Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent, page 39
‘How many doors does this place have?’ whispered Bartholomew.
‘One, of course,’ replied Michael scornfully. ‘It is not somewhere that requires multiple entrances and exits.’
‘And how many windows?’
‘I do not know,’ whispered Michael crossly. ‘Two, I suppose – one on the upper floor, and one on the lower. But you have been in there yourself. Why are you asking me?’
‘It is your priory. You know it better than me.’ Bartholomew stood back to assess the building, piecing together what he could see with what he remembered. ‘Does it comprise a single chamber on the ground floor with a ladder leading to a single loft on the upper floor?’
‘I have only been inside it once and that was with you,’ grumbled Michael. ‘But yes, I think so. The bones are on the ground floor, while the loft is probably empty.’
‘Except for whoever is up there at the moment. I will go in through the door, while you stand at this corner and make sure that no one escapes through either window.’ He unlooped his medical bag from his shoulder and removed his heavy childbirth forceps, holding them in his right hand, as he would a club. Then he stuck one of his surgical knives in his belt.
‘Are you insane?’ demanded Michael, eyeing his preparations in alarm. ‘I was right in the first place: we should not do this alone. If we fail, the consequences do not bear thinking about. We cannot afford to let this man – or these men – escape and continue the bloody work.’
‘But he may be gone by the time we fetch Cynric and Meadowman,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And it would be a terrible thing to let this opportunity pass.’
‘It will be no opportunity at all if we are the next victims!’
‘But there may be no more victims if we can catch him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘We cannot risk him escaping now we have him cornered.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, clearly reluctant. ‘But I am not staying out here alone. Hand me that spade. If I encounter anyone inside, who so much as moves, I shall knock his brains out with it.’
He grasped the stout spade that leaned against the wall of the Bone House, and prepared to follow Bartholomew inside. The physician reached out and silently unlatched the door. As it swung open to reveal the black maw of the charnel house, he began to have second thoughts himself about the wisdom of the plan. Michael was almost certainly right about the killer’s cold ruthlessness, and they should have Cynric and Meadowman with them. He turned to admit as much to the monk, but Michael prodded him in the back, urging him to go ahead before he lost his nerve. Taking a deep breath that was tinged with the musty, wet smell of rotting bone, Bartholomew took a step forward into the house of the dead.
Inside the Bone House, the darkness was absolute after the starlight. Bartholomew and Michael waited for a few moments until their eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The skulls still sat in their eerie rows on shelves, and the dark mass of the pile of long bones could be seen on one side. To the other was the barrel that contained fragments of fingers, toes and crania.
Bartholomew peered around him, ignoring the dead inhabitants of the room and looking for its living occupant. He exchanged a glance with Michael, and then nodded to the ladder that ascended into the darkness of the upper floor. Michael shook his head vehemently, indicating that they should wait until whoever it was came down. Bartholomew hesitated, then nodded agreement. It would be difficult to climb a creaking ladder undetected, and the killer would merely strike at his head as soon as he was high enough. Michael was right: if they waited, then they would have the advantage. Treading silently, he eased into the darkest shadows with Michael next to him.
It seemed that whoever was upstairs had not detected their presence. They could hear his feet on the boards of the floor as he moved. Bartholomew shivered, suddenly chilled in the dankness. The walls were of wood, but they were thick, to keep their contents from the unwelcome attentions of dogs. The bones had been dug from damp earth, so there was a musty wetness in the atmosphere that was oppressive. Something dripped on his shoulder, and he imagined that while the walls were strong, the thatched roof was in a poor condition. Since the purpose of the Bone House was to deter animals that might make off with the bones, no one would be overly concerned about a leaking roof.
He and Michael waited in the shadows for what seemed like an age. The physician’s legs and back began to grow stiff from standing, and the drowsiness he had experienced earlier returned. If he had been sitting down, he would have fallen asleep. Next to him, Michael shifted uncomfortably, and Bartholomew wondered whether he should send the monk to fetch Cynric and Meadowman after all. When he whispered the suggestion into Michael’s ear, the monk shook his head vehemently. Although he sensed that they were making a mistake, Bartholomew was grateful for the reassuring presence of Michael at his side. A second drip of water from the roof above was loud in the silence.
Humans, living and dead, were not the only species that inhabited the Bone House. Tiny claws skittered across the floor and rustled in and out of the bones. While the thick walls kept out larger scavengers, rats had found gaps in the planking and had insinuated themselves inside. Bartholomew closed his eyes and listened, certain he could hear small teeth crunching.
After an eternity, there was increased activity from the floor above. The footsteps moved clear across the floor, and then someone began to descend the ladder. He carried a candle, and was moving cautiously, as if wary of falling. Bartholomew made out a pair of feet, then a swinging cloak that hid the clothes that were worn beneath. He strained his eyes, trying to determine whether he knew the person, and whether a monastic habit or secular clothes were being worn. But it was too dark, even with the candle, and Bartholomew could only make out the vaguest of shapes. When the person was halfway down the stairs, Bartholomew jumped in alarm as Michael issued a shriek of victory and dashed from his hiding place to make a grab for the mysterious figure.
