A Killer in Winter (27 page)

‘What were they?’ asked Bartholomew, more to encourage Dunstan to speak than for information. Both the old men had enjoyed
regaling the physician with grossly speculative rumours when he had visited them in the past, most of which he disregarded
for the nonsense they were. But if Dunstan gained solace from repeating what he and Athelbald had fabricated about Norbert’s
death, then Bartholomew was
prepared to listen for as long as the old man wanted to talk. He emptied his flask of medicinal wine into a pot, and set it
over Michael’s fire to warm. There was not much of it, but he thought it might drive some of the chill from the old man’s
bones.

‘Norbert,’ said Dunstan, valiantly trying to reproduce the salacious tones he had used while gossiping with his brother. ‘He
was a fellow who did his family no credit.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, forcing himself to smile. ‘Athelbald was right about that.’

‘He guessed what happened to the weapon that killed Norbert,’ said Dunstan, his eyes glittering with proud tears. ‘The beadles
have spent days looking for it, but Athelbald knew where it went. He used logic, you see, like you University men.’

‘What did he reason?’ asked Michael, lowering his considerable weight gingerly on to the bench and sharing his cloak with
Dunstan while Bartholomew tended the fire.

‘He heard the killer used a knife,’ said Dunstan, carefully wiping his runny nose on the inside of Michael’s cloak. ‘Because
Norbert was stabbed. And he concluded that the killer had to get rid of it. But the killer knew if it was thrown away in the
snow, it would be discovered – if not by beadles, then when the thaw came. Knives are personal things, and it would have given
him away instantly.’

‘True,’ said Bartholomew, who had reasoned much the same thing. Dunstan started to cough, so he opened the door a little,
to let some of the smoke out. ‘But the killer may just have wiped it clean and put it back in its sheath. Daggers are expensive,
and people do not discard them just because they have been between someone’s ribs.’

‘If you believe that, then you are wrong,’ said Dunstan knowledgeably. ‘Athelbald and I have seen many murders in our time,
and we know people do
not
want to keep weapons that have killed. Some believe it was the weapon, not them, that performed the foul deed, you see.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, nodding acceptance of the
point. He poured some of the warmed wine into a beaker and watched the old man sip it. ‘So, the killer dispensed with the
knife. Not in the snow, where it would be discovered, but somewhere else.’

Dunstan nodded. ‘And where would you throw a weapon, to get rid of it for ever? He gazed meaningfully towards the open door.

‘The river,’ said Bartholomew, understanding. ‘Of course! All the killer needed to do was toss the thing in the water. Is
that what you think happened?’

‘It is what
Athelbald
thought happened,’ said Dunstan, glancing at the frozen form on the pallet. ‘He heard that commotion when you were here to
visit me last week. Remember? The bells were chiming to mark the late night offices. He believes the commotion was Norbert’s
murder.’

‘The timing ties in with what I know from my other enquiries,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘We have been reliably informed that
Norbert left the tavern around midnight.’

‘It was cold that night,’ Dunstan went on. ‘So, not many folk attended the mass, including Ovyng’s other scholars. If they
had, then Norbert would have been discovered sooner – before he was buried by the snow that fell later that night.’

‘But it was clear then,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘The moon lit the towpath. I remember it very well.’

‘It clouded over and snowed before dawn,’ corrected Dunstan impatiently. ‘
I
was awake for the whole night, whereas you went home to sleep. Now, to continue. Athelbald heard from the servants at Ovyng
that Norbert was injured but travelled some distance before he was struck on the head. He reckoned what happened was this:
Norbert met his attacker nearby, probably at the Mill Pool, which is deserted at that time of night, and had some kind of
discussion. They argued and Norbert was stabbed. Norbert struggled along the towpath to Ovyng, but was brained just as he
reached the door. Athelbald said that would explain all the sounds he heard.’

‘And what about the man who pushed me over, and the tench?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The fish was Norbert’s,’ replied Dunstan confidently. ‘Athelbald heard he won it in a game of dice. Obviously, if Norbert
was stabbed and was fleeing for his life, then he would drop such a burden as soon as he could. It was then retrieved by a
beggar.’

