A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 9

‘That was interesting,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael picked their way between the walls of snow in the High Street. ‘The Waits have been seen with Norbert, Gosslinge and Harysone. I wonder if any of them is the “friend” who takes their stolen property and converts it to pennies.’

‘Not Gosslinge,’ said Michael. ‘He was in the employ of a respectable merchant. Why should he waste his time with pennies?’

‘It might explain why he was wearing rags,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He exchanged his livery for shabby clothes as a disguise while engaged in illegal activities.’

‘It might, I suppose. And then he and the Waits had a falling out, and Frith rammed the vellum down Gosslinge’s throat. But would they kill the man who was going to sell their goods? I imagine you need to be very careful about who you trust when you turn criminal, and new and reliable accomplices would not be easy to find.’

‘Perhaps Gosslinge wanted more money, but they refused.’

‘And killed him? Why? It is not as if Gosslinge could go to the Sheriff with his information, because that would see him hanged, too.’

‘Then what about Norbert as the accomplice?’

‘Norbert seldom left the town. He could not have helped with stolen goods in Chepe.’

‘The singer said he did not know whether the accomplice travelled with them, or whether they had different help in different places. Norbert may have been their Cambridge man.’

‘But, like Gosslinge, Norbert died five days after they arrived,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Does that mean he was not good at his job, and so they stabbed him?’

‘Perhaps he tried to cheat them. Who knows what sort of arrangement they had?’

‘But, again like Gosslinge, why kill their accomplice when replacement partners in crime would be difficult to come by? I am more inclined to believe that the accomplice is Harysone.’

‘I wonder why that does not surprise me,’ muttered Bartholomew dryly. ‘On what grounds?’

‘His behaviour, for a start. He told you about meeting the Waits when you went to treat his back. He wanted to make sure you understood it was a chance encounter. He anticipated someone would tell you they had been seen together, and he wanted you to believe the meeting was meaningless before it figured in our investigation. But he is our man. Why else would he be here?’

‘To sell copies of his book?’

Michael pulled a face to show what he thought of Harysone’s attempts at scholarship. ‘His “book” is not worth the parchment it is written on. It is a ruse – an excuse for his presence here so no one will ask questions.’

Bartholomew gave a sudden laugh. ‘Did you hear William complaining about it this morning, after you excavated me from the snow? He is supposed to tell Langelee whether it is suitable for the library, and is enjoying it because it is not. He does not know whether to be amused or shocked. He read me the parts he considered most damning.’

‘What did they say?’

‘All sorts of rubbish, but what really caused him to launch into one of his tirades was Harysone’s statement that fish are angels. Harysone’s logic is that fish have silver scales, but their brilliance fades after they die; this is because the angel’s soul leaves the fish to go to Heaven. He also says angels are the only creatures on Earth that do not breathe air. Ergo, angels are fish.’

Michael gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘Harysone really wrote that?’

‘You should borrow the book from William before he wears it out with his aggressive thumbing and browsing.’

‘I could not bring myself to touch it,’ said Michael primly. ‘But all this merely confirms my suspicions: Harysone is the Waits’ accomplice.’

‘Because he writes heretical books?’ asked Bartholomew, laughing. ‘You will need something better than that to convict him! However, remember that if Harysone is the Waits’ accomplice, they would not have relieved him of his gold in the King’s Head.’

Michael was not pleased to see his argument thwarted. He muttered something incomprehensible, then declared they would pay Harysone a visit immediately. Bartholomew saw that the monk obviously preferred to trust his own instincts about the pardoner than the physician’s scientific analysis of the facts.

It took a long time to reach the King’s Head, partly because it was difficult to walk, but mostly because people kept stopping them to ask for help or to enquire whether they had seen someone who was missing. Matilde was out, taking bread and milk to those in need, assisted by Yolande de Blaston’s older children. They struggled through the snow carrying baskets and jugs, putting their feet in her footprints, so that Bartholomew was reminded of the legend about the sainted King Wenceslas. She waved to him, but was too busy with her charity to stop and talk. They met Langelee near Bene’t College. Looking pleased with himself, he waved a bag of coins at them.

‘Five pounds,’ he said with satisfaction, bracing himself against the monstrous pile of snow outside that College in order to let Robin of Grantchester slink by without touching him; the drift made the road very narrow at that point. A trail of red in the white after Robin had passed indicated the surgeon had been practising his trade that morning.

Michael grinned conspiratorially. ‘You persuaded Harysone to part with five pounds? That is five times what he wanted for one of his miserable books. I knew he would be unable to resist!’

‘St Zeno’s finger,’ said Bartholomew, looking from one to the other. ‘You sold Harysone the relic Turke gave you?’

‘For a modest sum,’ bragged Langelee, clearly delighted. ‘I played on his love of fish, as you suggested, Michael. I thought I might have to exaggerate Zeno’s association with fishermen to make him bite – so to speak – but he already knew all about the Saint of Anglers, and all I had to do was appear to be reluctant to part with the thing.’

‘I was going to inspect that,’ said Bartholomew, disappointed to learn it was no longer in Michaelhouse’s possession. ‘I thought it might be Gosslinge’s thumb.’

‘More than likely,’ said Langelee carelessly. ‘I had a good look at it myself, and it is definitely a human digit of some kind or other. It was blackened and covered in dried skin. I saw many relics when I worked for the Archbishop of York, and I sensed Turke’s was a fake from the beginning. When I touched it, and was not struck down by the Wrath of God, I knew I was right.’

‘That was a risky way to find out,’ said Bartholomew, disapprovingly. ‘You should have asked Kenyngham to assess it first. If anyone can identify saintly objects, it is him.’

‘He did,’ said Michael, shooting the Master an admonishing look for telling only part of the story. ‘Kenyngham blessed it, but said it felt tainted. We decided to rid Michaelhouse of the thing as soon as possible. And who better than to a pardoner with an obsession for fish?’

Langelee jingled his coins in boyish glee. ‘I must go – to consult with Agatha about how best to spend five whole pounds!’

Harysone was sitting in the main chamber of the King’s Head when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. Lounging elegantly near the hearth, he was enjoying the company of two merchants who also wanted the warmth of a fire that winter day. He wore the relic bag around his neck, and was fingering it as he spoke. The merchants looked pleased when Michael beckoned Harysone away, glad to be rid of him. Bartholomew saw one of them held a copy of Harysone’s book, and supposed the pardoner had been working on a sale.

‘Cordwainers,’ said Harysone, revealing his teeth in a predatory smile. ‘They love to hear about my escapades in Chepe, among the best and most ruthless traders in the country.’

‘They did not look as though they were loving it to me,’ said Michael rudely. ‘They looked bored to tears.’

‘Chepe?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘When were you in Chepe?’

