A Killer in Winter (5 page)

‘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.

The church smelled of cheap incense and damp plaster, with an underlying musty odour emanating from an array of ancient vestments
that were hanging on a row of hooks near the porch. Michaelhouse’s scholars believed that these grimy robes, which were liberally
spotted with mould, should be either cleaned or thrown away, but the Master always demurred, claiming that they might ‘come
in useful one day’. Bartholomew supposed they would remain festering on their rusty hooks until they turned to dust, since
he could not imagine anyone willingly donning the things when there were newer and less odorous ones available.

Harysone was not in the nave, so Bartholomew and Michael walked towards the chancel, their feet on the flagstones making
the only sound. The church comprised the nave and chancel, two aisles and two chapels. The south chapel was usually called
the Stanton Chapel, named for Michaelhouse’s founder who was buried there. It was one of the finest examples of modern architecture
in Cambridge, but the chancel was the building’s crowning glory. It was larger than the nave, and boasted simple, but elegant,
tracery in its arched windows, while its walls were painted with scenes from the Bible in brilliant reds, blues, yellows and
greens.
When the sun shone, light pooled in delicate patterns on the creamy-white of the floor, although that day the whole building
was gloomy, and no lights pooled anywhere.

Bartholomew noticed that one of the candles on the high altar had wilted, and that wax was dripping on the floor. He went
to straighten it and scrape away the mess with a knife, while Michael gazed around in agitation.

‘Harysone is not here!’ he muttered angrily.

Bartholomew shrugged as he worked. ‘We were at least an hour – probably longer – with Norbert. I am not surprised that your
quarry has left.’

Michael was disgusted. ‘Now we shall never know what he was doing.’

‘Meadowman said he may not have come in at all. Perhaps he gave up on the latch and went away. Or perhaps he exited through
the south door.’

‘Why would he do that?’ called Michael testily, prowling around the lovely Stanton Chapel, as though anticipating that Harysone
might be hiding behind the founder’s tomb.

‘Because the latch jammed and he found himself unable to leave through the north one?’ suggested Bartholomew, giving the pewter
candle-holder a quick polish on his sleeve.

‘You are right!’ exclaimed Michael triumphantly, when he went to inspect the exit in the south aisle. It was larger than the
north door, but using the smaller entrance tended to keep the building warmer. The south aisle was occasionally employed as
a mortuary chapel for parishioners, but most of the time it stood empty and its door was permanently barred. ‘Someone has
been out this way.’

The door had been left ajar, and the monk opened it fully to peer out, before shutting it again. A stout plank of wood prevented
anyone from entering from the outside, and he studied it thoughtfully before replacing it in its two metal clasps. Bartholomew
pointed out that anyone might have opened it, and that its use did not necessarily imply wrongdoing on Harysone’s part. Michael
listened patiently, but did not agree. Seeing neither was going to accept the
other’s point of view, they abandoned the discussion and headed to the north door. As Bartholomew jiggled the latch, the
monk forgot his tirade against Harysone, wrinkling his nose and indicating the row of robes that hung nearby.

‘The stench of those things is growing stronger by the day. They are too rotten ever to wear again, and I cannot imagine why
Master Langelee does not throw them away.’

‘Langelee never throws anything away if he thinks it may be useful. Michaelhouse is not wealthy, and he is just being prudent,
I suppose. Shoes.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Michael, confused.

‘Shoes,’ repeated Bartholomew, pointing at the robes. ‘I think someone is hiding from you.’

Michael followed the line of the physician’s outstretched finger and his lips compressed in grim satisfaction. Poking from
under the untidy, bulky folds of material was a pair of scruffy leather shoes. Someone had evidently slipped in among the
albs and chasubles in the hope that he would be hidden – as he would have been, had he not left his feet in full view. Michael
marched across to the line of hooks, and ripped the gowns aside.

The face that looked back at him was not Harysone’s. Nor was it the face of any living man. It was a corpse, with a pallid
blue tinge about its mouth and lips, and unseeing eyes that were half open, half closed.

Michael leapt back with a yell of alarm, bouncing into Bartholomew and almost knocking the physician from his feet. The sound
was loud in the otherwise silent church, and it startled some pigeons that had been roosting in the rafters. They flapped
in agitation, showering the floor below with dried droppings and floating feathers.

It was odd to see a corpse standing as though it were alive, and even Bartholomew – no stranger to sudden and unusual death,
thanks to his association with the University’s Senior Proctor – found it disconcerting. Carefully, he pushed a fold of cloth
away, and saw that several of the robes were wrapped
around the man’s arms and upper body, holding it upright. The hood of an alb lay in a tangled chain across the corpse’s chin
so that its head was raised, as though looking forward.

‘Who is it?’ demanded Michael, as if Bartholomew should know.

‘He looks like a beggar,’ said Bartholomew, pointing at the man’s threadbare clothes. ‘He must have come here to escape from
the cold.’

‘He should have chosen another church, then,’ remarked Michael, placing a flabby white hand across his chest to indicate that
the presence of a corpse among the decaying ceremonial robes had given him a serious shock. ‘Everyone knows St Michael’s is
the chilliest building in Christendom. Is that what killed him? Cold? Not Harysone?’

‘Harysone?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘Why should he kill a beggar?’

‘To prevent him from revealing Harysone’s intention to steal from our church. You saw for yourself that one of the candles
had been tampered with.’

‘Harysone is well-dressed and has been spending money on inks and parchment in the Market Square,’ said Bartholomew impatiently.
‘If he is a thief – and there is nothing to suggest that he is, other than an irrational suspicion on your part – he would
not be interested in our paltry pewter. He would go to St Mary the Great and help himself to gold crosses and silver patens.’

‘Those are guarded,’ countered Michael. ‘One of my beadles is always on duty there, and it would be impossible to steal anything.’

Bartholomew made a dismissive gesture. ‘You are quibbling, Brother. My point is that a well-heeled thief would not choose
St Michael’s when other places offer better potential. And you certainly cannot accuse Harysone of killing this man. He might
have been here for hours before Harysone arrived – assuming Harysone entered at all, that is.’

‘Then you have some work to do,’ said Michael, indicating the body with a peremptory wave of his hand. ‘This fellow
died on University property, and his death must be investigated by me.’

‘You will have to find someone else to help,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘As I told you, I was up most of the last two nights
with Dunstan, and I have already examined one corpse for you today.’

‘This cannot wait,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I need to know how this man died and whether someone – such as Harysone – gave
him a helping hand to Paradise. You would not want a killer to evade justice just because you are chilly and had an interrupted
night of sleep, would you?’

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.’