‘Then what was Turke doing here?’ demanded Bartholomew, irritated by Michael’s reluctance to accept his reasoning. ‘Philippa said he was not the kind of man to go skating. So, if he was not here for pleasure, then it means he was here for some other purpose. I do not see why you think looking for a knife is so improbable.’
‘Because if he was looking for the knife, then it implies that he was Norbert’s killer,’ said Michael, equally exasperated. ‘And I do not see how that can be possible.’
‘We already know that Turke had a murderous streak,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He slew Fiscurtune quite casually. And Fiscurtune was stabbed, just like Norbert.’
‘Do you have any idea how many people are stabbed each year?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Since virtually every man, woman and child carries a knife for everyday use, it is the weapon of choice when ridding yourself of enemies. That both Norbert and Fiscurtune were stabbed means nothing.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Bartholomew, seeing they had reached an impasse, and neither was prepared to accept the other’s point of view. ‘Ah! Here it is.’
‘You have the weapon?’ asked Michael, moving forward eagerly, as Bartholomew stooped to retrieve something. He grinned in triumph when the physician held up a dagger that was far too highly decorated and expensive to have been thrown away for no good reason. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Michael, no!’ cried Bartholomew. But it was too late. The monk’s bulk was already on the ice, which immediately began to bow. Both scholars watched in horror as a series of small cracks began to zigzag away from him, accompanied by sharp snapping sounds. For an instant, nothing happened. And then the ice broke.
Bartholomew felt the surface under his feet begin to tip as though it were a small boat on a stormy sea. Instinctively, he hurled himself forward, landing flat on his stomach on a part that was solid. From Michael’s direction he heard a splash, and the rope around his waist was tugged so sharply that it took his breath away. A distant part of his mind noted that it was ironic that he had borrowed the rope so that Michael would be able to pull him to safety, not the other way around. He glanced behind him, expecting to see the top of the monk’s head bobbing among shards of ice.
Michael, however, had apparently broken through at a point where the river was shallow, because the water did not even reach the top of his boots. He stood among the ice like some vast, black Poseidon, and began reeling in the rope that connected him to Bartholomew. There was a sharp tug around the physician’s waist, and then he felt himself begin to move.
‘Do not worry,’ the monk called, as he hauled on the line in powerful hand-over-hand motions that made Bartholomew feel like a landed fish. ‘I have you.’
He certainly did, thought Bartholomew, powerless against the mighty force that was heaving him shoreward. He wanted to stand, to make his own way to the bank, but his fingers scrabbled ineffectually on the slick surface and there was no purchase for his feet. With a grimace, he gave up his struggle and submitted to Michael’s ‘rescue’ with ill grace, sighing with irritation when a sharp piece of ice ripped a gash in his best winter cloak. By the time he was on the river bank, he had ruined a perfectly good tabard, his cloak would need some serious attention from the laundress’s needle, and the knee was hanging from his hose. Still, he thought wryly, at least the ice was hard and dry, and his uncomfortable journey across it had not rendered him soaking wet.
‘You should have been more careful,’ said Michael, looking him up and down critically.
‘Me be careful?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly. ‘It was you who started to surge forward like Poseidon emerging from the deep.’
‘Where is the knife?’
‘I dropped it,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how it had slipped from his fingers when he had made his headlong dive for safety.
‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, aghast. ‘How?’
‘While trying to save myself from drowning,’ Bartholomew replied tartly. ‘You should not have tried to come for it.’
‘I only wanted to look,’ said Michael sulkily, realising that the fault lay with him, but not prepared to admit it. ‘Where did you drop it? Is it retrievable?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I saw it go into the water at a point where the river runs fast and strong. It will have been swept forward, and I have no idea where it will be now.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That thing might have allowed us to trace Norbert’s killer. And now it has gone.’
‘I can describe it,’ offered Bartholomew.
‘Well, that is something, I suppose,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘Go on, then.’
‘The hilt was decorated, but not with precious stones. I think they were glass, because the thing looked well used. You do not have a jewelled knife for everyday use.’
‘That very much depends on who you are,’ said Michael sourly. ‘But, in this case, you may be right. Continue.’