‘I do not remember precisely,’ said Harysone carelessly. ‘A year ago, perhaps. When you travel a lot, as I do, you tend not to recall details. Perhaps it was not Chepe at all, but Smithfield or the Fleet. They, too, have great markets.’

‘But you said, quite categorically, that Chepe merchants are among the “best and most ruthless in the country”,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘How can you now say you may have been referring to traders from other markets?’

‘I am tired, and my back is paining me,’ snapped Harysone, irked at being caught out in a falsehood. He went on the offensive. ‘What have you done about the student who stabbed me? You seem willing to quibble about the locations of markets, but have you caught the man who inflicted this grievous wound on my person?’

‘Why do you frequent markets?’ asked Michael, ignoring Harysone’s questions and persisting with his own. ‘You are a pardoner, so your trade will be in and around churches, where you can catch the conscience-stricken before they are obliged to make embarrassing confessions.’

‘I like markets,’ said Harysone defensively. He sipped wine from his goblet, and his teeth clanged noisily on the rim. Bartholomew wondered if the man had ever considered having them filed to a more manageable size. ‘I like the smells and the atmosphere. It is not a crime.’

‘You like fish, too,’ said Michael, making it sound like an accusation.

Harysone smiled fondly, ignoring the monk’s hostile tone. ‘Yes, I do. Fish are God’s glimpse into Heaven. You know the story of the loaves and the fishes – God made many fish out of an original two or three, because He wanted everyone to enjoy them and see how wonderful they are to eat. Fish are marvellous creatures, and so useful.’

‘Useful?’ asked Bartholomew warily, sure that Harysone’s interpretation was not the message the gospel writers had intended to impart.

Harysone flashed his teeth. ‘As a physician, you should know their myriad virtues. Fish oils can cure diseases, and they produce luxuriant and glossy curls, if applied to the hair.’

‘I thought I smelled something odd,’ remarked Michael, edging away from him.

‘They are also tasty, and are better than meat for the digestion,’ Harysone went on. ‘They are in every sea, river and stream, providing an inexhaustible supply for human delight. And they make for good friends – better than dogs.’

‘You have a lap-fish?’ asked Michael wryly. ‘Like rich widows have lap-dogs?’

‘Of course not,’ said Harysone scornfully. ‘They die if you put them in air, and no one wants to sit around with a water-filled lap. You keep them in a jug or, if you are wealthy, in a pond in your garden. If you find one dull or unresponsive company, you can eat it and buy another.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, regarding Harysone as though he had escaped from St John’s Hospital, where the town’s lunatics were housed. ‘Have you always been a pardoner, or does your obsession with matters piscine stem from an earlier career as a fisherman or a fishmonger?’

Bartholomew supposed that this none too subtle question was intended to raise the subject – again – of whether Harysone had known Turke or Gosslinge.

Harysone’s face bore an expression of genuine regret. ‘I wish I were a fishmonger, because I can think of no occupation that would suit me more. However, we cannot always do what we want, so I am obliged to make my living by selling pardons. My book – I have a spare copy for sale, if you are interested – is my little tribute to the creatures I revere.’

‘I see you have a relic,’ said the monk casually. ‘Is it a fish, by any chance?’

‘The best relic would be a fish Jesus caught in the Sea of Galilee,’ declared Harysone wistfully. He fingered the pouch. ‘But this is almost as good: St Zeno’s finger.’

‘May I see it?’ asked Bartholomew politely, wondering whether his knowledge of bones would allow him to distinguish a finger from a thumb if the skin was withered away.

‘You may not,’ said Harysone haughtily. ‘This is a sacred relic, and not for pawing by curious physicians who want to examine everything they see.’

‘How much did it cost?’ asked Michael wickedly. ‘I am sure saints’ bones are expensive.’

‘Terribly,’ agreed Harysone. ‘This was five pounds, but worth every penny, even though its purchase has left me impoverished. I shall have to sell more books. Are you sure you do not–?’

‘What about the gold Sheriff Morice returned to you?’ interrupted Michael, as quick as lightning. ‘Could you not have used that? How much was it, anyway? Morice is fond of gold himself, so I wager he took a small something for himself.’

‘It was not small,’ grumbled Harysone. ‘He offered me all my recovered gold, plus interest, but then informed me he always keeps a percentage of any recouped stolen property for the needy. By “needy”, he meant himself, I gather. However, I do not make a habit of contesting rules set by venal officials. I do not want to end up dead in a ditch over a mark or two.’

There was an element of wisdom in Harysone’s position. It was not unknown for folk who spoke out against civic corruption to die in mysterious circumstances, and Bartholomew thought Harysone was probably prudent to pay what Morice asked and forget about the loss – especially in a town where he was a stranger and friendless.

‘You did not mention this before,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You said Morice returned it all with interest. But I shall ignore your dishonesty for now, if you tell me how much was stolen.’

‘Eight nobles,’ replied Harysone, bristling at Michael’s rudeness. ‘And Morice took three of them. I suppose I should count myself fortunate that he did not steal them all.’

Bartholomew thought the same thing, and did some rapid calculations. Since a noble was a third of a pound, Harysone’s returned gold would only have covered a third of the cost of the relic. He wondered whether the man’s book sales had provided the rest.

‘Do you know the identity of the culprits who stole your gold?’ asked Michael.

‘I do not,’ said Harysone. He raised a dirty hand to prevent Michael from speaking. ‘And I do not want to know, so do not tell me. There is nothing I can do about it now and I want to forget the whole miserable business.’

‘You love fish, yet you did not take the opportunity to converse with Walter Turke or his servant,’ Bartholomew observed, changing the subject. ‘They stayed in this tavern before moving to be with friends. Surely, you would have enjoyed their company?’

‘I have already told you Turke was not a gentleman,’ said Harysone. ‘And I doubt he loved fish anyway. For him, they would have been just a way to make money.’

‘Unlike you,’ said Michael, staring pointedly at the book. ‘But you were seen with Gosslinge by reliable witnesses.’

‘The inn has been busy since I arrived,’ explained Harysone patiently. ‘The man may have shared my table once, but we did not speak. I recall finishing my meal and leaving as soon as I could. I do not waste my time in discussion with illiterate menials.’

‘How do you know Gosslinge was illiterate?’ pounced Michael.

Harysone made an impatient noise. ‘He was a servant, and servants do not read. I am here in Cambridge only to sell copies of my book, so there is little point in chatting to folk who are unlikely to want one.’

‘You tried to sell Agatha the laundress a pardon,’ said Michael immediately, recalling her outraged reaction when she mentioned Harysone had offered her one that would take care of all seven deadly sins simultaneously. ‘So you are not here just to sell your book.’