If Bartholomew jumped in alarm, his reaction was mild to that of the man on the steps. He jolted violently, lost his grip and fell. The candle cartwheeled downwards and landed on the dirty blanket that had recently been used to cover Glovere’s body. The cover began to smoulder, releasing an unsteady, flickering light into the gloomy room.
Michael had anticipated hauling the man down by force, and was not ready for the sudden release of weight. He tumbled to the floor with the man on top of him. Recovering from his fright, Bartholomew sprang to the monk’s aid. The fellow on the ground struggled furiously, lashing out with his fists. Bartholomew heard the sharp crack of knuckles contacting nastily with bone, followed by a yelp of pain from Michael. He seized the man by a handful of his cloak and wrenched him away from the monk, who was on his knees with one hand fastened firmly to his nose.
The man stumbled over the pile of long bones, and when he straightened up again he held a femur. Bartholomew, his forceps at the ready, parried the first blow with ease, hearing the bone split as it met the metal. The man struck a second time, and the leg broke, so that the ball joint went cartwheeling away into the darkness. Using the same motion, the man struck upwards, attempting to use the jagged end of the shaft like a knife and catching Bartholomew a bruising blow under the ribs. The physician backed away but tripped over Michael, who was still crawling about on all fours.
Meanwhile, the flames had taken hold of Glovere’s blanket and were burning furiously. They crackled and hissed as they consumed the filthy wool, sending sparks snapping across the wooden floor. Some sawdust caught light and started to burn. The Bone House began to fill with white, choking smoke.
The man grabbed a skull and lobbed it towards them. It hit Michael on the shoulder with a hollow crack, then bounced away across the floor. The next one was aimed at the physician’s head, and he raised one hand to deflect it, dropping the forceps as he did so. He lunged forward again, aiming to grab the man and then hold him until Michael could help, but the man side-stepped quickly, and Bartholomew found himself with a grip that was inadequate. The force of his lunge caused him to lose his balance, and he fell.
With a dull roar, the fire took hold of something unidentifiable in a corner. As he tumbled, Bartholomew saw that flames were licking towards the pile of old coffins, too, and knew that the ancient wood would make excellent kindling.
He should not have allowed his attention to stray from his assailant. He felt a sudden pressure on his head. He struggled, but the man leaned his whole weight downward, and the physician found he was unable to move. And then he felt the prick of cold metal at the base of his skull.
Just when Bartholomew was certain it was all over, and that he would end his life on a filthy floor in a bone house with Michael soon to follow, the pressure was released. He heard a grunt and another crash, and flinched away as flames came too near his face. He saw Michael hovering above him. The man had gone, and the door was swinging open on its hinges.
‘My God, Matt …’ began the monk unsteadily.
‘Where did he go?’ demanded Bartholomew, scrambling to his feet.
‘He ran through the door. I saw him with that knife at your neck, and I thought—’
‘Which way?’ Bartholomew made for the entrance. ‘Did you see who it was?’
‘No, I—’
‘You mean he escaped?’ shouted Bartholomew aghast, looking this way and that across the dark priory grounds. There was no movement anywhere, in any direction. Their quarry had bested them both and had slipped away into the night. ‘But we had him in our clutches!’
‘The fire!’ shouted Michael. ‘Quick! Help me before it takes hold.’
He flapped ineffectually at the flames that licked at the old coffins, making them burn more vigorously than ever. Bartholomew leaned hard against the barrel of bone fragments until it toppled, sending its damp, mouldering contents skittering across the floor. He threw handfuls of them at the sparks until they had been smothered. Shaking and breathless, he walked outside, where he took several breaths of clean night air. He wiped a hand across his face and looked at Michael, then swore softly, startling the monk with a sudden string of obscenities.
‘It was not my fault,’ began Michael defensively. ‘When he fell on me, he knocked me all but witless for a few moments. When I came to my senses, I saw him kneeling on top of you with that nasty little blade gleaming in the firelight, and I thought I was already too late. I hit him with the spade as hard as I could, then came to see if you were still alive.’
‘You let him go,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘You should have given chase.’
‘I shall, next time,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You must excuse me, Matt: I was sentimental enough to place concern for a friend over catching a criminal.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, relenting when he saw the monk’s face was white, and that there was an unhealthy sheen of sweat on it. His nose was bleeding, too.
‘I am sorry,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I am sorry I listened to you in the first place. I told you we should have fetched Cynric and Meadowman, and that we would not be able to manage this man by ourselves. I was right and you were wrong.’
‘We were careless. We should not have allowed him to defeat us.’
‘We should not,’ agreed Michael vehemently. ‘But next time, we will do what I think is right. And I will concentrate all my efforts on catching him and you can fend for yourself.’
‘Your nose is bleeding,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his medicine bag and handing the monk a clean piece of linen. ‘Sit down and tilt your head back.’
‘Not out here, thank you very much,’ said Michael stiffly, snatching the linen ungraciously. ‘For all I know, that murderer is still close by, watching our every move. I will not sit down and present my throat to him like a lamb for the slaughter.’
