‘You need not worry,’ said Bartholomew, amused by their
flagrant self-interest. ‘I doubt I am any more Philippa’s idea of the perfect husband now than I was five years ago. We are
not as easy in each other’s company as we were, and she is often irritable.’
‘She is not a happy woman,’ agreed Matilde. ‘And it is not because she has lost her husband. Her sadness goes deeper than
that, and has lasted for more than a few days.’
‘She was not sad at the feast,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by Matilde’s assertions. ‘And that was before Turke died. She
is not the woman I remember – who laughed a good deal – but she did not seem despondent. Just older and wiser, like all of
us.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Matilde. ‘She is carrying a burden that is hard to bear. I noticed it when Edith introduced us days
ago, when Turke was still alive. Perhaps she realised what a mistake she made in declining you in favour of him. I am sure
it is something to do with love – or the lack of it. We women can tell these things.’
‘It is probably indigestion,’ said Michael, eliciting a husky chortle from Dunstan. ‘God knows, the woman eats enough!’
Amused by the monk’s unashamed hypocrisy and Matilde’s wild assumptions about a woman she did not know, Bartholomew mixed
Dunstan a mild dose of laudanum to induce the sleep he felt the old man needed. Then he sat in mute sympathy when Dunstan’s
laughter dissolved into tears. When he began to doze, Bartholomew and Michael left him with Matilde, and slipped away. Michael
sniffed hard as they walked along the towpath, and when he spoke his voice was unsteady.
‘I hate winter, Matt. It is a cruel and uncaring season.’
‘Summer can be as bad,’ Bartholomew replied sombrely. ‘Hot-weather agues claim people, too, and so does marsh fever.’
Michael took a deep breath and tilted his head to look at the bright stars overhead. ‘We have so much to do,’ he said eventually.
His voice was steadier, and he was evidently finding solace in thinking about his duties, pushing
Athelbald and Dunstan from his mind. ‘We have the picture of the knife to show folk in order to identify Norbert’s killer.
And I should speak to the town’s other Franciscans about Godric – I am suspicious he has a new knife just after Norbert’s
murder.’
‘And there is Harysone’s stabbing. We have to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the Michaelhouse lads did not do it
before he complains to the Chancellor. Tynkell will do almost anything to avert a riot, and may order Michaelhouse to pay
Harysone to keep him quiet. We cannot afford to compensate the man for his injury – unless we want to spend the rest of the
winter living like Ovyng.’
‘You are right. But things are beginning to come together and I can see connections now that were not obvious before. For
example, we know Harysone played dice with Norbert and lost a tench to him. Meanwhile, Harysone has also been asking about
Dympna, who we know sent missives to Norbert.’
‘Dympna connects Norbert to Turke, too. He said her name as he died. And fish links all three men to each other: Norbert’s
tench, Harysone’s book, and Turke’s chosen trade.’
‘I disagree with you about Turke’s dying words, as you know,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But your fishy associations look promising.
However, I will not accept that Turke killed Norbert. The culprit is far more likely to be Harysone.’
‘Then there are the Chepe Waits,’ added Bartholomew, not wanting to argue about it. His conclusions had been built solely
on the fact that Turke had died near where the murder weapon had been found, and he knew this was a weak foundation for any
theory. He also accepted that the visiting fishmonger had no reason to murder Norbert. Although he did not want to admit it
to Michael, he had reconsidered the hasty suppositions he had made relating to Turke’s place of death, and was inclined to
believe that the monk was correct after all. Turke did not kill Norbert.
‘What about the Waits?’ asked Michael.
‘Quenhyth saw them conversing with Harysone in the King’s Head; they played in Turke’s house and admitted talking to Gosslinge
in Cambridge; and they spoke to Norbert. They have connections to the three dead men, too.’
‘We know they were desperately looking for someone to employ them, so they probably spoke to lots of people,’ said Michael,
unconvinced as he mulled over the information. ‘I think that particular connection is spurious.’
‘But it is odd that Philippa should not mention she had hired them – and that Giles immediately left when they appeared. And
what about Quenhyth? He is a connection, too. He knows the Waits, he hails from near Chepe, and he is the son of a fishmonger.’