‘Athelbald was undoubtedly right,’ said Michael kindly. ‘His theory fits the facts precisely.’

The conversation ended when Dunstan began to sob again. Bartholomew looked helplessly at Michael, then tried to persuade the
old man to go to Michaelhouse with them, sure Langelee would let him stay until the weather broke. But Dunstan refused to
leave his home, claiming he could never rest easy under a strange roof. In the end, sensing he would bring about the elderly
fellow’s demise even sooner if he forced the issue, Bartholomew relented. He checked the contents of his bag, and found he
had enough money to buy firewood for another day. Michael said he had more at Michaelhouse, which could be stretched for a
week if used prudently.

‘What do we do when we run out?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily, watching Dunstan kneel next to his brother and weep. He moved
towards the door, where the smoke from the fire was less choking. ‘It is not just fuel that he needs, but food, too. Meat
and eggs. Agatha will give us some and Matilde will help, but neither can be expected to do it for long.’

‘You are a physician, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘You must see that it will not be for long.’

‘Do not worry,’ came a voice at his elbow. Bartholomew was surprised to see the surgeon Robin of Grantchester standing there,
the tools of his trade hanging in a jangling bracelet around his waist. He wore a thick cloak of what appeared to be ferret
pelts, although it was matted with the blood of some unfortunate patient. Yolande de Blaston, the carpenter’s wife, stood
behind him holding a large basket. ‘I am here to supply everything you need.’

‘He does not need the services of a surgeon,’ said Bartholomew quickly, assuming Robin had heard about Dunstan’s
misfortune and was there to offer a little phlebotomy.

Robin’s ugly face creased into an expression of indignation. ‘I am here to help!’

‘I thought you were in prison,’ said Michael. ‘Ailred of Ovyng told me you had been arrested for Norbert’s murder.’

Robin scowled. ‘So has every other respectable man who can produce a noble for his release. So far, Morice has confined his
extortion to townfolk, but it will not be long before he fixes greedy eyes on scholars, you mark my words. But enough of my
affairs: I have brought Dunstan kindling, mutton and eggs. And Yolande de Blaston, the whore, has been paid to cook twice
a day.’

‘I am not a whore,’ objected Yolande, pushing past him and bustling into the small space beyond. ‘I am a businesswoman, making
an honest penny, just like you.’

Bartholomew gaped at them. ‘What is happening? Who is paying for this?’

‘That is none of your concern,’ said Robin severely, beginning to walk away, satisfied that his duties had been properly discharged.
‘Dunstan will have peat faggots, wood, meat, bread and wine for the next week. By then, the weather may be warmer and he may
be better.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘How do you know about Dunstan?’

‘I listen to gossip in the Market Square, and everyone knows Athelbald died last night,’ said Robin superiorly. ‘I do occasionally
arrange for folk to have necessary victuals, as you may have heard. Good morning, gentlemen. Do not stay out too long, or
you will be calling on me to sever ice-eaten fingers.’

‘God forbid!’ muttered Michael, tucking his hands quickly inside his cloak. He gnawed on his lip thoughtfully when the surgeon
had gone. ‘This is not the first time Robin has been associated with acts of mercy recently – ungraciously, it is true, but
acts of mercy nonetheless. That is why Langelee invited him to the Christmas feast, hoping he might bestow a few merciful
favours on Michaelhouse. Still, they say God
moves in mysterious ways. This must be one of them.’

‘This has nothing to do with God,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a human hand behind Robin’s charity – and it is not his own.
Still, since it has lightened Dunstan’s life, I am not inclined to question it. Come on, Brother. You and I have a river to
skate across.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Skate? Are you insane? After what happened to Turke? I know Deynman said the river had set like stone,
but I am not prepared to stake my life on
his
judgement.’

‘Athelbald is right about the knife that killed Norbert,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer probably did throw it in the river.
But the river was partially frozen that night, and with luck, the dagger may still be on the surface.’

