Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘I have someone making a list of all those who were present at the feast,’ said Gil, ‘and what each of them claims he did after the end of the play. That is urgent, I thought. We can hardly imprison the entire Faculty of Arts until we find justice for William.’

‘You are certain it was someone at the feast?’

‘No,’ Gil admitted. ‘There are the members of other faculties, there are the students who couldn’t afford the necessary contribution for the feast, there are the college servants. The Blackfriars have access to the college without going past the porter at the yett.’

‘I remember the porter,’ said the mason, pulling a face. ‘And I have done some repairs to the Blackfriars gate. It leads into the kitchen-yard, not so? Do you suspect them?’

‘We must suspect everybody’ Gil shrugged on his short gown and lifted the master’s bonnet to which the Dean had taken exception. ‘Come and view the corpse. I have a lantern now.’

Maistre Pierre, confronted by the gruesome scene in the coalhouse, contemplated it in silence for a short time, swinging his Sunday beads in one big hand, then remarked, ‘There have been too many people across this floor. I suppose the kitchen must want coals several times a day, but I see more than one pair of feet here.’

Gil nodded. ‘So I thought. At least I prevented them moving the body’ He peered round. ‘If he was killed in here I would expect more sign, nevertheless. There are all these tracks from the door to where he lies, and those are my prints from when I opened the window. Someone bound his hands and then strangled him, but his feet were free, and all students play football, he could have kicked hard, or run away, or put up some sort of struggle, and I see no sign.’

‘Was he perhaps attacked by more than one person?’

‘It’s possible, but I would expect to see sign of that too. I wonder if he was killed elsewhere and then put here.’

‘I agree,’ said the mason after a moment. ‘These are the prints of whoever carried him in here. Look, there is one as he stepped round to this side of the heap of coals. A pity they are so scuffed. But why? Why move him here?’

‘For secrecy?’

‘It was not secret for long.’

‘Long enough, perhaps.’

‘He was last seen alive at the end of the play, you say?’ said Maistre Pierre thoughtfully. ‘How long ago was that?’

‘More than two hours since.’ Gil was feeling the swollen face. ‘He’s cold, and beginning to set. It is cold in here under the vault, and the shutters were closed. He would cool quite fast.’

‘Should we unbind his hands?’

‘I want to move him into the light first.’ Gil reached for the lantern. ‘Take note of how he lies, Pierre.’

William was sprawled on his left side, his bound hands awkwardly in the pit of his belly, his head tipped back and the dreadful distorted face turned towards the light from the window. The right arm was cocked up so that a darn in the elbow of the blue gown showed. His legs, half-flexed under the skirt of the gown, ended in a pair of expensive-looking boots.

‘How do we move him? And to where?’

Two college servants and a hurdle saw the corpse removed from the coalhouse and set down in the courtyard, the dreadful face covered by a cloth begged from the kitchen. A small crowd gathered immediately, commenting with interest on the spectacle. It included some of the kitchen hands and also Maister Forsyth, who stepped forward at the same moment as the Dominican chaplain emerged from the pend that led to the kitchen-yard.

‘Will you be long, Gilbert?’ he asked. ‘It is urgent that Father Bernard and I begin the Act of Conditional Absolution, you understand.’

‘Not long, sir,’ said Gil. ‘Could you perhaps …?’ He waved at the crowd, and Maister Forsyth nodded and turned to make shooing motions which were largely ignored. Gil bent over the corpse, considering the white dust caked on the blue wool of the gown, and sniffed.

‘Pierre, do you smell cumin?’

‘Cumin?’ Maistre Pierre stepped closer. ‘I do. Not strong, but — was there a dish with cumin at the feast?’

‘Not at our table, we had rabbit and ground almonds and a couple of flans. Perhaps one of the other tables. That might be it.’

‘Now we loose his hands?’ prompted the mason.

They rolled the limp body over on the hurdle to get access to the buckle, and eased it free. The boy’s bony wrists were marked where the coils of leather had dug in. Gil turned them carefully, looked at the small neat hands, pushed up the sleeves to look at the forearms.

The mason, working on the unpleasant task of unfastening the other belt, remarked, ‘His gown is dry on the shoulders. He has not, I think, been out in the rain lately.’

‘Interesting,’ said Gil. ‘The hem is damp, at the back only, here where the scorch marks are, and there is coal-dust on one elbow and something white on the other.’

‘And on the skirt of his gown,’ said Maistre Pierre, looking along the length of the garment.

‘And these boots are scuffed on the toes.’

‘Many people scuff their toes.’

‘The boots are quite new and otherwise well cared for.’ Gil took the belt from the corpse’s wrists, a well-worn strap of ordinary cowhide with a cheap buckle, tried it round the waist of the gown, then rolled it up and put it in the breast of his doublet.

The other belt had sunk deeply into the swollen flesh of throat and neck and required to be coaxed, but finally came free. To judge by the mark on the leather it belonged to someone of heavier build than the first one, but it was otherwise just as unremarkable. Gil measured it likewise against the corpse’s waist, then examined the length of it closely, to muttered comments from the group of onlookers.

‘Why’s he doing that?’

‘College canny afford a bloodhound.’

‘Pierre, will you take this?’ Gil said, handing it over. ‘We need to keep the two belts separate, I think. I wonder where his purse is?’ He patted the breast of the faded blue gown, but found nothing. ‘That is odd,’ he added, searching more carefully. ‘I’ll swear he had a purse earlier.’

‘Is there anything else to learn from him?’ asked the mason, sitting back on his heels.

‘I don’t think so.’ Gil turned the empurpled face to look at it. ‘Perhaps I spoke too soon. Look at this.’

‘What is it?’

Gil touched the mark carefully. ‘Aye, the skin’s split. The flesh is much swollen but I think the jaw must be about there.’

‘ Someone has fetched him a blow.’ The mason made an involuntary movement with one fist.

‘I think so. You know, that’s a relief. It’s possible he was dazed or unconscious when he was throttled. I must ask someone that he shouldn’t be stripped until we can be present.’ Gil got to his feet, looking round for Maister Forsyth, who hurried forward followed by a student with a censer and another with holy water and an asperger. ‘Now we have to report to the Principal.’

The Dean, the Principal and the two men of law were in the Principal’s house, where the great chamber was hung with painted cloths depicting various learned men as bearded worthies in academic robes. In front of a long-nosed Socrates receiving a scroll from Philo-sophia herself, Maister Doby waved them to padded stools and said anxiously, ‘Well, Gilbert, what can ye tell us?’

‘Little more yet,’ said Gil. ‘We are both certain it is murder rather than any sort of accident, but beyond that — ’

‘The belt about his neck must belong to someone,’ said the Dean in incisive Latin. ‘Find the owner and we have found the culprit.’

‘The belt about his neck may be his own,’ said Gil. ‘However I agree that the other may very probably lead us to the malefactor.’