‘That must be coincidence,’ determined Michael. ‘I can accept he might kill a Wait, but he, like Turke, has no motive for
murdering Norbert. So, we are left with a lot of questions. It seems there are strands linking Norbert, Harysone and the Turke
household together, but we cannot be sure what – if anything – they mean. Meanwhile, Stanmore believes – and I concur – that
the circumstances of Turke’s death warrant a little probing by the Senior Proctor. You yourself said it is odd that he and
his servant should die in quite such quick succession.’
‘But there is nothing on either body to suggest foul play: Turke died because he fell through ice, and Gosslinge seems to
have been a victim of the cold weather.’
Michael’s expression was crafty. ‘Both still lie in the church, because there is too much snow to bury one, while the other
is awaiting transport to London. Will you look at them again? To make sure there is nothing you missed?’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘I can look at them until I am blue in the face, but I still will not be able to tell you more than we
already know.’
‘You think Turke was looking for the knife that killed Norbert,’ pressed Michael, still unaware of Bartholomew’s recapitulation
on that point. ‘We need to continue our search for connections, and the best way to do that is to
examine the bodies again. Tonight.’ He raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections. ‘I know you promised Philippa you
would not tamper with Turke, but it is obvious she has her own reasons for making such a request, and they may not be innocent.’
‘But it is freezing tonight,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘If I die of an ague brought on by cold, you will have no one to inspect
your corpses when it is really necessary.’
‘I think it is really necessary now,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is an excellent time for looking at corpses. It is late – probably
long past eight o’clock – and no one will be looking.’
‘You make it sound so underhand,’ grumbled Bartholomew, reluctantly turning towards St Michael’s. ‘Looking at bodies in the
dark, when no one can see what we are doing.’
The air was so cold that it hurt Bartholomew’s throat when he inhaled, exacerbated by the thick wood-smoke that clogged the
town. The physician was revolted to note that, near the church, the fumes had all but blocked the stars from the sky, and
he could taste soot and cinders in his mouth, crunching between his teeth. He unravelled part of his hood turban and used
it to cover his mouth. His ears ached from the chill, while his nose was so numb he could not tell whether it was dripping.
He longed to be back in Michaelhouse, even if it meant another evening of the Waits. They reached the church, squat and mysterious
in the smoke that swirled down the High Street from the great fires in King’s Hall. Michael fumbled in his scrip for the key,
but when he inserted it the door swung open of its own accord.
‘That is odd,’ said the monk. ‘I have not spoken to Langelee about the beggars yet, and I doubt he would leave the church
unlocked without being prompted.’
Bartholomew inspected the latch. ‘It is not unlocked, Brother. The mechanism has been smashed. And there is a light inside.
Someone is in there!’
‘Stay here and make sure he does not escape, while I fetch the beadles,’ instructed Michael. ‘We will not attempt
to apprehend this intruder by ourselves. We tried that last summer in Ely, and we allowed a killer to go free and claim more
victims. This time, we will do it properly. If he comes out, hide. I do not want to return and find you dead.’
He slipped away into the night, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician huddled into his cloak and tried not to think about
his icy feet. The monk had not been gone for more than a few moments before the door opened and two people emerged. Bartholomew
cursed softly. What should he do? Hide himself, as Michael had instructed? Or should he try to grab one?
Boldly, but rashly, he opted for the latter. With an earsplitting yell that he hoped would bring Michael rushing back, he
launched himself at the shadowy figures. Both were startled into releasing howls of their own, voicing their terror at being
assailed from a shadowy graveyard. One began to lay about him with clumsy, panicky punches, none of which met their intended
target, while the other dropped to his knees and began a prayer. Bartholomew recognised the voice and promptly abandoned his
attempts to seize the fellow’s companion.
‘Kenyngham?’ he asked in confusion. He reeled backwards, as the second man found himself with a stationary target and a fist
grazed the physician’s right ear.
‘Got him!’ yelled Suttone victoriously, jumping up and down in glee. He stopped jigging and shrank back in alarm as Bartholomew
turned to face him. ‘No! Please do not hit me back! It was an accident. I will give you anything – the key to Michaelhouse’s
silver chest, if you would like it.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, rubbing his ear. ‘And you should not have it, either, if you are prepared to give
it up so easily. What are you doing here at this time of night?’
