A Killer in Winter

‘Matilde said Harysone was writing a treatise on tench; you told me it was about fish. The point is that Norbert was dicing the night he died, and Harysone just intimated he was also gambling, but not for coins. What if he was gaming with salted fish? What if Norbert won one from him?’

‘But your tench was not found with Norbert’s body,’ said Michael. ‘It belonged to whoever pushed you – and he was not the killer, because the scream you heard suggests that Norbert was being killed by someone else at the time.’

‘Perhaps Norbert dropped the thing when he was fleeing for his life, and some beggar pushed me in order to get it. I know from the way his wound bled that Norbert went some distance before he died, so he could have been attacked on the riverbank near Dunstan’s house.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, pleased with the logic. ‘That makes sense. But even better, it tells me I was right from the beginning: there is a link between Harysone and a serious crime. At the very least, he and Norbert gambled together and Harysone lost a fish to him on the night of the murder.’

‘We need evidence, though,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is a good theory, but it is based on conjecture, not on facts.’

‘It will do for now.’ Michael pointed down the High Street. ‘But there are Ailred, Godric and their novices, just about to celebrate mass. Let us see whether they have anything new to tell us – although I do not hold much hope. I have interviewed them almost every day since Norbert’s body was discovered, and no one has betrayed himself yet.’

They met the Franciscans outside St Michael’s Church, where the students shivered in their thin habits and stamped their feet to try to keep warm in the biting wind. Ailred told Michael they planned to bury Norbert that afternoon, and asked whether the murderer had been found.

‘No,’ said Michael shortly.

‘Sheriff Morice made yet another arrest this morning,’ said Ailred uncomfortably. ‘Robin of Grantchester. But I do not think he is responsible. Why would the town surgeon kill Norbert?’

‘Because Norbert once called him a bloody-handed lunatic?’ suggested Godric, taking the question literally. ‘No man likes to be insulted or called incompetent.’

‘But it is not a motive for murder,’ said Michael. ‘You are right, Ailred: Robin should not be in prison – not because I do not think he is capable of murder, since he risks that every time he sees a patient, but because he is too cowardly to attack someone with a knife.’

‘He does own knives, though,’ Godric pointed out. ‘Bags of them. And they are always covered in blood, so no one would know whether it belonged to Norbert or a patient.’

‘Robin has been associated with certain acts of generosity,’ said Ailred. ‘He arranged for Bosel the beggar to borrow a cloak for the winter, and he was involved in lending the Carmelites funds to replace habits lost in a fire. It seems to me that Morice has assumed Robin possesses money to buy his freedom, and that is the real reason for his arrest. This could never happen in Lincoln. There are no dishonest officials in that lovely city.’

‘I am sure there are,’ said Bartholomew immediately.

‘Neither Morice nor his men have been investigating Norbert’s death properly, so they cannot have discovered anything I have not,’ said Michael, interrupting what was likely to be a futile debate. ‘I have worked hard on this case – I owe that to Dick Tulyet.’

‘But you have learned nothing, for all that,’ said Ailred, disappointed. ‘Robin’s arrest is just another of Morice’s ventures for making himself richer, and Norbert’s killer still walks free.’

‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘However, I assure you that Norbert may be dead, but he is not forgotten. I shall-’

‘There is Cynric,’ interrupted Bartholomew, watching his book-bearer make his way through the snow at a rapid pace. ‘Something is wrong.’

‘I have some bad news,’ said Cynric without preamble when he arrived. ‘Walter Turke tried to skate on the frozen river, just after he identified Gosslinge’s body. The ice was not strong enough, and he fell through.’

‘He should not sit too near the fire to begin with,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that rapid warming could cause the heart to fail. He started to move towards Milne Street, thinking Philippa would want him to tend her husband. ‘And there should be plenty of dry blankets to wrap around him. Warmed milk will help, but not wine.’

‘No,’ said Cynric, catching up with the physician and gripping his arm so that he was forced to stop. ‘They could not save him. He is dead.’

Philippa was distraught. She sat in Oswald Stanmore’s comfortable solar and wept inconsolably. Stanmore hovered behind her, a helpless expression on his face as he tried to hand her some wine. Edith hugged her and let her cry, and Abigny stood near the wall looking sombre. Bartholomew studied him, attempting to gauge the emotions there. Grief? Sadness? Bartholomew did not think so. Guilt or relief? They seemed more likely.

‘I do not believe he went skating,’ Philippa wailed. ‘He could not swim.’