‘All the Chestre men are fiery: there may have been a falling out among them. Then there are the killer-thief’s myriad victims – Celia Drax, Emma, Welfry, Gyseburne, Meryfeld, the Mayor, Burgess Frevill, at least two Franciscans, several merchants, Poynton … but he is dead.’ There was Edith, too, but Bartholomew saw no reason to include her name.
‘Fen is not dead, though,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming. ‘And pardoners are a murderous breed. It is possible that Fen killed Gib for stealing something he intended to inherit from Poynton. Meanwhile, I am not sure what to make of Meryfeld and his insistence that this was suicide.’
Nor was Bartholomew. ‘Gib did not seem depressed at the camp-ball game–’
‘Look!’ hissed Michael, pointing down the street. ‘Speak of the Devil, and he will appear, because there is Fen, and his salacious nuns with him. We shall order them to inspect Gib and tell us whether it is the man who stole Poynton’s signaculum. Remove the wig, Matt. Quickly!’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is distinctive, and if I wore it, they would say I was the culprit. Cover his head with his hood, and let us see whether they can make the identification on face and physique alone.’
It was a good idea, and Bartholomew hastened to do as he was bidden.
‘Yffi has just told us what happened,’ said Fen as he approached. ‘Have you found Poynton’s stolen signaculum on this villain’s person?’
‘We have not examined the body yet,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Earthly baubles are not my first consideration when discovering a corpse.’
‘This was not an earthly bauble,’ snapped the fat little nun called Agnes, although Fen flushed at the monk’s implied criticism. ‘It was a valuable token from the Holy Land. Let me see him, Brother. I want to look on his treacherous face.’
‘Certainly,’ said Michael, gesturing to the corpse with a courtly sweep of his hand. Bartholomew hid the wig behind his back. ‘Look all you like.’
‘That is him,’ Agnes declared immediately. ‘I would know that evil visage anywhere.’
‘You are wrong,’ countered Margaret. ‘His hair is different.’
‘There is something familiar about him,’ mused Fen. ‘But I am uncertain…’
‘Put the wig back, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Let us see what difference that makes.’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Margaret, when the headpiece was in place. ‘That is him!’
‘Actually, now I think it is not,’ countered Agnes. ‘I have changed my mind.’
Fen stared at the body for a long time. ‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I still cannot be sure.’
Michael watched them walk away. ‘We can dismiss the nuns’ testimony as nonsense – they do not seem entirely rational to me. But Fen is another matter. He knows something, yet declines to share it. He probably wants to assess the pitfalls and advantages to himself before–’
‘Stop,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Wild claims will not help us solve this case. We need to review the evidence logically, not invent theories based on personal prejudice.’
‘I noticed you did not find it easy to remove the wig,’ said Michael, changing the subject rather than admit Bartholomew was right. ‘It was tied on very securely.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Very. I suppose it was either because Gib thought he might have to run, and he did not want it to fall off and reveal his true identity. Or because someone else wanted to make sure it remained in place for the whole town to see.’
Michael sighed his exasperation. ‘So even a simple thing like the tying of the wig cannot yield an unambiguous clue!’
‘Then let us consider the murders for a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming Gib is the killer-thief, I understand why he left poison in Emma’s house – she and her family are universally unpopular. And his reason for killing Drax is obvious, too – Drax was going to raise Chestre’s rent, and Kendale quarrelled with him about it.’
‘Blaston heard two sets of footsteps when the body was dumped, suggesting Gib had an accomplice. It must have been Kendale, whom Walter saw peering through our gates earlier that day. Chestre hates the Colleges, so they left the corpse at Michaelhouse – the nearest one to the dairy where the murder was committed – in the hope that it would see us in trouble with the town.’
‘It all fits very nicely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Yet…’
‘Yet what?’
‘Yet I have the distinct feeling that we are being pointed in a way some devious mind wants us to go. And the notion that anyone can tie a wig on a corpse bothers me.’
‘What are you saying? That Gib is not the culprit?’
‘I have no idea whether he is our villain or not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Perhaps I am looking for overly complex solutions, and we should simply accept what seems obvious.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Because I have an odd feeling about this case, too. And I have learned not to ignore my instincts. Or yours.’
St Clement’s Church was a spacious, airy building, and its vicar, William Heyford, was famous for preaching colourful sermons that attracted enormous crowds of people. Bartholomew had attended one once, but had found it sensational and lacking in logic.
‘I most certainly shall not house a corpse in my chancel,’ Heyford declared indignantly, when Michael told him what he wanted. ‘I am holding a mass in an hour, and I do not want the congregation to stay away because the place is stuffed with cadavers.’
‘One body hardly equates to a stuffing,’ Michael objected.
‘I do not care: he cannot stay. Besides, I recognise him – he is one of those obnoxious lads from Chestre Hostel. He and his cronies have made a lot of enemies among the Colleges, and his presence here may encourage them to come and do something unspeakable.’
‘Our students are not in the habit of doing unspeakable things to the dead,’ protested Michael.
‘Your Corpse Examiner is, though,’ countered Heyford. ‘And I am not having it, not in my church. It is a holy place, and I do not permit the mauling of mortal remains.’
‘If you let Gib lie here, I will arrange for you to do the funeral,’ cajoled Michael. ‘You will be well paid.’
‘All right, then,’ agreed Heyford, capitulating with a speed that had even Michael blinking in astonishment. ‘You should have said that money was involved.’
‘Matt will see him settled,’ said Michael, indicating that Bartholomew should follow the bier-bearers inside the church.
Bartholomew rolled his eyes, knowing the monk wanted him to examine Gib while he kept Heyford busy outside. It was sordid, and if he was caught it would make him appear even more sinister than ever. But he could not argue when Heyford was there, so he did as he was told, muttering something vague about making sure Gib was decently laid out.
He did not have much time, so as soon as the pallbearers had gone, he began his work. There was a single ligature mark around Gib’s neck, and no indication that he might have been throttled before he went over the bridge. His arms bore several signs of violence, including the break Bartholomew had noticed earlier. There were also five distinct bruises, where it appeared he had been restrained by someone with powerful fingers. And there was a sizeable lump on his head.
Bartholomew considered his findings carefully. They told him that Gib had been grabbed with some vigour, and that he had fought back. A blow to his head had subdued him at some point. Then a rope had been tied around his neck and he had been tipped over the bridge. Unfortunately for Gib, the drop had not broken his neck, and the cause of death was strangulation. There was no longer any question in the physician’s mind: Gib had been unlawfully killed. He put all to rights, and left.