A Killer in Winter by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online Page A

before shutting it again. A stout plank of wood prevented
     anyone from entering from the outside, and he studied it thoughtfully before replacing it in its two metal clasps. Bartholomew
     pointed out that anyone might have opened it, and that its use did not necessarily imply wrongdoing on Harysone’s part. Michael
     listened patiently, but did not agree. Seeing neither was going to accept theother’s point of view, they abandoned the discussion and headed to the north door. As Bartholomew jiggled the latch, the
     monk forgot his tirade against Harysone, wrinkling his nose and indicating the row of robes that hung nearby.
    ‘The stench of those things is growing stronger by the day. They are too rotten ever to wear again, and I cannot imagine why
     Master Langelee does not throw them away.’
    ‘Langelee never throws anything away if he thinks it may be useful. Michaelhouse is not wealthy, and he is just being prudent,
     I suppose. Shoes.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Michael, confused.
    ‘Shoes,’ repeated Bartholomew, pointing at the robes. ‘I think someone is hiding from you.’
    Michael followed the line of the physician’s outstretched finger and his lips compressed in grim satisfaction. Poking from
     under the untidy, bulky folds of material was a pair of scruffy leather shoes. Someone had evidently slipped in among the
     albs and chasubles in the hope that he would be hidden – as he would have been, had he not left his feet in full view. Michael
     marched across to the line of hooks, and ripped the gowns aside.
    The face that looked back at him was not Harysone’s. Nor was it the face of any living man. It was a corpse, with a pallid
     blue tinge about its mouth and lips, and unseeing eyes that were half open, half closed.
    Michael leapt back with a yell of alarm, bouncing into Bartholomew and almost knocking the physician from his feet. The sound
     was loud in the otherwise silent church, and it startled some pigeons that had been roosting in the rafters. They flapped
     in agitation, showering the floor below with dried droppings and floating feathers.
    It was odd to see a corpse standing as though it were alive, and even Bartholomew – no stranger to sudden and unusual death,
     thanks to his association with the University’s Senior Proctor – found it disconcerting. Carefully, he pushed a fold of cloth
     away, and saw that several of the robes were wrappedaround the man’s arms and upper body, holding it upright. The hood of an alb lay in a tangled chain across the corpse’s chin
     so that its head was raised, as though looking forward.
    ‘Who is it?’ demanded Michael, as if Bartholomew should know.
    ‘He looks like a beggar,’ said Bartholomew, pointing at the man’s threadbare clothes. ‘He must have come here to escape from
     the cold.’
    ‘He should have chosen another church, then,’ remarked Michael, placing a flabby white hand across his chest to indicate that
     the presence of a corpse among the decaying ceremonial robes had given him a serious shock. ‘Everyone knows St Michael’s is
     the chilliest building in Christendom. Is that what killed him? Cold? Not Harysone?’
    ‘Harysone?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘Why should he kill a beggar?’
    ‘To prevent him from revealing Harysone’s intention to steal from our church. You saw for yourself that one of the candles
     had been tampered with.’
    ‘Harysone is well-dressed and has been spending money on inks and parchment in the Market Square,’ said Bartholomew impatiently.
     ‘If he is a thief – and there is nothing to suggest that he is, other than an irrational suspicion on your part – he would
     not be interested in our paltry pewter. He would go to St Mary the Great and help himself to gold crosses and silver patens.’
    ‘Those are guarded,’ countered Michael. ‘One of my beadles is always on duty there, and it would be impossible to steal anything.’
    Bartholomew made a