Michael forced himself to return and began to chant a final absolution in an unsteady voice, anointing the body with a phial of chrism. Dunstan’s sobs grew louder, and Bartholomew sat next to him, drawing him close as he attempted to offer warmth as well as comfort.
‘We shall bury him in St Michael’s churchyard,’ said Michael hoarsely, keeping his face in the shadows. The boy arrived with the kindling, and the monk set about lighting a fire that was so large in the tiny room it threatened to choke them all. ‘He was in my choir from the very beginning, and he deserves that honour.’
‘With a cross,’ whispered Dunstan, raising watery eyes to look at him. ‘Just a small, wooden one. And all the choir to sing for him. He would like that.’
‘I shall arrange it,’ promised Michael.
‘What shall I do without him?’ asked Dunstan, clutching Bartholomew’s sleeve. With a shock, the physician saw the man expected an answer. Dunstan needed someone to tell him how to pass his days now that his brother had gone.
‘You should not be alone,’ Bartholomew said feebly, evading the question. ‘Can I fetch someone to be with you?’
‘There is no one I want,’ said Dunstan bleakly. ‘No one understands me like he did. He liked to talk with me, and speculate on all manner of things that happened in the town. Like that lad you found buried in the snow before Christmas Day. Athelbald had his ideas about
‘What were they?’ asked Bartholomew, more to encourage Dunstan to speak than for information. Both the old men had enjoyed regaling the physician with grossly speculative rumours when he had visited them in the past, most of which he disregarded for the nonsense they were. But if Dunstan gained solace from repeating what he and Athelbald had fabricated about Norbert’s death, then Bartholomew was prepared to listen for as long as the old man wanted to talk. He emptied his flask of medicinal wine into a pot, and set it over Michael’s fire to warm. There was not much of it, but he thought it might drive some of the chill from the old man’s bones.
‘Norbert,’ said Dunstan, valiantly trying to reproduce the salacious tones he had used while gossiping with his brother. ‘He was a fellow who did his family no credit.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, forcing himself to smile. ‘Athelbald was right about that.’
‘He guessed what happened to the weapon that killed Norbert,’ said Dunstan, his eyes glittering with proud tears. ‘The beadles have spent days looking for it, but Athelbald knew where it went. He used logic, you see, like you University men.’
‘What did he reason?’ asked Michael, lowering his considerable weight gingerly on to the bench and sharing his cloak with Dunstan while Bartholomew tended the fire.
‘He heard the killer used a knife,’ said Dunstan, carefully wiping his runny nose on the inside of Michael’s cloak. ‘Because Norbert was stabbed. And he concluded that the killer had to get rid of it. But the killer knew if it was thrown away in the snow, it would be discovered – if not by beadles, then when the thaw came. Knives are personal things, and it would have given him away instantly.’
‘True,’ said Bartholomew, who had reasoned much the same thing. Dunstan started to cough, so he opened the door a little, to let some of the smoke out. ‘But the killer may just have wiped it clean and put it back in its sheath. Daggers are expensive, and people do not discard them just because they have been between someone’s ribs.’
‘If you believe that, then you are wrong,’ said Dunstan knowledgeably. ‘Athelbald and I have seen many murders in our time, and we know people do
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, nodding acceptance of the point. He poured some of the warmed wine into a beaker and watched the old man sip it. ‘So, the killer dispensed with the knife. Not in the snow, where it would be discovered, but somewhere else.’
Dunstan nodded. ‘And where would you throw a weapon, to get rid of it for ever? He gazed meaningfully towards the open door.
‘The river,’ said Bartholomew, understanding. ‘Of course! All the killer needed to do was toss the thing in the water. Is that what you think happened?’
‘It is what
‘The timing ties in with what I know from my other enquiries,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘We have been reliably informed that Norbert left the tavern around midnight.’
‘It was cold that night,’ Dunstan went on. ‘So, not many folk attended the mass, including Ovyng’s other scholars. If they had, then Norbert would have been discovered sooner – before he was buried by the snow that fell later that night.’
