how she laughed, that there was a freckle on the lobe of her left ear, that she liked cats but not dogs, and that she hated the smell of lavender.

The hour candle dipped lower. A little less than three hours remained before Angel Mass marked the beginning of Christmas Day, and there was an air of expectation and excitement in the College. Bartholomew opened a shutter and gazed through the window. Lights burned in almost every room, as scholars elected to remain awake, rather than rise early. Snow was in the air again, and came down in spiteful little flurries that did not settle. It had snowed when the Death had come, too, he recalled, and the bitter weather had added to the miseries of both patients and the physicians who tended them. Philippa had disliked the cold. She preferred summer, when the crops grew golden and the land baked slowly under a silver-white sun.

‘Did you discover the identity of the man we found dead among the albs?’ he asked of William, pulling his mind away from his reverie.

‘No one knows him. Not even Bosel the beggar, who works on the High Street.’

‘You have spoken to Bosel?’ Michael was disappointed. ‘Damn! He was my best hope.’

‘I even asked the Dominicans whether they had killed him,’ William went on airily.

Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘But there was nothing on the body to suggest he was murdered. I told you I thought he had died of the cold.’

‘How did the Dominicans respond to this subtle probing?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Did they confess?’

William grimaced. ‘They did not. However, unlikely though it may seem, I believe they were telling the truth.’

‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael, amused.

‘Because most have not been outside their friary since this sudden cold spell began,’ replied William. ‘Dominicans are soft and weak, and need to crouch in their lairs with roaring fires and plenty of wine.’ He took a deep draught of his claret and stretched his feet closer to the flames with a sigh of contentment.

‘I can cross the Dominicans off my list of suspects, then,’ said Michael wryly. His expression hardened. ‘However, there is one man I cannot dismiss: Harysone.’

‘Not this again,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘There is no reason to think that Harysone had anything to do with this death, either.’

‘Only the fact that we saw him go into the church, and then moments later we discover a corpse in it. What more do you want?’

‘We did not

see him go into the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We saw him fiddle with the lock, but then we went to see Norbert’s body and we do not know if he entered or not. The latch sticks, and Harysone would not be the first would-be visitor to be thwarted. He may have given up and gone elsewhere.’

‘Well, it was not to another church,’ said William authoritatively. Bartholomew and Michael stared at him questioningly, and the Franciscan looked pleased with himself. ‘I made a few enquiries about that, too. I asked in all the churches whether a man matching Harysone’s description had visited on Thursday, and was told he had not.’

Bartholomew was doubtful. ‘But most would have been empty,’ he pointed out. ‘It was daytime, and people were working.’

‘Not so,’ said William, bristling with pride at his cleverness. ‘It is Christmas, and the time when peasants deck out the churches with greenery. All of them were busy, except ours: in a scholars’ church like St Michael’s such pagan practices are not permitted.’

‘I heard Langelee giving my choir – which comprises mostly townfolk – permission to deck it out this evening,’ said Michael wickedly. ‘It will be as green with yew and holly as any other, come tomorrow.’

William shot out of his chair and looked set to stalk to the hapless building and strip it bare there and then. He faltered when Michael pointed out that there was a frost outside, but a fire and wine inside. It did not take much to persuade the Franciscan to sit and resume their discussion.