‘You cannot blame me for trying to help a soul in need,’ said Harysone wearily. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me – for pardons. That is Revelations, of course.’

‘It is the gospels, not Revelations,’ corrected Michael. ‘Your theology is very hazy for a pardoner.’

With some effort, Harysone drew his lips over his teeth and managed to purse them. ‘You are not in a position to criticise the way I practise my profession. You are a proctor, yet you have not discovered the identity of the man who stabbed me. Who is the worst offender: the pardoner who makes an occasional mistake with his references, or the proctor whose ineptitude allows a would-be killer to walk free?’

‘The Chepe Waits,’ said Bartholomew quickly, thinking that Harysone had a valid point, but not wanting Michael to become involved in an argument when they had work to do. ‘Have you met them before?’

‘You have asked me this already,’ snapped Harysone. ‘And my answer now is the same as it was then: why would a respectable man like me know a group of ruffians?’

‘Because you travel?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Because you said yourself you often meet interesting and unusual people in the course of your wanderings. And there is the fact that the Waits come from Chepe – where you profess to know the merchants.’

‘We may have met,’ said Harysone cautiously. ‘I really do not recall. I see so many people that it is difficult to keep track of them all.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘I would not like to learn later that you have misled me. Lying to the Senior Proctor is a serious offence in this town, and carries a heavy fine.’

This was the first Bartholomew had heard about a fine for lying, although he was certain Michael would love the introduction of such a measure, while Father William would make the University fabulously wealthy on it. The threat of parting with money had an instant effect on the pardoner. He appeared to reconsider.

‘Perhaps I have met them before, but I do not recall whether it was in Chepe or elsewhere.’

‘How did you meet them?’ asked Michael, victory gleaming in his eyes, as he sensed he was getting somewhere at last.

‘Perhaps I asked them to play for me. I like a little entertainment now and again, and employ musicians when I have funds to spare. I hired one the other night, so people could see me dance.’

‘I do not suppose the Chepe Waits ever gave you anything in return?’ asked Michael. ‘And I do not mean the benefit of their musical talents. I mean things like salt dishes and inkpots.’

‘Why should they do that?’ asked Harysone, raising his eyebrows. ‘Really, Brother! I am not surprised your investigations have been unsuccessful, if this is your idea of solving crimes. I may have passed the time of day with your Chepe Waits, and I may have encountered them on my previous travels, but I have certainly never taken anything from them. And now …’

‘I hear you have been making enquiries about a certain Dympna,’ said Michael smoothly, when the pardoner rose to his feet. ‘What do you say to that?’

‘Nothing,’ said Harysone angrily. ‘Because I do not know what you want me to say. I heard she is good with her hands, and was hoping she would heal my afflicted back, since your physician is incapable of relieving my pain. Why do you ask? Is she dead, too?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Michael. ‘Is there something you would like to tell me?’

Harysone sighed. ‘Why do you persist in treating me like a criminal? I am the one who has been stabbed, yet you come here and demand to know inner meanings to every conversation I have had since I arrived. You would do better to interrogate those Michaelhouse boys, because if you do not charge one of them soon, I shall go to the Sheriff and demand justice. And that will cost you a good deal more than your time!’

‘Harysone is hiding something,’ said Michael, as he struggled through a particularly deep drift en route to the Trumpington Gate. ‘I know he is.’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you remember Langelee, when he first arrived here? He pretended to be a scholar, but all the time he was spying for the Archbishop of York.’

‘What does that have to do with Harysone?’

‘Perhaps it is no coincidence that Harysone arrived the same day as the Waits. Perhaps they made a powerful enemy by stealing from one particular household – someone who does not like his good faith abused and who wants revenge. In other words, Harysone is an agent, employed by some wealthy merchant from Chepe to catch the Waits and bring them to justice.’

‘They would not be worth the expense,’ said Michael. ‘That singer said the Waits’ light fingers land only on paltry items; he said they would never take anything valuable.’

‘But he also said the money generated from these thefts was considerable. Would you want those kind of people wandering around the villages or land that you owned?’

‘I do not think Harysone is here for any purpose other than to benefit himself. He is not some avenging angel, intent on putting right what is wrong in the world.’

‘The Waits have made enemies, though. The singer disliked them enough to tell Sheriff Morice they had stolen Harysone’s gold, while Quenhyth is positively rabid about them. There must be others who feel the same way. Harysone may be one of them.’

‘I suppose,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘However, although you think it is highly suspicious that Harysone and the Waits all reached Cambridge on the fifteenth of December, do not forget that Turke and his household arrived that day, too.’ He gave a grim smile as he recognised a familiar figure battling through the snow. ‘And here comes Giles, limping almost as badly as our investigation and with his feathered hat looking as dishevelled and disheartened as I feel. I intended to visit him later today, but we can talk to him now instead. It will save me a journey.’

‘It is too cold to chatter in the street,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘The snow has melted in my boots, and my feet are frozen. I shall have chilblains, like Giles, if I do not go home soon.’

‘It is mild,’ contradicted Michael, warmed by the mulled ale from the King’s Head and the effort of walking. He shot out a powerful arm to prevent the clerk from hurrying past. ‘Giles! Do you have a moment?’

‘No,’ said Abigny, trying without success to free himself. ‘I must meet someone, and I am already late. You can talk to me later, in Stanmore’s house where it is warm and dry.’

‘Who are you meeting?’ asked Michael.

Abigny stared at him in surprise, then laughed. ‘All the power you have accrued from being the Bishop’s spy and the Senior Proctor has made you insolent, Michael! It is none of your business who I am meeting, and you have no right to question me. I am no longer a scholar, and am therefore outside your jurisdiction.’

‘I apologise,’ acknowledged Michael, with a grin Bartholomew sensed was not genuine. ‘I only wanted to ask you about Gosslinge, now that Philippa is not here to contradict you.’

Abigny gave a bleak smile. ‘You have already heard all I have to say: Gosslinge was a puny little man who hid when there was hard work to be done; he was lazy and grasping; and he had an inflated opinion of his worth. He despised me because I am employed by the law courts – “priests’ dirty work”, he called it.’

‘Did he indulge in criminal activities, then?’ asked Michael, exchanging a meaningful glance with Bartholomew. Perhaps Gosslinge had been the Waits’ accomplice after all.

‘I doubt it,’ replied Abigny. ‘Walter was intolerant of any kind of wrongdoing by his servants, despite the fact that he used questionable practices himself to make his business a success. Gosslinge had a good life, and I do not think he would have risked losing it by breaking the law.’

‘Walter engaged in criminal activities?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘I thought he was a Prime Warden, and a fine, upstanding member of London society.’

‘Oh, he was,’ said Abigny wryly. ‘At least, that is what he wanted people to believe. His good reputation meant a great deal to him. Why else would he go to the inconvenience and discomfort of a pilgrimage?’