Searching the river for murder weapons was a dangerous business. A layer of ice lay across the surface, mottled like marble.
In places it was as thick as a millstone, while in others it was so brittle and thin that the smallest of pebbles dropped
straight through it. The strongest parts were at the edges, where the current was slackest, and it was here that Bartholomew
decided they should begin their search. For want of a better idea, he accepted Althebald’s thesis that Norbert had been killed
near the Mill Pool, and concentrated his hunt there. He gathered stones and hurled them, as the killer might have done with
his knife, until he had a rough idea of where the weapon might have fallen.

The biggest problem they faced was the fact that the ice was covered with a layer of snow, which effectively blanketed everything
from sight. Michael regarded it in dismay and suggested they should wait until it had melted. Bartholomew pointed out that
if the knife had indeed fallen on ice and not in the water, then a thaw would simply send the weapon to the place it had been
destined to go in the first place: the bottom of the river. If they wanted it, he argued, then they needed to search while
the river was still frozen.

Once they had started, however, they realised it was not
as difficult as they had feared. The previous night’s blizzard had deposited vast quantities of snow, but it had also brought
fierce winds, which had scoured flakes from the hard surface of the river and piled them in drifts near the banks. Because
the wind had been northerly, it had effectively cleared the area they wanted to search.

‘It does not seem possible that just four months ago we went swimming in this,’ said Michael, poking about with a long stick
among the reeds as he recalled their visit to Ely in the summer.

Bartholomew was walking, very carefully, on the ice that covered the river, testing it with a heavy staff that Michael used
for excursions outside the town before he entrusted his weight to it. There was a rope around his waist, the other end of
which was tied to the monk. The wind was bitterly cold, and he felt the frigid river begin to send chilly fingers through
his boots and up his legs. He could do little to warm himself, since any sudden movement might send him crashing through the
ice. The current ran powerfully at that point, and he did not relish the prospect of being swept along with it. The rope would
stop him from being dragged too far, but he was not sure that Michael would be able to rescue him soon enough to prevent him
from drowning.

He stopped for a moment to stretch shoulders that ached from tension, and looked around, admiring the jumble of roofs that
formed the nearby colleges and the Carmelite Friary. Most were dusted with snow, but here and there heat from fires had resulted
in exposed patches of red tile and manure-brown thatch. A thick pall of smoke hung over the whole town, formed by the hundreds
of fires that warmed houses and cooked food, and the stench of burning wood and peat was throat-searing, even down by the
river. Suddenly, as he allowed his mind to wander, a horrible thought struck him like a thunderbolt.

‘Turke died here.’

Michael nodded. ‘Doing what you are doing – walking on
the river – so be careful. I do not want you to go the same way.’

‘Doing what I am doing,’ repeated Bartholomew slowly. ‘Looking for a murder weapon.’

Michael stared at him in startled disbelief. ‘You think Turke was looking for the knife that killed Norbert? Why should he
do that? They did not even know each other, and it is not as if we are short of suspects for Norbert’s murder. Rather the
reverse, in fact.’

‘How do you know they did not know each other?’

Michael sighed. ‘Why should they? Turke was a stranger here and Norbert was
dead before Turke arrived in Cambridge.’

‘Norbert died
after
he arrived,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Turke came on the fifteenth of December, and Norbert died on the twentieth. And do not
forget that Norbert received a summons to meet someone called Dympna, while Turke muttered that name as he died.’

‘He did not,’ objected Michael. ‘
You
thought you heard him say Dympna, but
I
heard him say Templar. But even if you are right about Turke’s last words, the association between him and Norbert is a little
far-fetched, if you want the truth.’

‘Then what was Turke doing here?’ demanded Bartholomew, irritated by Michael’s reluctance to accept his reasoning. ‘Philippa
said he was not the kind of man to go skating. So, if he was not here for pleasure, then it means he was here for some other
purpose. I do not see why you think looking for a knife is so improbable.’

‘Because if he was looking for the knife, then it implies that he was Norbert’s killer,’ said Michael, equally exasperated.
‘And I do not see how that can be possible.’

‘We already know that Turke had a murderous streak,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He slew Fiscurtune quite casually. And Fiscurtune
was stabbed, just like Norbert.’