A Killer in Winter (35 page)

‘Leave me alone, woman. And keep your nasty opinions to yourself.’

‘I think you should—’ began Bartholomew, wanting to warn Frith to back down before it was too late. Next to him, Cynric was
laughing softly, while Michael watched Frith step into mortal danger with folded arms and an amused smile. Bartholomew never
had the chance to complete his sentence. Agatha’s stick moved so fast that it was a blur. There was a sharp crack, and Frith
crumpled to the floor at her feet.

‘Whoops,’ she said flatly. ‘How clumsy of me.’

‘He will be all right,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling quickly to inspect the fallen
man before Makejoy could make a fuss. ‘He is just dazed. Take him back to Michaelhouse and tell him to spend the rest of the
day quietly. He glanced up at Agatha. ‘You should watch what you do with that thing. You do not want to be charged with assault.’

‘It was an accident,’ said Agatha archly. She turned to the Fellows and servants, who were watching her antics with unconcealed
approval. Langelee was chortling with delight, and even the dour Suttone was laughing. ‘Well? Was it not?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Cynric gleefully. ‘The stick just slipped.’

‘It was a shame Frith walked into it,’ added Langelee. ‘I imagine he will be unable to entertain us with music tonight. Pity.’

Makejoy helped the stunned piper to his feet. ‘I am sorry,’ she said to Agatha, seeing where the sympathy lay and determined
to make the best of a bad situation. It would not do for Michaelhouse to ignore the contract and dismiss them when they would
be unlikely to find alternative employment that season. ‘This will not happen again.’

‘It had better not,’ said Agatha ungraciously. ‘Keep him away from me, or I shall do more than give him a bump on the skull
next time.’

‘She will, you know,’ said Deynman cheerfully. ‘You should hide him away, if you want him to live to see his old age.’

‘I shall try,’ said Makejoy. She slipped Frith’s hand over her shoulder and led him away. He pulled away from her in an attempt
to regain some of his dignity, but staggered on rubbery legs.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Kenyngham, watching him in dismay. ‘Violence already, and the game has not even started yet. I do not want
to be here!’

‘Do not worry,’ said Bartholomew, giving Deynman a withering glare for inflicting camp-ball on someone like the Gilbertine.
The student looked surprised, as though he could not imagine what he had done wrong. ‘Wait until the game begins, then slip
away. You will not be missed. This is a game for the strong and the fast, and the chances of you even seeing the ball once
the game has started are remote. Let the likes of Deynman and Agatha compete, if they will.’

The Sheriff abruptly concluded his opening speech, then tossed the leather bag with all his might into the waiting crowd.
There was an almighty cheer, and all eyes followed it as it rose, then arced downwards – straight into the astonished arms
of Kenyngham.

‘Lord!’ cried the Gilbertine in alarm. ‘I do not want it. Here!’

Before Bartholomew could stop him, Kenyngham had given him the ball. Large and determined men were already beginning to converge
on the spot where the ball had landed, thrusting the smaller and weaker out of the way. An old woman was battered to the ground,
where she covered her head with her arms as feet trampled heedlessly across her. A child screamed in terror at the chaos,
and everywhere, people started to shout with excitement.

‘To me! To me!’ yelled Deynman, beginning to dart away,
and raising his hands to indicate he was ready for Bartholomew to pass him the ball.

‘No! Me!’ howled Gray, dashing off in the opposite direction.

‘Here!’ shouted Langelee, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘Throw it to me!’

‘Not me!’ shrieked Michael, as the physician glanced in his direction. ‘I do not want it, man!’

‘I will take it,’ announced Agatha, snatching the ball from the physician. She drew back one of her mighty arms and precipitated
the ball high into the air, far higher and further than Sheriff Morice’s paltry effort. The crowd howled in delight, the burly
men abruptly changed the direction of their charge, and the Michaelhouse Fellows were reprieved. The students rushed into
the affray, Cynric and the other servants among them, while Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief that his part in the game
was over.

‘I am going to the church,’ said Kenyngham shakily. ‘I did not enjoy that at all.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Suttone fervently. ‘I thought we were all about to be bowled over like kayles. I was terrified. I am
going to Michaelhouse, where I shall bar the door to my room and spend the afternoon thanking God for my lucky escape.’