‘To atone for a mortal sin?’ suggested Michael dryly.

Abigny laughed again. ‘Do not be ridiculous! Walter had no fear of Heaven or Hell, and the pilgrimage was undertaken solely because he believed the murder of Fiscurtune – which he always claimed was perfectly justified, by the way – might damage his chances of being Lord Mayor.’

‘His chances of becoming Lord Mayor look slim at the moment,’ remarked Michael.

Abigny grinned. ‘Perhaps that was the real reason for his death – he embarked on a pilgrimage without being properly contrite, and was struck down by God.’

‘Why did Turke think he was justified in killing Fiscurtune?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said he stabbed an unarmed man during a guild meeting. That does not sound justified to me.’

‘Walter was one of those men who believe they can do no wrong,’ replied Abigny. ‘How Fiscurtune’s death appeared to me and a good many others was irrelevant to him. He believed he killed Fiscurtune honourably after many years of provocation.’

‘You mentioned Turke was not wholly honest in business,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What criminal activities did he enjoy?’

‘I did not say they were criminal,’ corrected Abigny. ‘I said they were questionable. He was ruthless, and destroyed more than one competitor as he made his way to the top. You will not find anything flagrantly illegal in his past, but there is a lot of unpleasantness and unkindness.’

‘I am puzzled by Gosslinge’s role in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why Turke employed someone lazy and indolent – even if he did remain on the right side of the law.’

Abigny hesitated. ‘I could give you my views on the matter, but I have no evidence to back them, and there is no point in telling tales now that both are dead. It would hurt Philippa, and I do not want to do that. And anyway, I thought you had agreed to leave Walter in peace.’

‘Turke, yes, but not Gosslinge,’ said Michael craftily. ‘I am not entirely satisfied that his death was natural.’ He raised an eyebrow at Bartholomew, who stared at the ground, chagrined. ‘I cannot allow him to be buried until I am sure there is nothing sinister about his demise.’

‘Really?’ asked Abigny, surprised. ‘You think someone might have done away with him? I do not think it was Turke, so do not waste your time exploring that line of enquiry. He was too angry about Gosslinge’s disappearance to have had a hand in it himself.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin as he considered the clerk’s claims. Was Abigny telling the truth about Turke’s level of irritation over the servant’s death, or was he just trying to dissuade them from including Turke in Gosslinge’s murder investigation? Bartholomew realised with a shock that not only had Philippa changed to the point where he barely knew her, but so had her brother. Bartholomew and Abigny had shared a room for several years, and had been good friends, but Bartholomew now found himself questioning everything Abigny said.

‘You still have not answered Matt’s question,’ said Michael, as Abigny leaned against a wall and flexed one of his feet, wincing as he did so. ‘Why did Turke employ a lazy scoundrel like Gosslinge?’

‘I will tell you what I think,’ said Abigny, repeating the operation with the other foot. ‘But on condition that you leave Walter alone afterwards. I do not want Philippa distressed any more than she has been. Gosslinge’s position in the household was more powerful than it should have been. He had some kind of hold over Walter.’

‘Do you know what that hold might be?’ asked Michael.

‘Gosslinge lost a thumb when he was a boy – as an apprentice gutting fish for Walter, apparently. I have always wondered whether it was an accident, or whether Walter did it.’ Abigny smiled ruefully when he saw the expression on their faces. ‘I knew you would be sceptical. It does not make sense, does it?’

‘Why would Turke sever Gosslinge’s thumb?’ asked Michael. ‘And why would Gosslinge let him?’

‘Gosslinge was puny,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he could not stop it.’

‘Or was it an accident?’ mused Michael. ‘But Turke felt responsible, so gave Gosslinge licence to live a lazy life. But, by all accounts, Walter was not a compassionate man, and so that seems unlikely, too.’

‘It crossed my mind that St Zeno’s finger was Gosslinge’s thumb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Langelee sold it before I could look.’

Abigny made a disgusted face. ‘I confess that possibility never occurred to me! I cannot envisage any situation that would lead Walter to revere other men’s severed body parts. It is grotesque! You must be wrong.’

‘We shall have to ask Philippa,’ said Michael. ‘She will know where the relic came from.’

‘Do not,’ pleaded Abigny. ‘You will upset her if she thinks you are probing Walter’s death after she asked you to leave him alone. She was fond of him, despite his shortcomings, and will grow fonder still once the bad memories have faded and only the pleasant ones remain. She will be a good widow, and will never say anything to harm his reputation – no matter what the truth.’

‘And what about you?’ asked Michael. ‘What did you really think of Walter?’

Abigny smiled. ‘I always said that Philippa made a mistake in her choice of husbands, which did not make me popular with Walter. You would have been a much better brother-in-law, Matt. We would have been friends.’

‘Walter was not your friend?’ asked Michael.

‘Lord, no! He was too busy running the Worshipful Fraternity of Fishmongers and making everyone believe he was respectable and decent. Of course, the murder of Fiscurtune made people think again. Would you want the prestigious post of Lord Mayor filled by a man who had stabbed another in what basically amounted to a fit of pique? Fiscurtune was being abusive and he had brought the Fraternity into disrepute with his poor salting techniques, but honourable men do not resolve arguments by stabbing unarmed opponents. However, now you must excuse me …’

‘Before you go, why are you here in Cambridge?’ asked Michael. ‘Is it really to protect Philippa?’

‘Totally – and you can see I was right to have misgivings about the venture. I am glad I was here to help her when she needed me. But now I really must go.’

He gave them a jaunty wave as he entered the King’s Head. Bartholomew waited a moment, then ploughed through the snow to the window. The shutters were drawn, to keep out the cold, but there were enough gaps in the wood to allow him to see through. He watched thoughtfully as Abigny doffed his hat in an amiable greeting to Harysone, then sat next to him and began to talk.

‘The Chepe Waits. Abigny. Fish. Dympna,’ said Michael, counting them off on his fingers late the following afternoon, as dusk was settling over the town. ‘These are the strands that connect Turke and his lazy servant, the dancing pardoner and the murder of Norbert. The only problem is that I cannot see how.’

Nor could Bartholomew, and he had been mulling over the information all day. The whole morning had been spent making enquiries about Harysone, but these yielded nothing they did not already know: the pardoner had arrived with his cartload of books, but no one knew anything about him other than that which he had chosen to divulge. No one could say how he had come by his curious fascination with fish. No one had seen him with Turke, but he had been noted in company with Gosslinge, although it seemed they had not spoken. No one could offer any plausible theories as to why someone should stab him, and the most likely explanation seemed to be Bartholomew’s – that the pardoner’s gyrations had driven him accidentally on to a knife worn in someone’s belt.

