‘The change of clothes did not help,’ said Bartholomew defensively, hurling the rope. He did not want to hear again how he had failed everyone with his careless examination of Gosslinge. Ailred reached for the twine, but it was still too short. The ice under Bartholomew bowed more than ever, and he saw part of it disappear under the black water in front of him.
‘Go back,’ ordered Ailred. ‘I do not want to be rescued.’
‘You might have mentioned that before I started,’ said Bartholomew, throwing the rope again. This time, it reached the hole where Ailred floated. The friar did not touch it.
‘I want to die,’ he said quietly. ‘That was my intention when I began to skate on ice that I knew was too thin. I have spent the past few days meditating on all that has happened, and it seems fitting that I should die in the same way as Turke and my sister. I have gone too far along a dark road, and all I want to do is atone for my mistakes. I was confused when I came to the surface again and allowed my fear to deter me from the course I had chosen. Go back. You have done all you can.’
‘I can save you,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Although I hate to admit it there is very little solid evidence against you, if you recant your confession to Turke’s murder.’
The friar gave a grim smile. ‘I know. And that is why you will allow my nephew and his friends to go free. But I do not want to live. I was a good man, but I do not like what I have become. So, go away, and leave me in peace.’
‘But I can almost reach you,’ objected Bartholomew, starting to move forward again.
The friar gave a smile that was unreadable, before lifting his arms above his head. The current immediately snatched him and his head disappeared from view. Bartholomew glimpsed his face, distorted with anguish, as it passed under the transparent ice below, and thumped the surface hard with his fists, trying to smash it and grab the man. But the current was too strong, and Ailred was gone.
Within moments, Bartholomew realised that striking the ice with such force had not been a wise thing to do. It started to crack, tiny zigzags spreading around him in all directions with a noise like close thunder. The planks on which he lay were suddenly on the move, and Bartholomew saw the black water of Ailred’s hole rushing towards him. He was certain he was about to suffer the same fate as the friar, but the shocking cold never came. He felt hands hauling him to safety, and realised Cynric and Michael had tugged the wood free, with him on it. For a long time, he stared at the opaque surface of the Mill Pool, hoping that Ailred was not still struggling underneath it.
‘You and Ailred had a lot to say to each other,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands vigorously as he watched people disperse from the Mill Pool now that the excitement was over. The physician supposed he should feel satisfied – he finally had answers to the questions that had plagued him since Norbert had been murdered – but instead he felt tainted, as though he had uncovered secrets that should have been left undisturbed.
He gave Michael a terse summary of the friar’s confession, adding that Turke had probably stabbed Norbert in a fit of outraged indignation. It was not the first time the fishmonger had vented his temper by using a knife on a man who had offended him. It also made sense that he had braved the ice he so feared in order to hunt for the weapon that would link his household to the crime – it was a desperate act of self-preservation.
‘Why did he choose that particular day to conduct his search?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Why not sooner? Or later?’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘Think about what transpired when he identified Gosslinge’s body. The matter of the missing knife was raised. Giles told us that Gosslinge had a dagger that was too large for him. We made the assumption that it was stolen with Gosslinge’s clothes. Then Turke gave us the relic to pay for a requiem, and we discussed St Zeno and fishermen.’
‘Giles said the relic would do Michaelhouse no good as long as the river was frozen,’ recalled Michael, ‘because anglers would not be able to break through the ice to reach the fish. Turke then mentioned a dislike of ice.’
‘Exactly. Giles also said he had thrown a stone on the river, and it had skittered across the surface. I think Turke realised then that the knife he had used on Norbert might have suffered a similar fate – it was not in the water, but on it. He searched for it that very day, perhaps obliged to wait until the Mill Pool was suitably deserted, but knowing it would only be a matter of time before someone recovered the murder weapon. And, if you recall, he said we should not bother to look for Gosslinge’s knife – only his valuable clothes.’
‘Because he did not want us to find the thing at all,’ concluded Michael, nodding. ‘A cold killer indeed. Poor Ailred! How hard it must have been to meet the man who had murdered both his siblings, and see he felt no remorse. Turke’s pilgrimage was not to atone for their deaths, but to make sure he was eligible to be elected Lord Mayor of London.’
‘There is no evidence to convict Frith of killing Turke. Morice cannot charge him with the murder, because we only have Ailred’s confession to go on, and Ailred is dead.’
‘True, but Frith was about to incinerate Michaelhouse,’ said Michael grimly. ‘He and his accomplices will not go free.’
‘They might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much do you think Morice demands from would-be arsonists for an early release?’
‘More than Frith has,’ determined Michael firmly. ‘If Morice does release them, he will be in for a bitter dispute with the University. He will not want that.’
‘Tulyet would not want that,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Morice does not care. And there is a lot you can do with the kind of bribe it would take to free four people from such serious charges.’
‘Look, Matt,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing the physician’s arm and pointing. ‘It is Philippa, and she is heading in the direction of the Gilbertine Friary. She is going to meet her lover, just as Clippesby told us she would.’
‘How do you know it is her?’ asked Bartholomew, eyeing the huddled figure doubtfully. ‘It is just someone wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up.’
‘It is her – she is wearing those elegant but impractical shoes she always dons when the snow lies thick on the ground. Shall we follow her?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I have just watched a man die, and I am in no mood for chasing widows through the Gilbertines’ stables. Besides, I am cold.’
‘You are not cold,’ determined Michael. ‘And you must want to see the man Philippa loves?’
‘I have had enough of Philippa, Turke, Gosslinge, Giles, Ailred and everyone else associated with this nasty case. We have solved your murders, Brother: Turke killed Norbert, Ailred and Frith killed Turke, and Gosslinge died because he tried to eat something he did not want someone else to have. That is all we need to know.’
‘Well, I am going,’ said Michael. He nudged the physician in the ribs and his voice became wheedling. ‘Come on, Matt. It will be interesting.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Teaching starts tomorrow, and I have lectures to prepare. You go, if you must. I will see you in Michaelhouse later.’
They parted company at the end of Small Bridges Street. Bartholomew turned to walk along Milne Street towards the College, while Michael left the town through the Trumpington Gate, dodging this way and that as he dogged Philippa’s footsteps along the road that led past the Hall of Valence Marie, Peterhouse and the King’s Head. Bartholomew watched him zigzag back and forth like a huge black crow, and smiled. It was good that Philippa was concentrating on walking and did not glance behind her, or she would have spotted the monk’s clumsy manoeuvres in an instant.