‘The ball is still in the air,’ yelled Langelee admiringly. ‘That was quite a throw, Agatha. We shall have to make sure you
are on our team again next year. But I am away to join the fun.’

He shoved through the jostling crowd, becoming one of the large, tough men whose only aim was to grab the ball and play, careless
of anyone who happened to be in his way. Bartholomew could see the bag as a black dot in the distance, sailing towards St
Mary the Great. He wondered whether it would ever return to the ground. The crowd was still cheering when it smacked into
the church like one of the new fire-propelled missiles that the English were currently using to frighten the French in the
wars.

Then there was a disbelieving silence, as every eye was fixed on the spectacle of the town’s one and only camp-ball firmly
embedded in the mouth of one of St Mary’s more impressive gargoyles. It was so high up that Bartholomew suspected there were
few – if any – ladders that would reach it. Gradually, people looked away from the ball and turned to Agatha. There was discontented
mumbling, and bitter disappointment was written clear across the face of every man who had been looking forward to an afternoon
of violent fun. Michaelhouse’s laundress suddenly found herself the centre of some very hostile attention.

‘What?’ she demanded belligerently, hands on hips.

That evening, while the students caroused in the conclave, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the kitchen to avoid being asked
by the Lord of Misrule to provide musical entertainment. Once settled with mulled wine and a dish of dried fruit, they discussed
the day’s events. Bartholomew was tired and distressed about Dunstan, and was grateful that Agatha was not in her domain that
night, sewing by candlelight as was her habit on winter evenings. She had gone to the King’s Head, to give her own version
of the camp-ball incident to a host of wary admirers.

Michael was in Agatha’s wicker throne, while Bartholomew had drawn a stool as close to the fire as it was possible to be without
actually setting himself alight. It was another bitterly cold night, and the physician felt he should probably be grateful
that Dunstan did not have to live through it with lungs that were irritated both by the cold and by the smoke from his fire.

The Waits were also out, having been offered a non-optional night off. Gray had bluntly informed Deynman that he needed to
provide a change in entertainment, because everyone was bored with poor music and lack-lustre juggling. Agatha had wholeheartedly
agreed, and informed Deynman that even the Fellows could put on a better show than the Waits. Deynman had taken her literally,
and the
Fellows had been instructed to perform that night.

Surprisingly, most were pleased to be asked. William offered to sing some troubadour ballads, learned while persecuting heretics
in southern France. Kenyngham read a religious poem – but just the one; the students declined a second on the grounds that
they only had until dawn before the evening’s entertainment was over. Clippesby’s tavern songs were by far the most popular
turn, while Suttone’s peculiar jig, he claimed, had been copied from a Castilian sailor. Wynewyk played his lute to the Carmelite’s
ponderous, uncoordinated moves.

Deynman wanted Michael to sing, and Bartholomew to perform the magic tricks he used to distract or cheer sick children. Gray,
however, had heard about Dunstan, and with uncharacteristic sensitivity had instructed Deynman to excuse them. Bartholomew
had experienced a profound sense of gratitude towards Gray as he and Michael left the noisy revelry of the hall for the steamy,
yeasty warmth of the kitchen.

There were cobwebs on the ceiling, Bartholomew noticed, as he tipped his head back and listened to the distant rumble of William’s
singing. Bunches of herbs hung there, too, tied with twine and drying for future use. The wall behind the hearth glistened
black with grease and soot, and the kitchen smelled of ancient fat, wood-smoke and burnt milk. All around were pots and pans,
some half filled with the remains of the evening meal, and others already scoured clean for the following day. Vast ladles
lay in a neat line on the scrubbed table, and flour had been weighed and sifted into bowls, ready for baking the morning’s
bread. It was a scene simultaneously chaotic and organised.

The College cat rubbed itself around Bartholomew’s legs, so he picked it up and set it on his lap. Immediately it began digging
its claws into his thigh. Bartholomew had always been puzzled by the fact that cats often found themselves a comfortable spot,
only to lose it by their painful habit of clawing. He set it back on the floor, and it went to try its
luck with Michael. The monk allowed it into the cradle formed by the sagging habit between his knees and at once began to
sneeze. He chuckled as he wiped his nose on a piece of fine linen.