Michael had listened to reports from his beadles about Dympna that morning, but was disappointed with their trawl of information. Several witnesses had heard of Dympna, but no one had actually met her. A man who had lost a foot in an accident with a cart claimed Dympna was a saint, but would say no more about her, despite Meadowman’s best efforts and a large jug of ale. Later, Michael had gone to Ovyng. Ailred was preaching to his students – with apparent sincerity – about the virtues of honesty, but still insisted he had not left the hostel on the night the intruders had invaded St Michael’s. Godric said nothing at all.

When he returned to Michaelhouse, the monk struck up a conversation with Makejoy. The woman said the Waits had been together five years, and had spent most of their time enjoying lucrative careers in Chepe. The journey to Cambridge was unusual for them, and was undertaken partly because business was currently poor in London, and partly because Frith had expressed a desire to see the Fen-edge town. For want of anything better to do, the troupe had agreed to travel.

‘You would be better off without Frith,’ Michael had advised. ‘Not only is he surly and aggressive – and his rude tongue must lose you business – but he has no talent.’

Makejoy pulled a wry face. ‘None of us are overly endowed in that area, Brother, but we get by. Frith is good at organising. It is he who secures us our customers, he who negotiates better pay, and he who invests our takings and turns pennies into shillings.’

Michael’s interest quickened. ‘And how does he do that?’

But Makejoy would say no more, and turned the conversation to how she had learned to tumble.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew had gone to Stanmore’s house, to ask Abigny why he had met Harysone in the King’s Head. Bartholomew did not imagine for a moment that Abigny would tell him, since he had already said his affairs were no one’s business. But when he arrived he was told that both Philippa and Abigny were at St Michael’s Church, talking to the man who was to embalm Turke’s body for its journey to Chepe. Stanmore and Edith were at home, however, and both claimed that Abigny often went out on unspecified business, while Philippa refused to leave the house at all unless someone was with her. Stanmore remained convinced that something sinister was going on, and pressed Bartholomew again to discover why Turke had died.

When the physician looked into the church on his way home he found the embalmer working with his potions and knives, but Philippa and Abigny were not there. Bartholomew had not passed them, and he wondered where they could have gone. By the time he returned to Michaelhouse he was irritable, tired of being lied to and misled for reasons he could not understand, and there was a headache thumping behind his eyes.

He was just settling down for the evening, and was about to discuss the odd links between the Waits, fish, Dympna and the Turke household with Michael, when Cynric arrived to say they were invited to celebrate the passing of the old year at Milne Street. Bartholomew was surprised, because Philippa had effectively turned Stanmore’s home into a house of mourning, and a feast – even a small one – was an unexpected turn of events. He was sure Edith would not have made the suggestion, and so could only assume that it was Philippa’s idea. Michael, usually more than willing to accept an invitation from the Stanmores – Edith’s table was always well stocked – declared that he had some pressing documents to read, and Bartholomew saw that the monk no more wanted to pass an evening in the strained atmosphere at Milne Street than he did.

He considered declining the offer, too, pleading that he too was obliged to remain in Michaelhouse. But then Cynric mentioned a decree by Deynman that no one was allowed to speak English, Latin or French that evening; since few Michaelhouse scholars spoke any other languages, the occasion promised to be simultaneously silly and frustrating. Bartholomew knew Italian and some Spanish, and could converse with Michael in Greek, but the thought of trying to communicate with his other colleagues with hand gestures and gibberish was not at all appealing. Also, Edith was his sister, and he did not like to refuse her hospitality when he knew his absence would disappoint her.

Because his room was inaccessible under the snowdrift, he was obliged to share William’s until it was cleared. The friar watched critically as he brushed mud from his clothes and pulled on his boots, still soggy from walking through the snow earlier that day.

‘Are you going dressed like that?’ William asked eventually, after a long silence punctuated by disapproving huffs and sighs.

‘Why?’ Bartholomew looked down at himself. ‘What is wrong with me?’

William pulled a face indicating that while his lips uttered ‘nothing’, his mind was thinking something very different. ‘Your woman will not be impressed,’ he added, when Bartholomew appeared to take him at his word and prepared to leave. ‘And she is newly a widow, so will be looking for a man. You will not ensnare her if you do not make yourself look attractive.’

‘She is not looking for a man,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I am not available, anyway.’

‘So, you intend to continue with Matilde,’ concluded William disapprovingly. ‘I am not sure that is a good idea, Matthew. She may not want you, and it will be difficult to conduct a dalliance for long without it coming to the attention of the Chancellor. Still, I suppose if you are discreet it may work for a while, and you will eventually tire of the whole business of females.’

‘I shall bear that in mind,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, wishing his colleagues would mind their own business when it came to his love life. ‘How is your leg?’

‘This bad weather cannot last much longer, so I do not anticipate being an invalid for too many more days, which is just as well – the undergraduates will run riot if I am gone too long. I am sure there is already vice and debauchery wherever you look.’

‘Not wherever I look,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the season had been remarkably trouble free. The snow helped, keeping would-be revellers indoors and reducing the number of large street fights between gangs of townsmen and scholars. He glanced across at the friar and recognised the crude wooden covers of the book that lay open on his knees. ‘Are you still reading that thing? What is taking you so long?’

‘I have read it several times,’ said William, the light of the fanatic gleaming in his eyes. ‘I am unable to help myself. I have never encountered such bald heresy in all my days – and that includes among the Dominicans!’

‘It must be the work of Satan himself, then,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘But the bits I read were just the ramblings of a misinformed and badly educated eccentric. I did not detect anything particularly heretical.’

‘Oh, no?’ hissed William, sensing a challenge as his large hands scrabbled roughly at the pages. He opened it to a section that, judging by the state of it, had been perused many times before. ‘Then listen to this: “Godd has no Forme – this We all Nowe. However, Sometyms it Has been Nessessary for Him to Adopte a Shape in order to Appear to Man, and He has always Chose Attributes of a Fish to Manifeste Himselph.” Do not tell me that is not heresy! If my leg were not broken, I would burn Harysone in the Market Square myself!’

‘But it goes on to explain,’ said Bartholomew, peering over William’s shoulder to read the text for himself. ‘It says those attributes include a silvery sheen, like the skin of a fish, and an ability to dominate the mighty ocean. Harysone is just using marine images to describe God’s mystery.’

‘He is saying God has scales and lives in the sea.’ William hurled the book from him in revulsion, so it crashed into the wall and left a dent in the plaster.

‘So it will not be going in the Michaelhouse library, then?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

‘You had better go,’ said William, not deigning to answer. ‘Give my regards to Edith, and tell Abigny that the answer to his question is “no”. I had forgotten him in all the fuss over my leg, but I can tell him what he wants to know now.’

