Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

With a long-suffering sigh, Bartholomew moved the robes away from the slight figure that nestled inside them. It would have been simple for the beggar to escape the enveloping folds had he wanted to do so, and Bartholomew supposed that he had wrapped them around himself in an attempt to be invisible and keep warm at the same time. It was a clever ploy, and would probably have ensured that he would not be evicted to spend the day – or night – outside.

Bartholomew shivered and wondered whether he should experiment to see whether the particular angles of the cloth would reveal whether the man had wrapped them himself, or whether someone else had done it for him. But he was so cold that he could barely think, and he did not feel like inserting himself among the damp, smelly robes to assess the varying ways in which they might end up around him. Instead, he unravelled the folds and forced them to release their grisly burden. It did not take long, and he soon had the body resting on the floor.

Trying not to rush, just because he wanted to return to Michaelhouse and huddle near the fire, he sat back on his heels and studied what lay in front of him. He realised that thicker clouds must have massed outside, because the church was so dark he could barely see the body, let alone examine it. Michael fetched the candle from the altar, but its cheap tallow did little to help, and its main contribution to the task was to release an oily, pungent odour that competed valiantly with the stench of rotting cloth.

Bartholomew leaned close to the corpse in a vain attempt to inspect it. The man had not been wealthy: his clothes were frayed, patched and woefully inadequate for the rigours of a Fenland winter. His hands were soft, however, and notably uncalloused, suggesting that his ill fortunes had not forced him into manual labour to earn his bread. One thumb was missing, but the wound had healed long ago, and Bartholomew supposed some ancient accident had robbed him of it.

Satisfied he had learned all he could by looking, he began his physical examination, suspecting this would reveal little more and that he was lingering in the church for nothing. The corpse felt icy cold, but Bartholomew’s own hands were not much warmer, and he decided the temperature of the body would tell him little about when the man had died. Struggling to see, he checked quickly for wounds, then inspected the neck to see whether the man had been strangled. His brief examination revealed nothing. He stood, trying to rub the ache from his knees, and shrugged helplessly at Michael.

‘I do not know what killed him, Brother, but I am guessing it was the cold. I cannot tell you when, though. It is so chilly that the usual methods for estimating time of death – body coolness, stiffness, decay and so on – are useless. He might have crept in here this morning, but could equally as easily have been here for a couple of days.’

Michael grimaced. ‘That is an unpleasant notion, Matt. I do not like the thought of saying my prayers while corpses peer at me from decaying albs.’

‘I imagine there are few who would. But all I can tell you is that this man was poor and that he probably suffered miserably from the weather. There is no injury that I can detect, so I doubt that your friend Harysone had anything to do with his demise.’

‘What about poison?’ suggested Michael hopefully.

‘There are no lesions or bleeding in the mouth. He did not scratch or claw at his throat. I suppose he might have been given something soporific, but I really do not see why anyone would kill a beggar using potions that are usually expensive.’

‘And there is nothing on his body to tell us who he is?’

‘As you see,’ said Bartholomew, indicating the sad remains that lay in front of them. ‘He owned no purse – or none that is with him now.’

‘I will ask my beadles to make some enquiries,’ said Michael. He cocked his head. ‘But the bells are ringing to announce the midday meal. Meadowman can deal with this poor fellow’s remains, and this afternoon I shall set about trying to discover what happened to Norbert.’

‘And what about Harysone?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Has he been granted a reprieve now that you have Norbert’s murder and identifying the beggar to take up your time?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘Master Harysone has not heard the last of me yet.’

After the midday meal, Bartholomew went to prepare the lecture he was to give that afternoon, while Michael delegated a student to read part of Duns Scotus’s Ordinatio to his small group of sombre, erudite Benedictines. The monk rubbed his chin as he left Michaelhouse, wondering whether to concentrate his attention on the violent murder of Norbert or on discovering the identity of the beggar who had died in the church. Duty told him he should go to Ovyng and speak to Norbert’s classmates, but the unsettled, albeit irrational, feeling he had experienced ever since he had first set eyes on Harysone made him more inclined to look into the death of the beggar, since a nagging suspicion told him that Harysone was involved.

Michael was not normally a man given to wild and unfounded prejudices against people he barely knew, but he liked to think he had developed an ability to single out at least some folk whose intentions were not entirely honourable. And all his instincts screamed at him that Harysone’s presence in the town was one he could do without. Bartholomew might have been unable to prove that the beggar had come to harm at Harysone’s hands, but Michael knew there were ways to kill that defied detection, and some deep, feral instinct convinced him that Harysone had not been tussling with the sticky door merely to admire St Michael’s dented pewter.

He pondered for a moment more before turning left and striding up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. Norbert’s murder would be difficult to solve, given that the fellow had so many enemies in the town, and the investigation did not appeal to Michael in the slightest. He decided to leave Norbert until the following day and interview Harysone instead: Norbert was dead and nothing could change that, but Harysone represented crimes to be committed in the future – and they might be prevented.

Harysone, however, was not at his lodgings in the King’s Head, nor was he browsing among the stalls in the Market Square. Michael scratched his head thoughtfully, then began a systematic trawl of the town’s taverns, becoming more determined to find the man with each unsuccessful enquiry. When he met Meadowman near the Brazen George, the beadle informed him that Harysone had been in the Hall of Valence Marie, selling copies of his manuscript.

‘He is doing what?’ spluttered Michael, outraged. ‘Peddling his inferior scholarship to some of the greatest minds in the country?’

‘I do not know about that,’ said Meadowman stoically. ‘But he sold Valence Marie two copies of his treatise, and then went to Bene’t College.’

‘And what would this “treatise” be about?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘Harysone was never a student here, and I doubt even Oxford would accept the likes of him into their midst.’

‘Valence Marie’s porter told me it was about fish,’ said Meadowman. ‘And suchlike.’

‘Fish?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘Harysone told me it was a philosophical tract. And what do you mean by “and suchlike”?’

Meadowman shrugged, glancing up the High Street to where he could see two undergraduates emerging nonchalantly from the Brazen George. If he caught them, he could fine them fourpence, and he itched to be away after them.

‘You will have to read it yourself,’ he said. ‘You know I am not a man for words.’

‘I shall never read it,’ vowed Michael, abandoning his beadle and heading purposefully towards Bene’t, which was all but hidden behind a vast bank of snow. A great mass of icy slush had sloughed from its roof ten days before, and the mound had grown even more when snow shovelled from the street had been added to it by students who were too lazy to haul the stuff away.