Free The Nicholas Feast by Pat McIntosh

looked at the small neat hands, pushed up the sleeves to look at the forearms.
    The mason, working on the unpleasant task of unfastening the other belt, remarked, ‘His gown is dry on the shoulders. He has not, I think, been out in the rain lately.’
    ‘Interesting,’ said Gil. ‘The hem is damp, at the back only, here where the scorch marks are, and there is coal-dust on one elbow and something white on the other.’
    ‘And on the skirt of his gown,’ said Maistre Pierre, looking along the length of the garment.
    ‘And these boots are scuffed on the toes.’
    ‘Many people scuff their toes.’
    ‘The boots are quite new and otherwise well cared for.’ Gil took the belt from the corpse’s wrists, a well-worn strap of ordinary cowhide with a cheap buckle, tried it round the waist of the gown, then rolled it up and put it in the breast of his doublet.
    The other belt had sunk deeply into the swollen flesh of throat and neck and required to be coaxed, but finally came free. To judge by the mark on the leather it belonged to someone of heavier build than the first one, but it was otherwise just as unremarkable. Gil measured it likewise against the corpse’s waist, then examined the length of it closely, to muttered comments from the group of onlookers.
    ‘Why’s he doing that?’
    ‘College canny afford a bloodhound.’
    ‘Pierre, will you take this?’ Gil said, handing it over. ‘We need to keep the two belts separate, I think. I wonder where his purse is?’ He patted the breast of the faded blue gown, but found nothing. ‘That is odd,’ he added, searching more carefully. ‘I’ll swear he had a purse earlier.’
    ‘Is there anything else to learn from him?’ asked the mason, sitting back on his heels.
    ‘I don’t think so.’ Gil turned the empurpled face to look at it. ‘Perhaps I spoke too soon. Look at this.’
    ‘What is it?’
    Gil touched the mark carefully. ‘Aye, the skin’s split. The flesh is much swollen but I think the jaw must be about there.’
    ‘ Someone has fetched him a blow.’ The mason made an involuntary movement with one fist.
    ‘I think so. You know, that’s a relief. It’s possible he was dazed or unconscious when he was throttled. I must ask someone that he shouldn’t be stripped until we can be present.’ Gil got to his feet, looking round for Maister Forsyth, who hurried forward followed by a student with a censer and another with holy water and an asperger. ‘Now we have to report to the Principal.’
    The Dean, the Principal and the two men of law were in the Principal’s house, where the great chamber was hung with painted cloths depicting various learned men as bearded worthies in academic robes. In front of a long-nosed Socrates receiving a scroll from Philo-sophia herself, Maister Doby waved them to padded stools and said anxiously, ‘Well, Gilbert, what can ye tell us?’
    ‘Little more yet,’ said Gil. ‘We are both certain it is murder rather than any sort of accident, but beyond that –’
    ‘The belt about his neck must belong to someone,’ said the Dean in incisive Latin. ‘Find the owner and we have found the culprit.’
    ‘The belt about his neck may be his own,’ said Gil. ‘However I agree that the other may very probably lead us to the malefactor.’
    ‘But can we offer a better scent to the hounds?’ asked Maistre Pierre in French. ‘Did the young man have enemies?’
    ‘At least one, clearly’ Archie Crawford still wore the critical frown. ‘What do you mean, very probably? I should have said it was a certainty.’
    ‘He means, Archibald, that the malefactor might have used the property of another,’ said Maister Doby kindly. ‘What must you do next, Gilbert? How should the Faculty help you?’
    ‘Tell me about the dead boy,’ Gil invited.
    There was a brief stillness, in which he was aware of powerful minds working; then the Dean said firmly, ‘An able student, an ornament to the college. Learning has lost one of her