‘What was the question?’ asked Bartholomew, flinging his cloak around his shoulders and trying to make his feet comfortable inside his damp boots.

‘He asked me whether Pechem – the head of my Order here in Cambridge – had heard from Dympna recently,’ said William. ‘I told him I would ask, but Pechem said Dympna has been quiet, and has only acted once since the summer.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Dympna?’

‘Dympna,’ said William impatiently. ‘You know.’

‘I do not know. Who is she?’

William seemed confused and a little embarrassed. ‘It seems I have already said too much. I thought you would know Dympna, being a friend of Abigny’s. I see I was mistaken. Damn it all! I should have been more discreet. It is this wretched ice all around me. I cannot think straight with it lurking in every corner.’

In the interests of finding out what he wanted to know, Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that thinking and speaking had nothing to do with the fact that it was cold outside, and that the friar’s apparent indiscretion had more to do with his gruff and loquacious personality.

The physician leaned against the windowsill. ‘I think you had better tell me about Dympna, Father. Norbert received letters from her, asking him to meetings in St Michael’s Church; Walter Turke muttered something that sounded like Dympna before he died; and even Harysone has some association with this mysterious woman. Believe me, Michael will not take kindly to his Junior Proctor withholding information that may help him solve this case.’

‘But I cannot tell,’ protested William in alarm. ‘It is supposed to be a secret. I should not have assumed that Abigny had taken you into his confidence.’

‘It is too late now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if you do not tell me what I want to know, I shall inform Langelee that your leg is not broken, and–’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said William hastily. ‘But you cannot reveal to anyone it was I who told you about Dympna, or I shall have that Bradwardine book back. Dympna is not a woman. It is not a man, either. It is a group of people. A guild.’

‘What kind of guild?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Here was something he had not anticipated. ‘A trade association? A religious group?’

‘Neither, although a religious fraternity would be the closer description. It is just a collection of folk who have sworn to do good works. It always works anonymously, and only it knows the identities of its members. It also–’

This was not the answer Bartholomew was expecting at all. He stared at the friar in astonishment. ‘Good works? But this group is associated with at least two people who are dead – Norbert and Turke – not to mention sinister visitors like Harysone.’

William shrugged. ‘Wicked and dead folk have breathed the name of God, but that does not make Him responsible for their lives or their evil deeds. But to continue what I was saying, no one knows how to contact Dympna, so no one can solicit its help. However, Dympna often knows when folk are in trouble, and sometimes offers financial aid. It is not a gift – the money must be repaid in full at some point in the future – but there is no interest involved.’

‘You mean it is a group of benevolent bankers? It offers loans to people in desperate situations, but it expects to be repaid?’

‘Essentially, although there is no limit on the time, and Dympna asks for its money back only when the crisis is over. No threats are issued. It lent the Franciscan Friary twenty pounds to pay for a new roof three years ago, and was very understanding when the sum was returned only in small amounts. We still owe two pounds. It lent Mayor Horwood money when the Great Bridge threatened to collapse, a potter was helped when he lost his foot to an accident, and wood and food were sent to Dunstan when his brother died. That was unusual.’

‘Beadle Meadowman mentioned the potter,’ said Bartholomew, recalling being told about the man who had refused to give details about Dympna. ‘But why was helping Dunstan unusual?’

‘Because there was no expectation of repayment. Dunstan was ill and old, and the benefaction was a gift, not a loan. Dympna knew it would not be getting its money back there.’

‘Dympna,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Kenyngham said she is a saint associated with the insane.’

‘And the desperate,’ added William. ‘She was famous for charitable acts, especially to lunatics and people without hope. It is a clever name for the guild, is it not?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, who thought it was rather obscure. ‘But why should Norbert receive letters from a charity?’

‘I imagine because he had been lent money and Dympna wanted it back, so it could be passed to more deserving cases. Dympna is generous, but it will not be abused.’

‘So, the messages were demands for repayment,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘That makes sense. Would Dympna kill him, do you think, if he refused to give the money back?’

‘Dympna is a benevolent institution. It is understanding about the time needed to repay loans, and does not issue unpleasant threats, like moneylenders do. I cannot see it harming Norbert.’

‘What about Turke? Why would he die uttering that name? And why was Philippa so relieved once he had spoken?’

‘You will have to ask her that,’ said William, not liking the fact that Bartholomew was raising questions to which he had no answers, because it made him feel incompetent. ‘Perhaps Turke was a member of Dympna, although he did not seem the benevolent type to me, and I was under the impression Dympna was a local charity. But I may be wrong.’

‘Do you know the identities of anyone who definitely belongs to this guild?’

‘I am aware of one, but, as I said, it is a secret organisation, and only they know all its members. I believe Giles Abigny is involved.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful as he struggled through the drifts between Michaelhouse and Milne Street. It was already night, and the darkness was made blacker and more intense by the great snow-filled clouds that slouched overhead. Bartholomew could barely see where he was putting his feet, and was grateful Stanmore had left an apprentice outside his gates with a lamp to guide him.

His conversation with William, and the fact that it had taken longer than he had anticipated to travel the snow-smothered streets, meant that he was late. Stanmore, Edith, Abigny and Philippa were already seated in the solar when he arrived. It was a comfortable room to be in on a cold winter night. The window shutters were barred against the wind, a huge fire flickered and roared in the hearth, and lamps with coloured glass sent pretty shadows up the walls.

Someone had added pine cones to the fire and the scent of them filled the room, along with the spiced wine that sat warming in a pot and the chestnuts that were roasting in a tray.

A cosy, happy scene greeted Bartholomew as he entered. Abigny, dressed in dark blue tunic and hose, was playing raffle with Edith. This involved three dice, and the objective was to throw an equal or higher number than a rival. Edith was laughing as she won a pile of sugar comfits, and Abigny was teasing her about her good fortune. For an instant, Bartholomew glimpsed the long-haired, foppish young man with whom he had shared a room, and Abigny seemed almost carefree. Then he happened to glance up at Philippa, and his expression became sombre again. Bartholomew wondered whether it was because laughing was something one did not do in the presence of a recent widow, or whether the sight of her reminded him of matters in which amusement had no place.

Philippa was sitting near the fire with some darning lying unheeded in her lap. She was watching the raffle with a fixed smile on her lips, as though she realised she had to make at least some pretence at good humour. Bartholomew sensed that her thoughts were a long way from the game and from Stanmore’s solar. Stanmore himself sat apart from the others, a goblet of wine in his hand as he watched Philippa as intently as a hawk that was about to seize a rabbit. He rose to greet his brother-in-law, and Bartholomew could tell by the tense way he held his shoulders that the merchant was not happy.

