A Killer in Winter полностью

‘I lost mine,’ admitted Ulfrid. ‘So William lent me his spare one. It is a little fancy, but it will suffice until I have the money to buy another.’

Michael nodded his thanks and walked away. Had Ulfrid really lost his original knife, or had he thrown it away when he realised the tip had been left in his victim? The monk shook his head impatiently. The novices had just told him they had only visited the King’s Head once, and that had been before the attack on Harysone. Or was Ulfrid lying? Had he returned alone at a later date, thinking he might win something more interesting than a pair of dice? And had he been disappointed in his hopes and had then taken revenge on Harysone?

And was Ulfrid the owner of the knife that had killed Norbert? The friars of Michaelhouse and Ovyng were friends, so was it possible that Ulfrid disliked Norbert for bringing Ovyng into disrepute and had decided to solve the problem for his comrades once and for all? Or was the merry-faced Ulfrid innocent of both crimes, and had just lost his knife, as he claimed? People mislaid items like knives, pens and inkwells all the time.

His instincts told him that the Michaelhouse lads were honest in their denials about Norbert’s murder, although he was less certain about their Ovyng colleagues. Perhaps they had seen Norbert in the King’s Head, and had merely declined to enter the tavern as long as the man was flaunting himself in the main chamber. It was also possible that one had doubled back and had lain in wait for him, stabbing him by the Mill Pool. And perhaps it had been another of them who had finished what the first had started, using a stone when Norbert had finally crawled to where he thought he would be safe. Michael’s sense of unease intensified, and he saw he would have no peace until he had Norbert’s killer under lock and key – whoever he transpired to be.

Bartholomew presented his finished illustration to Michael with a flourish. The monk was impressed. The drawing was very precise, even down to the way the blood had crusted where the hilt met the blade, and he realised the physician had quite a talent for sketching. The monk studied the diagram carefully. The dagger’s handle was depicted as relatively plain, but there was green and yellow glass that would make the thing very distinctive.

‘You saw all this before you dropped it?’ he asked, hoping that his friend had not added the beads to the picture to make it more attractive.

Bartholomew shot him a withering glance. ‘I have included nothing I did not see. Will it do?’

‘It will do very nicely,’ said Michael, nodding his satisfaction. ‘And the first people we shall try it on are the Franciscan friars of Ovyng, who may know more than they are telling about this peculiar business. I have just learned they were in the King’s Head the night Norbert died, although Ulfrid believes the friars and Norbert did not see each other. However, I shall reserve judgement on that.’

‘I think you will achieve more success when you show it to Philippa and Giles. You know what I think Turke was doing when he fell through the ice.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘You cannot be more wrong. In order to kill someone you need a motive, and Turke had no reason to murder Norbert. However, now Agatha has revealed that Harysone was asking after Dympna, we can conclude he had a connection with Norbert – more than just two men dicing for fish together. I shall show your picture to him, too.’

‘Agatha’s information must have pleased you. You have had Harysone marked down for a criminal act ever since he arrived.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael happily. ‘And it is good to know my instincts have not misled me. But we should hurry, or the Ovyng lads will be in their beds. These Franciscans retire early in the winter, and it is almost six o’clock already.’

They walked briskly to Ovyng. The temperature had fallen dramatically with the approach of night, and the air almost cracked with cold. The ground underfoot was as hard as stone, and any moisture had long since frozen like iron. Few people were out, and those that were huddled deep inside their cloaks.

‘Another beggar froze to death last night,’ said Michael as they struggled through the snow. ‘I am going to ask Langelee to keep St Michael’s open. Beggars are useful sources of information for us proctors, and I do not want to lose them all this winter.’

Bartholomew smiled, knowing Michael was hiding his compassion for the poor by pretending their welfare was in his own interest. ‘We should visit Dunstan before we go home,’ he said, thinking it might take more than Robin’s provisions to keep the old man alive that night. ‘I want to make sure Yolande has banked the fire.’