Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Or would it? Michael would drag him into Norbert’s murder investigation, while Gray was almost certain to be elected Lord of Misrule. Because Gray was Bartholomew’s student, he suspected that he might be held responsible for some of the lad’s wilder schemes – and Gray could be very wild indeed. Perhaps it would be a good time to renew friendships with folk who lived somewhere other than Cambridge. But then hard pellets of snow pattered against the hall’s glass windows, and he was reminded that it was no time to be considering journeys into the country.

‘We should not be discussing this lady here,’ said Kenyngham sympathetically, breaking into his thoughts. ‘It is never wise to dwell on matters that were once painful.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael, as though he had many jilted fiancées of his own to consider. ‘Now, what were you saying earlier about unactualised forms and qualities, Matt?’

‘I do not hold with talking at the table,’ said William, who did not want to resume a debate that he would probably lose. ‘The season for chatter at mealtimes is not yet upon us, so summon the Bible Scholar, Master, and let us consider some religious text.’

Langelee snapped his fingers, and the student who received a free education in return for reading from the scriptures during meals stepped up to the lectern. The lad opened the book and rested his elbows on the edge of the stand, then gave a howl of alarm as the whole thing toppled to the ground with a resounding crash. After the initial shock, the other students started to laugh.

‘God’s blood!’ swore Langelee. ‘What happened?’

‘Someone has taken a saw to it,’ said Bartholomew, who could see the tell-tale striations in the wood from where he sat. He found himself looking at Gray, whose face revealed nothing, and Deynman, whose expression bespoke abject guilt. ‘I suppose this was one of the tricks planned for the Season of Misrule.’

‘William will have to do without his Bible today,’ said Langelee. ‘And if the lectern is mended, I may be prepared to overlook this sorry incident.’

Deynman puffed out his cheeks in a sigh of relief, although, predictably, there was still no reaction from Gray. Bartholomew thought Gray should choose his accomplices with more care; Deynman had given them away almost at once. But it would not matter for much longer, because Gray planned to leave Michaelhouse soon, to take up a prestigious post in Suffolk. Bartholomew was certain he would be successful – the lad was too sly and manipulative to do otherwise.

‘What have you been doing to produce such a healthy appetite?’ said Langelee of Michael, watching the monk peel three hard-boiled eggs and eat them whole, one after the other. ‘Another murder? You have not had one of those for a year now – although I suppose you solved some in Ely last summer.’

‘Tulyet’s cousin,’ replied Michael, selecting the largest piece of bread in the basket. ‘He was found murdered in St Michael’s Lane.’

‘I heard,’ said Langelee. ‘That is too close to Michaelhouse for my liking. I hope you catch this killer quickly.’

‘Then there is the puzzling case of the body in the church,’ Michael continued. He leaned back to allow a servant to ladle a quantity of oatmeal into the bowl in front of him. ‘Go on, man! Fill it! A dribble is no good for a man of my stature.’

The butler’s face was expressionless as he spooned the thick porridge into Michael’s bowl until there was a glutinous meniscus across the top. Only then did the monk incline his head to acknowledge that it was sufficient.

‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ admonished Bartholomew automatically, as the monk fell on the food like a starving peasant. ‘There is enough for everyone, and this is not a race.’

‘Huh!’ muttered Michael, not bothering to hide his contempt for the physician’s advice, since he knew perfectly well that Michaelhouse occasionally ran out of food before everyone had been served. And the fastest eaters were invariably the ones who secured seconds.

‘Norbert’s case will not be difficult to solve,’ declared William, giving his horn spoon – still stained from his previous meal – a cursory wipe on the sleeve of his filthy habit. ‘He was a vile lad, and Ovyng is well rid of him, although Ailred will miss the fees. But what about this other case – the body in the church? I have not heard about that. Is this another murder? You have not mentioned it to me – your Junior Proctor.’

‘Matt said it was natural,’ replied Michael, ignoring the reproachful tone of William’s voice.

‘I did not,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I said he probably died from the cold. That is not the same thing.’

‘So, he could have been frozen deliberately,’ mused William with relish. ‘That would be murder in my book. I shall set about making enquiries immediately.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, alarmed by the prospect of the Franciscan on the loose, accusing all and sundry of a murder that had never happened. ‘We must find out who he was first. Will you do that? He was a beggar, who perhaps sought sanctuary from the weather in our church, and–’

‘In our church?’ interrupted Langelee in horror. ‘You mean St Michael’s?’

‘No, the other one,’ mumbled Michael facetiously. He spoke more loudly. ‘He was hidden among the rotten albs, Master, although Matt thinks he had wrapped himself up for warmth. I was going to tell you about it yesterday, but it slipped my mind.’

‘You must discover the identity of this man immediately,’ said Langelee, alarmed. ‘I cannot have unnamed corpses appearing in my church. And just before Christmas, too. I shall have to have it resanctified.’

‘I shall do that – after I discover the killer,’ offered William generously. ‘Do not worry, Master. I shall have the whole matter resolved by nightfall. I shall begin by asking the Dominicans what they know about the matter.’

‘You will spend your time discovering this beggar’s name,’ ordered Michael sternly. It would not be the first time the Franciscan used a crime to indulge his hatred of Dominicans, and Michael could not afford wild and unfounded accusations to damage the fragile truce between the Orders.

‘We cannot sit here and chatter all day,’ said Langelee abruptly, standing to say the final grace. He was a fast eater, and disliked sitting for longer than necessary when a busy day lay ahead of him. ‘We all have work to do. Pax vobiscum .’

Several students looked at their full bowls in dismay, realising too late that they should have eaten instead of eavesdropped on the lively conversation at the high table. Michael’s spoon made a harsh scraping sound as he reached the bottom of his dish – he was not a man to fall victim to Langelee’s disconcerting habit of cutting mealtimes short – while Bartholomew and the others hastily drained theirs. Langelee dismissed the assembled scholars, marching purposefully from the hall in order to begin the many tasks that fell daily to the Master of a Cambridge College. Wynewyk hurried after him, muttering officiously about documents that needed to be signed if the scholars wanted food, drink and fuel for the Christmas season.

Michael reached for another piece of bread before the servants cleared the tables. ‘I am glad I did not listen to your advice about how to eat, or I would be facing a morning without breakfast.’

‘Gobbling is not good for you,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘It unbalances the humours and gives rise to pains in the stomach.’

‘Christmas is a wonderful time for men with healthy appetites,’ said Michael, thinking fondly of the gobbling that was to come. ‘Twelve days with no teaching and plentiful food and wine.’