Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew sat on his heels and tucked his frozen hands under his arms in a vain attempt to warm them. He thought about the fear the young man must have felt, as he staggered towards the hostel already fatally wounded, and wondered why he had not shouted for help. The thought jarred something buried deep in his memory.

‘You say he failed to come home on Tuesday night?’ he asked. Ailred nodded.

‘Why?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘What have you found?’

‘Nothing, but I was summoned to tend Dunstan the riverman then. He has an affliction of the lungs that produces an excess of phlegm, and–’

‘We know,’ interrupted Michael, forestalling what might prove to be a detailed description of some particularly unpleasant symptoms. ‘You have been dragged from your bed for Dunstan several times since the weather turned sour. Did you see Norbert on Tuesday night?’

‘I heard something: a screech. Then a man jumped out of the shadows and knocked me over. I told you about it the next day.’

‘You did,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘But if you heard this scream, and an instant later someone knocked you head over heels, it was not the killer you encountered: he was murdering Norbert at that precise moment.’

‘And there is no reason to assume the killer had an accomplice,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘At least, not one that would be lurking so far away. It was just a thought; I was wrong.’

‘It may be important,’ said Tulyet, reluctant to abandon what might be a clue. ‘Perhaps Norbert called for help, and you were the only one who heard him. Was it very late?’

‘Past midnight,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But the sound I heard may have been from an animal, not a person.’

‘There is no reason to assume it was not Norbert,’ pressed Tulyet doggedly. ‘I know he left the King’s Head at midnight on Tuesday, because the landlord hunted me down yesterday and insisted I pay the debts he had incurred. It must have been him you heard, and he was murdered as he walked home. Damn! Why did he have to die like this?’

Bartholomew was surprised to see the glitter of tears in Tulyet’s blue eyes before he turned away to look towards the High Street – not surprised that Tulyet should show compassion, but that a man like Norbert should warrant it.

‘Even if I had gone to his aid I could not have saved him from wounds like this,’ he said gently. ‘The man who pushed me was probably a beggar looking for somewhere to sleep, who had nothing to do with Norbert’s murder.’ He winced as he rubbed his frozen hands together. ‘But I have done all I can here. The killer has left us no clues.’

Ailred dispatched a student to fetch a bier and offered to have Norbert delivered to Tulyet’s house. Tulyet nodded his thanks, looked one last time at the place where his cousin had died, and then walked away with Michael and Bartholomew on either side of him.

‘My father may feel obliged to ask Sheriff Morice to look into the matter, since Norbert was our kinsman – the nephew of a prominent town merchant,’ he said as they walked. ‘I shall do my best to dissuade him, but do not be surprised if you find a secular investigation in progress, as well as your own.’

‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Michael. ‘But I am not worried by anything Morice might do. He is no Dick Tulyet.’

Tulyet smiled wanly. ‘I trust you to find the truth, Brother. You will not fail me.’

‘Lord, Matt!’ said Michael uneasily, as Tulyet went to break the news of Norbert’s death to his father. ‘I shall do my best to oblige him, but Norbert had many enemies. I am not sure Dick’s confidence in me is warranted this time.’

Bartholomew expected Michael to begin making enquiries immediately into Norbert’s death, but the monk had different priorities. The physician was surprised to find himself being manoeuvred in the direction of St Michael’s Church, away from Ovyng Hostel and the scholars who were anticipating being interviewed about their classmate’s murder.

‘He will not be there now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, astonished to think that Michael should even begin to imagine that Harysone had spent half the morning in that frigid little building. ‘There is not much to do inside, so he will have looked around and left.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Michael firmly. ‘There was real purpose in his movements as he fiddled with the lock. He was determined to enter, and I conclude that there was some specific task he wanted to perform. He will still be there and we shall catch him in the act.’

‘You sound deranged,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘You follow him all over the town because you do not like the look of him, and now you assign him some dark and sinister purpose for entering a church. He may have gone inside to pray. People do, you know.’

‘Not him,’ said Michael with conviction. ‘He is not the type for prayers.’

‘Enough, Brother!’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘I have been up much of the last two nights with Dunstan, and I am too tired for this. It is also freezing out here. I have humoured you long enough today: it is time to go home.’

‘Just a few more moments,’ said Michael, not to be diverted from his purpose just because his companion was weary and cold. He smiled when a familiar figure emerged from the north porch as they approached. It was Beadle Meadowman, huddled deep inside his cloak. ‘I left a guard here when we went to see Norbert, to make sure Harysone did not escape.’

‘He has not come out,’ said Meadowman, flapping his arms vigorously in a futile attempt to drive the chill from his body. His usual good temper was gone, and he clearly did not appreciate being ordered to lurk in north-facing porches when there was a bitter wind blowing. ‘But then, I did not see him enter, either.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael peevishly. ‘You must have done. We all saw him battling with the latch.’

‘I took my eyes off him for a moment – just a moment – but when I looked again, he had gone,’ said Meadowman. He was not at all intimidated by Michael’s irritation, and was not going to apologise for his lapse, either. He was obviously as frustrated and bemused by Michael’s obsession with Harysone as was Bartholomew, and had had enough of orders to stalk the man when there were better and more productive ways to pass a morning. He gave a careless shrug. ‘So, maybe he entered, and maybe he did not.’

‘Did you look inside?’ asked Michael testily. ‘To see whether he was there?’

Meadowman pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘You told me to watch the door. You did not say I should search for him.’

Bartholomew grinned at Michael’s exasperation, while Meadowman looked defiant. Michael glowered at both of them, then turned to the church.

The latch on the porch of St Michael’s was notorious for being temperamental. Michaelhouse scholars, who came at least once a day for prayers, were used to its peculiarities, and most were able to open it with a minimum of jiggling. The scholars of Ovyng, Garrett, St Catherine’s and Physwick hostels, who paid Michaelhouse a fee to use the building on a regular basis, were also familiar with it. But to anyone unaware of its idiosyncratic nature, the latch presented a formidable barrier, and more than one would-be visitor had been thwarted by it in the past. Michael gave it one or two expert shakes, and the door sprung open.

The two scholars walked through the timber porch and entered the short nave, while Meadowman seized the opportunity to slip away to his other duties. It was even colder inside the church than it was out, which was probably the real reason why the beadle had declined to search it for Harysone. The air was still and damp, and ice-glazed puddles showed where water had leaked through the roof during the last sleety downpour and had collected in depressions on the floor. Most of the window shutters were open, but the glass was thick and opaque, the building shadowy, and the winter day dull and grey, so it was difficult to see anything at all.