‘He has long gone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He knew he was nearly caught, and will not be lurking around to see what will happen next. I suppose it was the killer, was it?’
‘Of course it was!’ exploded Michael furiously. ‘How can you even ask such a thing, when you lay there with his knee on your head and felt the steel of his blade against your neck? My God, Matt! It is a sight that will haunt my dreams for years to come. I feel sick just thinking about it, and it makes the blood drum in my ears.’
Bartholomew took his arm and led him inside the Bone House. The smoke was dissipating, and the stink of burning was losing its battle against the more powerful odour of rotting bone. He indicated that Michael should perch on the overturned barrel for a few moments, to recover himself. The monk sat heavily, forcing Bartholomew to make a grab for it when it threatened to roll. On the shelf under the window was a small dish and a candle stub, apparently used by workmen when they brought their finds for storage. The physician struck a tinder, and filled the room with an unsteady, flickering light. Michael glanced up at him, and then gasped in horror.
‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew, looking around him in alarm.
‘Blood!’ muttered Michael, rubbing a shaking hand across his eyes. ‘Lots of it.’
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, snatching up the candle. Then he saw what Michael meant. The floor was stained dark with congealing blood, much of it scuffed and spread by their feet during the skirmish that had taken place. ‘Oh.’
‘Not on the floor,’ whispered Michael, raising fearful eyes to Bartholomew. ‘On you. He must have stabbed you after all. I am having a conversation with a ghost!’
Bartholomew twisted, and saw that the shoulder and arm of his shirt were stained a bright red. Horrified, he felt the back of his neck, but there was no wound that he could find, and certainly no tenderness. He knew very well that some men were stabbed or shot and did not know pain until later, but he was certain he would be able to feel something. And then he remembered the drops of moisture that had dripped as he waited for the killer to descend the ladder. It was not his own blood that stained his shirt. His instincts told him to rush up the ladder immediately, to see if he could help, but the rational part of his mind informed him that there would be little he could do for anyone relieved of as much blood as lay pooled on the floor of the Bone House. His first duty was to the living, to Michael, who gazed at him with eyes that were wide with shock.
‘Drink this,’ he said, reaching into his bag and producing a phial. It was stronger than the brew he usually used for shocks, but Henry still had his other one. ‘And then we will go upstairs and see what has happened.’
‘What is it?’ asked Michael, regarding the phial suspiciously. ‘I do not like drinking medicine handed to me in the dark. You may make a mistake and hand me a purge.’
‘Just strong wine.’
‘Wine,’ said Michael, taking it from him eagerly. ‘That is more like it. I had forgotten you have taken to carrying a little something around with you these days.’
‘It is not for me, and not for casual drinking,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is for emergencies.’
‘This is an emergency,’ said Michael, putting his lips to the neck of the flask and all but emptying it in a single swallow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘That is better. Wine is indeed a good remedy for unsteady nerves.’
‘Are you feeling better, then?’ asked Bartholomew, holding the candle closer to Michael’s face. He was relieved to see that some of the colour was creeping back into the monk’s cheeks, and his eyes were losing their haunted expression.
‘I do not know which was worse: having a killer land on me, or seeing him prepared to make an end of you. I thought my lunge with the spade was too late.’
‘You hit him?’
‘As hard as I could. However, it was not as hard as I would have liked – this is a small room, and there was no opportunity to swing the thing properly. I imagine it brought tears to his eyes, though.’
‘Where did you hit him?’
‘I was afraid he might duck if I aimed for his head, and then I would be off balance and he might succeed in stabbing us both. I aimed for his shoulders, but actually caught him on the back. Why do you ask?’
‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘If you had injured his face, we might have been able to identify him tomorrow. But it will be difficult to see whether anyone has a bruised back.’
‘I should have thought of that,’ said Michael caustically. ‘I seem to be slipping tonight. First, I let a killer go because I was more interested in trying to save your life, and then I hit him in a place where you will not be able to see the wound.’
‘I did not mean to sound ungracious,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘I am just frustrated that we had the damned man in our clutches, but he still managed to escape.’
‘It is too late to worry about that now. We did our best. It is not our fault we are not experts at wrestling in the dark with murderers, although we have done it often enough. Our performance tonight was not our finest hour. I am not a man for superstition, as you know, but I cannot help but think there was something diabolical about his strength.’
‘There was not. We stumbled around like old ladies, and he merely took advantage of our ineptitude. He was not as diabolical as our performance.’
Michael smiled wanly.
‘We should look upstairs,’ said Bartholomew unenthusiastically. ‘Something horrible is up there, and I think we should probably see what it is.’
‘You go,’ suggested Michael. ‘I have seen enough vile things for one night. And anyway, I still feel unsteady around the legs.’
‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. ‘Perhaps I should escort you back to your room, so that you can lie down and rest a while. I can always come back later.’
‘We should get it over with,’ said Michael, climbing stiffly to his feet. He drained the last of the wine, and handed the empty flask back to Bartholomew. ‘That is a decent brew, Matt. I shall have to remember where you keep it.’