‘Have you learned anything new about Turke?’ he asked in a low voice, pretending to help Bartholomew unfasten the clasp on his cloak so the others would not hear him. ‘Edith will not allow me to tell Philippa and Giles to leave my house. She says it would be rude. But with each passing day, I grow more certain that Philippa had a hand in her husband’s demise. I have encountered several murderers in my time – one of which was my own brother – but I have never met one as calm and collected as Philippa.’

‘Oswald,’ said Bartholomew, half laughing as he pulled away from the merchant. ‘We know Turke died from falling in the river. She may be involved in some plan involving the inheritance of his estate, but she did not kill him.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Stanmore uneasily. ‘Once, she told Edith she needed to rest and went to bed. Giles was bathing his feet, on your instructions. Later, Edith went to Philippa’s room to make sure all was well and found it empty: she had gone out.’ He regarded Bartholomew with pursed lips, as though that alone was sufficient to indict her of the most heinous of crimes.

‘But slipping out does not mean she murdered her husband,’ the physician pointed out.

‘But when she goes out openly, even if it is only to St Michael’s, she insists on having an escort. She says it would be improper for a recent widow to be seen on the streets alone. So what was she doing escaping my house all by herself? Answer me that!’

Bartholomew knew about Philippa’s obsession with appearances, and agreed with Stanmore that it was odd that she insisted on an escort sometimes, but conveniently dispensed with one on other occasions. ‘Do you know where she goes?’ he asked.

Stanmore shook his head. ‘Giles is worse – he disappears most days. These snows could isolate the town for months, and I may have this sinister pair in my house until February or March! It does not bear thinking about.’

‘You are over-reacting,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Even if Philippa or Giles did play some role in Turke’s sudden desire for skating – and I doubt they did – there is no reason for either to set murderous eyes on anyone here. You have done them no wrong and, perhaps more importantly, they are not about to inherit your estates.’

He went to join Edith and Abigny at the fire. His sister glanced up at him, her dark eyes bright with laughter and happiness, and Bartholomew experienced a peculiar protective feeling. He hoped Stanmore’s fears were unjustified, and the guests did not bring trouble to her house.

‘I have just been told about a certain charity – a guild – that operates in the town,’ he said, sitting opposite Abigny and watching him. Abigny did not glance up, but, like Edith, fixed his attention on the cup that held the small pieces of wood. He made his throw.

‘A three, a five and a one,’ he said. ‘I am sure there are a good many guilds in Cambridge, Matt. Oswald is a member of two.’

‘St Mary’s and the Worshipful Guild of Drapers,’ said Stanmore proudly. ‘But which one are you talking about, Matt? Giles is right: there are dozens in Cambridge.’

‘Dympna,’ said Bartholomew, trying to watch Philippa and Abigny at the same time. ‘It is a benevolent society that makes loans to desperate people.’

Neither Philippa nor Abigny responded in any way the physician could detect. Philippa still wore her fixed smile, and her eyes were full of distant thoughts. Bartholomew was not even sure she had noticed his arrival. Meanwhile, Abigny handed the dice to Edith and sat with his hands dangling between his knees to see what she would throw.

‘I have never heard of it,’ said Stanmore, the only person who seemed to be listening to the physician. ‘What is it? A religious guild?’

‘Two sixes and a four!’ exclaimed Edith, clapping her hands in delight. ‘I win! All three of my numbers are higher than yours.’

All three numbers, thought Bartholomew to himself. Was that the meaning of the triplet of figures he and Michael had seen on the vellum in Gosslinge’s throat? But it could not be: most dice only went to four or six, and one of the numbers on the vellum had been eight.

‘I know very little about Dympna,’ he said, in reply to Stanmore’s question. ‘Other than the identity of one of its members.’

He fixed Abigny with a stare that was so intense that his old room-mate was eventually obliged to look up. He appeared to be astonished. ‘Do you mean me?’ he exclaimed, with an expression of bemusement. ‘You think I am a member of this institution with the odd name! Why?’

‘Someone told me you asked for information about Dympna. His message to you is “no”.’

‘Father William!’ said Abigny, with a smile. ‘He approached me at the Christmas Day feast and started chattering about some mysterious society or other. You know how he is – subtle as a mallet in the groin. He was tapping his nose and winking and making all kinds of gestures that indicated he thought he and I shared a secret. Naturally, I was intrigued, so I let him believe I knew what he was talking about in the hope he would reveal more.’

‘And did he?’

‘Not enough to make sense. He seemed to think I was responsible for the loan of funds to the Franciscan Friary, and wanted me to know it was appreciated. I asked whether he had been offered any more money, to see whether the question would loosen his tongue further, but he merely offered to speak to Prior Pechem, and that was the end of the matter. I did not know what he was talking about then, and I do not now.’

‘I ask because this society is becoming more aggressive about the return of its loans,’ said Bartholomew, persisting with the discussion, even though he could see Abigny considered it over. ‘Norbert received letters from Dympna and then was stabbed. I cannot help but wonder whether the two are connected.’

‘Perhaps they are,’ said Abigny with a shrug. ‘But I do not know anything about it. What do you think, Philippa? Are you aware of this particular charity?’

Philippa dragged her thoughts to the present with obvious effort. ‘The guild that paid for the repair of the Great Bridge when it started to collapse?’ she asked, evidently struggling to recall what they had been talking about. ‘Mayor Horwood talked of it at the feast – in tedious detail.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Just that this charity had helped him with a problem, and that it is good there are still folk prepared to donate their wealth to help others.’

‘Its name is Dympna,’ said Bartholomew, watching her closely. When she did not react, he decided to adopt a more direct approach. ‘That was the word your husband breathed with his dying breath.’

She stared at him, and some of the colour drained from her face. ‘No one heard what he said,’ she whispered at last. ‘He spoke too softly.’

‘I heard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said “Dympna”.’

Stanmore disagreed. ‘Actually, Matt, he said “temper”. I told you: he was warning Philippa to be of a polite and gentle disposition.’

Philippa regarded him with as much disbelief as she had Bartholomew. ‘Why would he do that? I do not warrant that kind of advice from a dying man.’

‘Brother Michael believed the word was “Templar”,’ added Edith, looking from her husband to her brother. ‘He thought you two had heard wrongly.’

Philippa gave a tired smile. ‘And you have been speculating about the meaning of poor Walter’s final words ever since? If it is so important to you, why did you not ask me? I would have told you.’

‘You would?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

Philippa rubbed her eyes. ‘You have all been kind since Walter died, and playing the role of a grieving widow has not been easy. Walter was a difficult man – rude, aggressive and demanding – and I cannot deny that life holds a certain charm without him in my future. But I did not want you to think me heartless; I wanted you to believe my grief was real.’

‘Are you telling us it is not?’ asked Edith in surprise.

