quarters above. The Prior of Barnwell had his own lodgings in the form of a charming cottage with a red-tiled roof and ivy-clad walls. Smoke curled from its chimney, to be whisked away quickly by the wind. From the nearby kitchens came the sweet, warm scent of newly baked bread.
The canons were at prayer in their chapter house when Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy tapped on the gate and asked to see Walcote’s body. An Austin brother named Nicholas, whom Bartholomew had treated for chilblains all winter, escorted them to a small chantry chapel. He then returned to his duties, while the two canons who kept vigil on either side of Walcote’s coffin, climbed stiffly to their feet, and readily acquiesced to Michael’s request to spend time alone with his Junior Proctor.
The noose around Walcote’s neck had so distorted his features that Bartholomew barely recognised the serious man who had been Michael’s assistant for the past year. His face had darkened, and his eyes were half open and dull beneath swollen lids. A tongue poked between thickened lips, and a trail of dried saliva glistened on his chin. Michael declined to look at him, and retreated to the main body of the church where he pretended to be praying. Hastily following his example, and evidently relieved to be spared the unpleasant task of inspecting a corpse, Timothy went with him.
Suppressing his distaste at submitting to such indignities the body of a man he had known and liked in life, Bartholomew began his examination, using for light the two candles that had been set at the dead man’s head and feet. There was no question at all that Walcote had been strangled. The vivid abrasions around his neck attested to that. Bartholomew turned his attention to the hands, and saw that Michael had been right: more stark circles indicated that Walcote’s hands had been tied, and he had evidently struggled hard, because he had torn the skin in his attempts to free himself. His feet had been tied, too, perhaps to prevent him from kicking out at his killer or killers.
‘What can you tell me?’ called Michael from the shadows of the chancel. ‘Look at his fingernails. You always seem to be able to tell things from nails. And I want to know whether he was hit on the head and stunned. It would be a comfort to know that he was unaware of what happened to him.’
It was a comfort Bartholomew could not give, however, and it was apparent that Walcote had known exactly what someone intended to do to him, because he had struggled. The fact that he had been strangled by the noose, and that it had not broken his neck as was the case in many hangings, suggested it had not been an especially speedy end.
To humour Michael, Bartholomew inspected Walcote’s fingernails, but they told him little. They were broken, which implied that the Junior Proctor had started his bid for freedom before he had been trussed up like a Yuletide chicken. The only odd thing was that there was a sticky, pale yellow residue on one hand, just like the stain Bartholomew had seen on Faricius’s hand. He frowned, wondering what, if anything, it meant. He replaced the shroud, put the dead man’s hands back across his chest as he had found them, and left Walcote in peace. Michael and Timothy followed him out of the shadowy chapel, both clearly glad to be away from the unsettling presence of untimely death in a man they had known. Timothy heaved a shuddering sigh.
‘Nasty,’ he said unsteadily, although Bartholomew was not sure whether he meant the manner of Walcote’s death or the fact that he was now obliged to pay close attention to such matters.
Outside the church, Nicholas was waiting for them, clutching a bundle that he proffered to Michael. ‘These are Will’s clothes,’ he said shyly. ‘He was wearing a habit, a cloak and boots, all of which I removed when his body was brought here. I suppose we should distribute them to the poor, but it is hard to part with this last reminder of him. Will you do it?’
‘Keep them,’ said Michael, who like Bartholomew had noticed that Nicholas’s own robe was pitifully threadbare and that he wore sandals, despite the fact that there had been a frost the previous night. Bartholomew thought it was not surprising he had chilblains. ‘Will would have wanted them to be given to his friends.’
Nicholas swallowed hard. ‘We all liked Will, and were proud that an Austin was a proctor. We hoped he might even become Senior Proctor one day.’ He flushed suddenly, realising that for that to happen, Michael would have to be removed. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I did not mean…’
He trailed off miserably, and Michael patted his shoulder. ‘It is all right. I had hopes for Will’s future, too. He was a good man.’
‘Yes, he was,’ said Nicholas, tears filling his eyes. He gave them a surreptitious scrub with the back of his hand. ‘Laying out his body was the least I could do.’
‘You did that very carefully, but there is still a patch of something yellow on one hand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What is it, do you know?’
Nicholas sniffed, hugging Walcote’s belongings to him. ‘I have no idea, but it would not wash off. The same substance was on his habit, too. Look.’
He freed a sleeve from the carefully packed bundle, revealing a patch of something that was sticky to the touch, slightly greasy and pale yellow.
‘How much of it was there?’ asked Bartholomew, touching it with his forefinger.
‘Just the patch on his hand and the little bit on his sleeve,’ said Nicholas. ‘It seems to repel water. I borrowed some soap from Prior Ralph, but it still would not come off.’
‘I need to see Ralph,’ said Michael. ‘I have a few questions to ask.’
Nicholas went to fetch him, leaving Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy standing in the cloister alone.
‘What is that stain exactly?’ asked Timothy, bending to touch the residue on the garment Nicholas had put carefully on a stone bench.
‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The only other time I have seen it was on Faricius.’
‘So is that why you imagine it to be significant?’ asked Timothy, straightening to look at him. He gave an apologetic grin. ‘Forgive my questions. I am just trying to learn as much from you as I can, so that I can fulfil my new duties. But if you do not know what this yellow slime is, then how can you be sure that Walcote and Faricius did not acquire it quite independently of each other?’
‘I cannot be sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is a peculiar substance, and I think it odd that it should appear on two corpses that were killed within a couple of days of each other.’
‘But Faricius was stabbed during a riot in broad daylight, and Walcote was hanged in the shadows of dusk,’ pointed out Timothy. ‘I can see nothing that connects them.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is doubtless irrelevant.’
But something in the back of his mind suggested that it was not, and that it was an important clue in discovering who had killed a studious Carmelite friar and the University’s Junior Proctor.
Bartholomew shivered as he waited for Nicholas to fetch Prior Ralph de Norton. It seemed colder at Barnwell than it had been in Cambridge, and the wind sliced more keenly through his clothes. The cloisters, lovely though they were, comprised a lattice of carved stone that did little to impede the brisk breeze that rushed in from the north east. Bartholomew had heard that the wind that shrieked across the Fens with such violence every winter came from icy kingdoms above Norway and Sweden, where the land was perpetually frozen and the rays of the sun never reached.
‘I wondered when you would visit us, Brother,’ said a fat man with large lips and very protuberant eyes, who followed Nicholas through the cloister towards them. ‘I am so sorry about Will Walcote – sorry for the loss to my priory as well as the loss to you.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘I will find whoever did this, Prior Ralph. Believe me, I will.’
‘I do believe you,’ said Ralph softly. ‘I have heard that you and Doctor Bartholomew make a formidable team when it comes to solving murders.’
Bartholomew was not sure he liked being known as a solver of murders: he would have preferred his name to be associated with his work as a physician, which, after all, claimed most of his time. Still, he thought optimistically, perhaps the appointment of Timothy would mean he was obliged to help the monk less frequently in the future. Timothy seemed more proficient and eager than most of Michael’s junior proctors. When Ralph’s bulbous eyes shifted questioningly to Timothy, Michael introduced him as Walcote’s successor.
‘Good God!’ breathed Ralph, horrified. ‘You do not waste any time! Will is barely cold, and yet you have already appointed a Benedictine in his place. I was going to suggest you took another Austin canon – Nicholas, for example.’
Nicholas was mortified, and hung his head in embarrassment. But Timothy was unabashed, and rose to deal with the issue with cool dignity.
