‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. He imagined she would find out, since the shroud had probably not been replaced exactly as he had found it, and he disliked lying. ‘But I only looked at him. I did not touch him with instruments.’
‘Well, that is something, I suppose,’ she said coolly. ‘And did this examination tell you anything you did not already know?’
‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘It told me he had died of the cold, after falling in the river. There were some old scars on his legs, though. Do you know how he came by them?’
‘He never told me. They derived from something that happened long before we met. He disliked anyone seeing them – which was why I was careful how I removed his hose when we were stripping off his wet clothes. I did not want him to wake up and find them bared for all to see, because it would have distressed him. What did your gruesome treatment of Gosslinge tell you?’
‘Nothing,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But you should not take our investigation amiss. The Sheriff or the proctors examine anyone who dies unexpectedly or suddenly. We would be remiss if we did not ensure there was nothing odd about a death.’
‘But there was not – for either of them,’ said Philippa. ‘You just said so.’
‘We had to be certain,’ said Michael. ‘It would not do to bury a man, then have his grieving kin arrive months later clamouring there was evidence of murder.’
‘Murder?’ asked Philippa in alarm. ‘Who said anything about murder?’
‘No one,’ said Michael, startled by her outburst. ‘I was only explaining why these examinations are necessary. Matt did not want to do it, but I insisted.’
‘Well, it is done now, and it is a pity to argue,’ said Philippa, giving Bartholomew a reluctant smile. ‘Let us be friends again.’
‘Good,’ said Michael, patting her arm. ‘But here comes your brother. Perhaps he can escort you home, so we can go and see what can be done for poor Dunstan. That is where our duty lies this morning.’
Abigny smiled as he approached, but would have walked past if Michael had not stopped him. The clerk did not want to return the way he had come, and said his feet hurt too much for all but the most essential journeys. Curtly, Philippa informed him that escorting her was essential, since she was a recent widow and in need of such attentions. Abigny offered her his arm in a way that suggested he wanted her delivered home as soon as possible, so he could go about his own errands.
‘Since you are both here, perhaps you can answer a few questions while Giles rests his feet,’ said Michael artfully. He drew the picture of the knife from his scrip and held it out to them. ‘Do either of you recognise this?’
‘No,’ said Philippa, glancing at it without much interest. ‘Why? Have you lost it?’
‘It is not mine,’ said Michael. ‘I believe it is the weapon that killed Norbert.’
‘Norbert?’ asked Philippa. ‘Who is he?’
‘The student who was killed outside Ovyng,’ replied Michael. ‘Dick Tulyet’s cousin.’
Philippa nodded understanding, then looked at the parchment again. ‘No,’ she said after a moment. ‘It is not familiar. I wondered whether it might have been Gosslinge’s, but it is not.’
‘It is only a picture, not the real thing,’ pressed Michael eagerly. ‘So there are bound to be errors. Are you sure it did not belong to Gosslinge?’
‘It is not the same,’ said Abigny, taking the parchment and turning it this way and that as he assessed it. ‘Gosslinge’s had three glass beads in the hilt, and this only has two.’
‘You seem very well acquainted with your servant’s knife,’ remarked Michael curiously.
Bartholomew agreed, and thought Gosslinge’s dagger and the one in the river sounded remarkably similar. It also occurred to him that while there were only two glass beads when he had seen the weapon, one might well have fallen out after it had been abandoned. He recalled a previous discussion he had had with Abigny about Gosslinge’s knife: when Turke had identified his servant’s body Abigny mentioned that Gosslinge had indeed possessed a knife, and had said it was too large a weapon for him. Michael was right: Abigny did seem well acquainted with the dead man’s personal arsenal.
Abigny gave a pained smile. ‘I forgot to bring my own dagger on this journey, and I have been obliged to borrow Gosslinge’s – for the dinner table and suchlike. It is embarrassing to be in debt to a servant, especially for something as essential as a knife. Turke was scathing in his criticism, of course.’
‘Let us remain with Gosslinge for a moment,’ said Michael, shooting a brief but meaningful glance at Bartholomew to suggest that Abigny’s statements had raised all sorts of questions that would later need to be discussed. ‘Was he of sound mind when you last saw him?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Philippa warily. ‘He was not insane, if that is what you are asking. Not like your Clippesby. Gosslinge complained a lot – about the cold, his clothes, the food we ate, his pay. Especially his pay. Is that what you wanted to know?’
