Read Online The Nicholas Feast by Pat McIntosh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pat McIntosh
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college without going past the porter at the yett.’
‘I remember the porter,’ said the mason, pulling a face. ‘And I have done some repairs to the Blackfriars gate. It leads into the kitchen-yard, not so? Do you suspect them?’
‘We must suspect everybody’ Gil shrugged on his short gown and lifted the master’s bonnet to which the Dean had taken exception. ‘Come and view the corpse. I have a lantern now.’
Maistre Pierre, confronted by the gruesome scene in the coalhouse, contemplated it in silence for a short time, swinging his Sunday beads in one big hand, then remarked, ‘There have been too many people across this floor. I suppose the kitchen must want coals several times a day, but I see more than one pair of feet here.’
Gil nodded. ‘So I thought. At least I prevented them moving the body’ He peered round. ‘If he was killed in here I would expect more sign, nevertheless. There are all these tracks from the door to where he lies, and those are my prints from when I opened the window. Someone bound his hands and then strangled him, but his feet were free, and all students play football, he could have kicked hard, or run away, or put up some sort of struggle, and I see no sign.’
‘Was he perhaps attacked by more than one person?’
‘It’s possible, but I would expect to see sign of that too. I wonder if he was killed elsewhere and then put here.’
‘I agree,’ said the mason after a moment. ‘These are the prints of whoever carried him in here. Look, there is one as he stepped round to this side of the heap of coals. A pity they are so scuffed. But why? Why move him here?’
‘For secrecy?’
‘It was not secret for long.’
‘Long enough, perhaps.’
‘He was last seen alive at the end of the play, you say?’ said Maistre Pierre thoughtfully. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘More than two hours since.’ Gil was feeling the swollen face. ‘He’s cold, and beginning to set. It is cold in here under the vault, and the shutters were closed. He would cool quite fast.’
‘Should we unbind his hands?’
‘I want to move him into the light first.’ Gil reached for the lantern. ‘Take note of how he lies, Pierre.’
William was sprawled on his left side, his bound hands awkwardly in the pit of his belly, his head tipped back and the dreadful distorted face turned towards the light from the window. The right arm was cocked up so that a darn in the elbow of the blue gown showed. His legs, half-flexed under the skirt of the gown, ended in a pair of expensive-looking boots.
‘How do we move him? And to where?’
Two college servants and a hurdle saw the corpse removed from the coalhouse and set down in the courtyard, the dreadful face covered by a cloth begged from the kitchen. A small crowd gathered immediately, commenting with interest on the spectacle. It included some of the kitchen hands and also Maister Forsyth, who stepped forward at the same moment as the Dominican chaplain emerged from the pend that led to the kitchen-yard.
‘Will you be long, Gilbert?’ he asked. ‘It is urgent that Father Bernard and I begin the Act of Conditional Absolution, you understand.’
‘Not long, sir,’ said Gil. ‘Could you perhaps . . .?’ He waved at the crowd, and Maister Forsyth nodded and turned to make shooing motions which were largely ignored. Gil bent over the corpse, considering the white dust caked on the blue wool of the gown, and sniffed.
‘Pierre, do you smell cumin?’
‘Cumin?’ Maistre Pierre stepped closer. ‘I do. Not strong, but – was there a dish with cumin at the feast?’
‘Not at our table, we had rabbit and ground almonds and a couple of flans. Perhaps one of the other tables. That might be it.’
‘Now we loose his hands?’ prompted the mason.
They rolled the limp body over on the hurdle to get access to the buckle, and eased it free. The boy’s bony wrists were marked where the coils of leather had dug in. Gil turned them carefully,
‘I remember the porter,’ said the mason, pulling a face. ‘And I have done some repairs to the Blackfriars gate. It leads into the kitchen-yard, not so? Do you suspect them?’
‘We must suspect everybody’ Gil shrugged on his short gown and lifted the master’s bonnet to which the Dean had taken exception. ‘Come and view the corpse. I have a lantern now.’
Maistre Pierre, confronted by the gruesome scene in the coalhouse, contemplated it in silence for a short time, swinging his Sunday beads in one big hand, then remarked, ‘There have been too many people across this floor. I suppose the kitchen must want coals several times a day, but I see more than one pair of feet here.’
Gil nodded. ‘So I thought. At least I prevented them moving the body’ He peered round. ‘If he was killed in here I would expect more sign, nevertheless. There are all these tracks from the door to where he lies, and those are my prints from when I opened the window. Someone bound his hands and then strangled him, but his feet were free, and all students play football, he could have kicked hard, or run away, or put up some sort of struggle, and I see no sign.’
‘Was he perhaps attacked by more than one person?’
‘It’s possible, but I would expect to see sign of that too. I wonder if he was killed elsewhere and then put here.’
‘I agree,’ said the mason after a moment. ‘These are the prints of whoever carried him in here. Look, there is one as he stepped round to this side of the heap of coals. A pity they are so scuffed. But why? Why move him here?’
‘For secrecy?’
‘It was not secret for long.’
‘Long enough, perhaps.’
‘He was last seen alive at the end of the play, you say?’ said Maistre Pierre thoughtfully. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘More than two hours since.’ Gil was feeling the swollen face. ‘He’s cold, and beginning to set. It is cold in here under the vault, and the shutters were closed. He would cool quite fast.’
‘Should we unbind his hands?’
‘I want to move him into the light first.’ Gil reached for the lantern. ‘Take note of how he lies, Pierre.’
William was sprawled on his left side, his bound hands awkwardly in the pit of his belly, his head tipped back and the dreadful distorted face turned towards the light from the window. The right arm was cocked up so that a darn in the elbow of the blue gown showed. His legs, half-flexed under the skirt of the gown, ended in a pair of expensive-looking boots.
‘How do we move him? And to where?’
Two college servants and a hurdle saw the corpse removed from the coalhouse and set down in the courtyard, the dreadful face covered by a cloth begged from the kitchen. A small crowd gathered immediately, commenting with interest on the spectacle. It included some of the kitchen hands and also Maister Forsyth, who stepped forward at the same moment as the Dominican chaplain emerged from the pend that led to the kitchen-yard.
‘Will you be long, Gilbert?’ he asked. ‘It is urgent that Father Bernard and I begin the Act of Conditional Absolution, you understand.’
‘Not long, sir,’ said Gil. ‘Could you perhaps . . .?’ He waved at the crowd, and Maister Forsyth nodded and turned to make shooing motions which were largely ignored. Gil bent over the corpse, considering the white dust caked on the blue wool of the gown, and sniffed.
‘Pierre, do you smell cumin?’
‘Cumin?’ Maistre Pierre stepped closer. ‘I do. Not strong, but – was there a dish with cumin at the feast?’
‘Not at our table, we had rabbit and ground almonds and a couple of flans. Perhaps one of the other tables. That might be it.’
‘Now we loose his hands?’ prompted the mason.
They rolled the limp body over on the hurdle to get access to the buckle, and eased it free. The boy’s bony wrists were marked where the coils of leather had dug in. Gil turned them carefully,
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