Bartholomew sighed. ‘I can look at them until I am blue in the face, but I still will not be able to tell you more than we already know.’
‘You think Turke was looking for the knife that killed Norbert,’ pressed Michael, still unaware of Bartholomew’s recapitulation on that point. ‘We need to continue our search for connections, and the best way to do that is to examine the bodies again. Tonight.’ He raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections. ‘I know you promised Philippa you would not tamper with Turke, but it is obvious she has her own reasons for making such a request, and they may not be innocent.’
‘But it is freezing tonight,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘If I die of an ague brought on by cold, you will have no one to inspect your corpses when it is really necessary.’
‘I think it is really necessary now,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is an excellent time for looking at corpses. It is late – probably long past eight o’clock – and no one will be looking.’
‘You make it sound so underhand,’ grumbled Bartholomew, reluctantly turning towards St Michael’s. ‘Looking at bodies in the dark, when no one can see what we are doing.’
The air was so cold that it hurt Bartholomew’s throat when he inhaled, exacerbated by the thick wood-smoke that clogged the town. The physician was revolted to note that, near the church, the fumes had all but blocked the stars from the sky, and he could taste soot and cinders in his mouth, crunching between his teeth. He unravelled part of his hood turban and used it to cover his mouth. His ears ached from the chill, while his nose was so numb he could not tell whether it was dripping. He longed to be back in Michaelhouse, even if it meant another evening of the Waits. They reached the church, squat and mysterious in the smoke that swirled down the High Street from the great fires in King’s Hall. Michael fumbled in his scrip for the key, but when he inserted it the door swung open of its own accord.
‘That is odd,’ said the monk. ‘I have not spoken to Langelee about the beggars yet, and I doubt he would leave the church unlocked without being prompted.’
Bartholomew inspected the latch. ‘It is not unlocked, Brother. The mechanism has been smashed. And there is a light inside. Someone is in there!’
‘Stay here and make sure he does not escape, while I fetch the beadles,’ instructed Michael. ‘We will not attempt to apprehend this intruder by ourselves. We tried that last summer in Ely, and we allowed a killer to go free and claim more victims. This time, we will do it properly. If he comes out, hide. I do not want to return and find you dead.’
He slipped away into the night, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician huddled into his cloak and tried not to think about his icy feet. The monk had not been gone for more than a few moments before the door opened and two people emerged. Bartholomew cursed softly. What should he do? Hide himself, as Michael had instructed? Or should he try to grab one?
Boldly, but rashly, he opted for the latter. With an earsplitting yell that he hoped would bring Michael rushing back, he launched himself at the shadowy figures. Both were startled into releasing howls of their own, voicing their terror at being assailed from a shadowy graveyard. One began to lay about him with clumsy, panicky punches, none of which met their intended target, while the other dropped to his knees and began a prayer. Bartholomew recognised the voice and promptly abandoned his attempts to seize the fellow’s companion.
‘Kenyngham?’ he asked in confusion. He reeled backwards, as the second man found himself with a stationary target and a fist grazed the physician’s right ear.
‘Got him!’ yelled Suttone victoriously, jumping up and down in glee. He stopped jigging and shrank back in alarm as Bartholomew turned to face him. ‘No! Please do not hit me back! It was an accident. I will give you anything – the key to Michaelhouse’s silver chest, if you would like it.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, rubbing his ear. ‘And you should not have it, either, if you are prepared to give it up so easily. What are you doing here at this time of night?’
‘Matthew! Thank the Lord!’ Kenyngham pulled himself up from his knees and gave a sigh of relief, crossing himself vigorously. ‘I thought you were a robber. What made you throw yourself at us with that unholy screech? I feared it was Turke’s tortured soul, come to haunt us for not saying more masses.’
‘I assumed you were burglars,’ said Bartholomew lamely. Since the scuffle, the door had swung open, illuminating them with faint candlelight from inside. It seemed impossible that he could mistake Kenyngham and Suttone, with their wide-sleeved habits and pointed cowls, for thieves. He could only plead that it had been very dark. ‘The latch has been smashed.’