‘Matthew! Thank the Lord!’ Kenyngham pulled himself up from his knees and gave a sigh of relief, crossing himself vigorously.
‘I thought you were a robber. What made you throw yourself at us with that unholy screech? I feared it
was Turke’s tortured soul, come to haunt us for not saying more masses.’
‘I assumed you were burglars,’ said Bartholomew lamely. Since the scuffle, the door had swung open, illuminating them with
faint candlelight from inside. It seemed impossible that he could mistake Kenyngham and Suttone, with their wide-sleeved habits
and pointed cowls, for thieves. He could only plead that it had been very dark. ‘The latch has been smashed.’
‘I noticed that when we arrived,’ said Kenyngham, sounding careless of the fact that it meant someone had forced an illicit
entry. ‘But you were the one who asked us to pray for Turke, so I am surprised that you should attack us for being here.’
‘I am sorry, Father,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I hope I did not alarm you too much.’
‘You did, actually,’ said Suttone coolly. ‘I do not like being screamed at by spectres that launch themselves from graveyards.’
He turned to Kenyngham with accusing eyes. ‘You did not mention the lock was broken. I assumed you used your key to enter.’
‘I did not want earthly concerns to distract you from your meditations,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I planned to ask Langelee to mend
it tomorrow.’
‘But this means that the pair who are in there now are intruders,’ said Suttone in a hushed, appalled whisper.
‘I suppose so,’ acknowledged Kenyngham, sounding as though he did not much care. ‘They could also be folk who are weary of
fiddling with our awkward latch. It seems to be much worse these days, and I am often obliged to use the south door when I
want to leave.’
‘How often?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the day when Michael had discovered the south door open and had immediately drawn
the conclusion that Harysone had done it.
‘Once or twice a week,’ came the alarming reply. ‘Why? Have I done something wrong? I do not—’
‘The people inside right now must have forced the lock,’ said Suttone, rudely cutting across his words. His voice grew unsteady,
as the implications slowly sank in. ‘I wondered why they seemed nervous until we knelt and started to pray. They imagined
they had been caught red-handed, and were anticipating a fight.’ He swallowed hard and leaned against the door, unnerved by
his narrow escape.
‘Where are they now?’ demanded Bartholomew, pushing past him. He advanced cautiously, not wanting to barge in and have his
brains dashed out with one of the heavy pewter candlesticks from the altar. ‘Who are they? And what are they doing?’
‘There are two of them,’ said Kenyngham helpfully, following him into the nave. ‘They are cloaked and hooded, so we did not
see their faces – and they were in the Stanton Chapel, anyway. They were there the whole time we were saying our prayers,
moving about and muttering. I assumed they were troubled souls, seeking the peace only a church can offer.’
‘Or the silver only a church can offer,’ muttered Suttone, who appreciated that folk entered churches for reasons other than
to pray, even if Kenyngham did not.
‘Are you sure they are still here?’ asked Bartholomew, inching down the nave, keeping well away from pillars that might conceal
an attacker. ‘They did not leave through the south door, as you have just confessed to doing?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Kenyngham. ‘They were in the Stanton Chapel when Suttone and I completed our devotions and left.’
Heart thumping, Bartholomew headed towards the chapel. He held one of the knives he used for surgery, and was aware that his
hand was sweating, despite the chill, so the weapon felt slippery in his grasp. Kenyngham began to remonstrate with him for
drawing a dagger in a church, but the physician silenced him with an urgent order to remain behind a column, out of harm’s
way. The cowardly Suttone needed no such advice, and had chosen to remain
outside while Bartholomew hunted the interlopers.
The physician reached the chapel and explored it carefully. But whoever had been there, ‘moving about and muttering’, had
gone. Only Athelbald and Turke were there, shrouded and silent in their coffins.
Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, Bartholomew went to the south aisle, where the body of Gosslinge lay – as
a mere servant and a stranger to the town, Gosslinge did not warrant use of the Stanton Chapel, like the wealthy Turke or
members of the Michaelhouse choir. The south door had been unbarred and opened, and Bartholomew saw that the two intruders
had slipped away quietly into the night.