A Killer in Winter

‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘We do not know why Harysone wanted to enter St Michael’s, but we do know that he did not visit another church. Therefore, I suspect that he did enter St Michael’s, and that his business there was successful.’

‘You cannot be sure about that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the monk was allowing his dislike of the man to interfere with his powers of reason. ‘And anyway, if folk were merrily pinning holly to rafters, who knows what they did and did not see? Harysone is not particularly noticeable; he could easily slip past people unobserved.’

‘We will know tomorrow, Brother, because you have me to help with the enquiry,’ said William confidently. He stood and stretched, unsteady from the amount of wine he had drunk. ‘But we should go to bed, and snatch an hour of sleep before Angel Mass. Tomorrow you and I will catch a killer, and Matthew can face the woman who should have been his wife.’

Bartholomew winced and went to fill his cup again, feeling that he needed yet more wine to dull the peculiar sensation of unease and dissatisfaction that gnawed at him. He heard a sudden yell, and whipped around just in time to see William shoot across the floor in a blur of flapping habit and windmilling arms. The Franciscan collided with the door and went down hard. For a moment, no one said anything, then William released a litany of curses that would have impressed the most foul-mouthed of stable-lads. Bartholomew exchanged a startled glance with Michael, wondering how the friar had acquired such an extensive vocabulary of secular oaths.

‘My leg,’ shouted William, more angry than in pain. ‘It is broken!’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting it. ‘It is bruised.’

‘But you do not know the agony it is giving,’ bellowed William, outraged. ‘It is growing more painful by the moment.’

‘Bruises are painful,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But it will feel better in a day or two.’

‘It is broken,’ said Michael with a wicked smile. ‘You will be confined to College for the next two months while it heals, William. What a pity! It will be hard to lose my Junior Proctor for so long and the fines chest will suffer. Shall I fetch wood and bandages for a splint?’

‘It is not broken,’ declared Bartholomew, wondering what the monk thought he was trying to achieve by contradicting his diagnosis. ‘So it does not need a splint.’

‘It is and it does,’ said William firmly. ‘And I shall want crutches, too, although I cannot venture out of the College as long as there is ice on the ground. I might slip and do myself an even greater mischief.’

‘Just splint it, Matt,’ advised Michael, preparing to fetch the equipment the physician would need. He lowered his voice, so that William could not hear. ‘You will be doing us all a favour. I do not want his “help” to solve Norbert’s murder, and this is a perfect chance for me to be rid of him without embarrassing tantrums.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew set about immobilising the damaged limb, becoming even more certain as he worked that William was exaggerating the seriousness of his injury. William made a terrible fuss, however, and his unfriarly shrieks soon had scholars hurrying to the conclave to see what was happening. The other Fellows formed a silent circle around the stricken friar, while the students jostled each other at the door in an attempt to see what was going on.

‘Langelee will pay for this!’ William howled, snatching with ill grace the goblet of wine Suttone offered him. ‘I told him he should pay a carpenter to mend the floor, and not just hide the damage with a rug.’

‘I will hire one tomorrow,’ said Langelee tiredly. ‘We can probably raise the funds somehow.’

‘We cannot,’ said Wynewyk immediately. ‘We have spent every last penny on supplies for the Twelve Days, and our coffers will be empty until Ovyng pays us rent for next term.’

‘Hiring a carpenter will not be necessary,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I had some training with wood before I became a friar. I shall mend the floor – but not until the Twelve Days are over.’

‘Very well,’ said Langelee, although he did not seem happy with the notion of entrusting saws, hammers and nails to the other-worldly Gilbertine, even if it would save the College some money. He turned to William. ‘Your leg will confine you to your room for some days, but we shall have the floor mended by the time you have convalesced.’

‘Convalesced,’ mused William with a gleam in his eye. ‘I shall certainly convalesce – with good food and wine! But I cannot abandon Michael completely. He can bring suspects for interrogation here, to Michaelhouse.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael hastily. ‘We do not want criminals and miscreants in the College, thank you very much!’

‘We do not,’ agreed Langelee firmly. ‘I am sure we can find some administrative duties to occupy your time, Father. There is always teaching. That will not require you to walk.’