‘It was dusk by the time they retrieved the camp-ball. Agatha will be remembered for that particular trick for a very long
time. Apparently, when Cynric finally managed to reach it, it was so deeply jammed into the gargoyle’s maw that he was obliged
to use his knife to prise it out.’

‘I heard that Morice declared the game a draw, and said neither Castles nor Gates should have the prize money. He was almost
lynched, and has been obliged to set a date for a rematch.’

‘He was going to keep the money for himself. Foolish man. Some of his unorthodox ways of accumulating wealth can be ignored,
but not brazen appropriation of funds on that scale. People will be watching him constantly now he has revealed himself to
be openly dishonest. He has done himself a grave disservice.’

‘I am glad we were able to bury Dunstan and Athelbald today.’ Bartholomew stared into the flames.

‘Thanks to you,’ said Michael. ‘I thought you were being ghoulish when you persuaded each church to dig graves before the
weather turned foul. But it was good to lay my old tenors in the ground today, rather than storing them in the charnel house
to wait for a thaw. It is a pity you did not demand more holes: it is time Gosslinge was gone, too.’

Now that the day was spent, and Bartholomew was free to let his mind dwell on what had happened during it, he was weary and
dispirited. There was a nagging ache behind his eyes, and he found it hurt to think about the two old men they had buried.
He was also still disgusted with himself for failing to see the signs that Gosslinge had choked, and for being caught by Philippa
with his tweezers down a corpse’s throat. All in all, it had been a miserable day, and he was heartily glad it was over.

‘We need to talk to Giles when his sister is not there,’ said Michael, sneezing so violently that the cat was catapulted from
his lap. ‘He seems to have a different view of Turke and Gosslinge than she does, and I would like to hear his side in more
detail.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm.

‘The more I see of your old sweetheart, the more I sense she is not as honest as she was. She was angry with you for examining
Turke’s body, but her ire dissipated as soon as you said you had found nothing amiss. She was anticipating you would, and
was relieved to learn you had not.’

‘You are reading too much into it,’ said Bartholomew, wincing as the cat ascended to his knees again, claws at the ready.
‘She was cross at first, but I think she saw there was no point in remaining angry as long as she is obliged to stay with
my sister.’

‘No, I am right. She was worried you would find something when you looked at Turke.’ Michael fixed the physician with a penetrating
look. ‘You did not miss anything, did you?’

‘Now you do not trust me,’ said Bartholomew glumly. ‘I made a mistake with Gosslinge, and you are wondering how many more
I have made – starting with Turke.’

‘I am merely ensuring we should not return to St Michael’s and shove a pair of tweezers into Turke’s lungs, as you did to
Gosslinge’s.’

‘Turke spoke. He could not have done that if something had been lodged in his throat. I wonder if those scars on his legs
were what she did not want us to see.’

‘But we did see them, and you even asked her about them, but she did not react suspiciously when they were mentioned. She
merely said he had come by them before they met. Is that true? Are they old wounds?’

‘Some years. I have seen nothing like them before. What do you think about the knife? Was it Gosslinge’s, do you think?’

Michael sighed heavily. ‘Who knows? Your picture is
detailed, but it is not like showing folk the real thing. I could not decide whether Giles recognised it or not, and the
differences he mentioned might have been due to errors in your illustration. However, just for argument’s sake let us assume
they are one and the same. So, how did Gosslinge’s knife come to kill Norbert? We believe Gosslinge and Norbert met their
Maker on the same day, so was Gosslinge killed just to provide the killer with a suitable weapon to use on Norbert? That seems
harsh!’

‘Perhaps Gosslinge was the killer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘That would be the simplest solution. Then he went to the church
dressed in rags as some kind of atonement.’

‘Perhaps we should ignore the knife and its implications for now,’ said Michael, seeing an infinite range of possibilities,
none of which could be proven one way or another. ‘Where is that thing you extracted from Gosslinge? And, more importantly,
what was it?’