‘I married a man far older than me because I wanted a life of comfort and security. I sacrificed a good deal for it – my freedom and my spirit, not to mention a handsome lover who would have been a friend as well as a husband. Walter has sons who will inherit his fortune, and I saw that his premature death would end the life I had built at such cost. I will be a fat, middle-aged widow with nothing to offer any suitor.’

‘You are not fat,’ said Bartholomew gallantly. ‘But there are dietary regimes that promote good health as well as a thinner figure. If you like, I can draw up–’

‘Matt!’ said Edith sharply. ‘This is not the time.’

‘I would have helped,’ said Abigny, regarding his sister with gentle affection. ‘I admit I have not amounted to much, with my token post at the law courts and my squandered fortune, but I would have looked after you.’

She gazed at him bleakly. ‘You will wed this year. Do you think your salary can support me and your new wife? Will Janyne want her husband’s sister living in her house? And you have missed my point: I do not want to struggle along on pennies. I would have married Matt if I had been content with that.’

Her face was haunted, and Abigny leaned across to take her hand in his. ‘Your finances and your dreams are your business, Philippa. You do not have to share them with others.’

‘It is better they know the truth,’ she said tiredly, indicating Bartholomew and his family. ‘I do not want them speculating, and coming up with answers that show me in a poorer light than even I deserve.’ She took a deep breath and turned to Edith, apparently finding it easier to address her than the others. ‘I did not know what to do with myself when I first heard the news about Walter. I could not imagine what would become of me – and Giles – just because Walter had elected to go skating.’

‘You said he would never have done that,’ prompted Bartholomew, when she fell silent.

‘I still think he would not. He was too cautious to have ventured out on to weak ice. I suppose I shall never know why he did it. But then, when I heard he was still alive, I felt a sudden relief, as though I had been reprieved. He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I am sure he read the fear and apprehension for my future in my face. He said two words: “Temple” and “you”.’

‘Temple?’ asked Edith, curiously. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It is the name of our home,’ said Philippa. ‘Temple House – because it has arches on the front like the Temple Church in Fleet. Those words told me that the house was mine, that he had made provision for me in his will. I am not penniless after all.’

Bartholomew gazed at her. So that was the reason for the change in her behaviour between when she first learned about Turke’s accident and his death. She had gone from being a penniless widow with no future to the owner of a large and substantial home. He recalled their discussion at the Christmas feast, when she had mentioned the splendid house that bore resemblance to the Temple Church with its columns and round-headed windows.

‘So that explains all this odd behaviour?’ asked Stanmore, relieved. ‘You were trying to maintain a grief that you do not genuinely feel?’

Philippa looked pained. ‘Now you think me a hypocrite. I loved Walter in my own way, and I will miss him. And I shall respect his memory and do all a good widow should do. But I am not devastated by his death. However, I shall need to act my part until we have buried him and allowed his Fraternity friends to say their farewells.’

‘You should have told us,’ said Edith, sounding hurt. ‘We can be trusted not to tell people that you are looking forward to a brighter future now Walter is gone.’

‘You said you did not understand the meaning of Walter’s final words,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound accusing. ‘But you did.’

Philippa gave a wry smile. ‘Do you think I should have told you I had just received the happy news that I am the owner of the best house on Friday Street while my husband’s corpse was still warm? That would not have been appropriate!’

‘Neither was changing from debilitating grief to cool efficiency in a matter of moments,’ muttered Bartholomew. He spoke aloud, wishing she had chosen to be honest sooner. It would have saved a good deal of agitation for Stanmore. ‘So, Walter did not mention Dympna, and my theories associating him with Norbert are wrong?’

‘The only time I have ever heard that name was when Mayor Horwood mentioned it at the feast,’ replied Philippa. ‘He thought Dick Tulyet might be its leader.’

‘Dick?’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. Was that the link between Dympna and Norbert – that the beneficiary of one loan was Tulyet’s cousin? But Tulyet would not have asked Michael to investigate if he had been responsible for Norbert’s death, surely? ‘Did Horwood say anything more about this guild?’

‘Not that I recall,’ replied Philippa. She shivered and edged closer to the fire. ‘I had forgotten how cold it can be in this little town. I am not surprised Gosslinge succumbed to the weather.’

‘When I was re-examining Gosslinge, I found something trapped in his throat,’ said Bartholomew, watching as Edith fussed around Philippa with a woollen blanket. ‘I think he choked, rather than died of the cold. Was he in the habit of putting things in his mouth?’

‘Yes,’ said Abigny immediately, nodding in surprise. ‘His mouth was never empty, now that you mention it. There was always something poking out – a blade of grass or a sliver of wood for picking his teeth. He had restless jaws that always liked to be working on something.’

‘He sounds like Brother Michael,’ said Edith with a giggle. She prodded Abigny with her foot and indicated he was to roll the dice again. The conversation was at an end. Philippa huddled closer to the fire, and continued to stare into the flames, while Stanmore went to fetch more wood. Bartholomew watched her while he sipped his wine, thinking that for someone who had just been relieved of a tiresome husband and presented with a fine house, she still seemed preoccupied. He was certain there was something she had still not told them, and recalled Matilde’s words – that there was something sad about Philippa. He wondered what it could be, and why she had not unburdened herself of that secret, too.

It was too late, too cold and too dark for Bartholomew to return to Michaelhouse once the evening was over – the traditional games of cross and pile, raffle, hasard and queek had been played, the seasonal food eaten and the spiced wine drunk – so he accepted a bed in Stanmore’s attic. Once again, his dreams teemed with confused images and conversations, most of them featuring Philippa. He lay, half awake and half asleep, watching patterns made by the firelight move across the ceiling, and tried to make sense of the information he had gathered.

For the first time in several days, no snow fell during the night. A thick blanket of cloud served to insulate the Earth from the frigid night sky, and the temperature crept up until it was actually above freezing point. Compared to the conditions of the past several days, the little town was positively balmy, and Bartholomew felt overdressed and hot as he donned his various layers of tunics and jerkins the following morning. The warmer air weakened the icy hold of winter, and everything dripped. For the second day in a row, the streets were full of hissing, sloughing and cracking sounds as melting snow parted company with roofs, trees, walls and eaves. The ground no longer comprised hard-packed ice, but a lumpy brown slush that was knee deep in places.

Bartholomew left Stanmore’s house before dawn, and prepared to wade through the thaw to St Michael’s Church. He thought he was the only one awake, and was surprised to discover Philippa waiting for him, dressed in her black clothes. She wanted someone to walk with her when she went to say morning prayers for her husband’s soul. She leaned heavily on Bartholomew’s arm, her hood shielding her face in the manner expected of a woman who had been recently widowed. He noticed her shoes were thin and dainty and did little to protect her feet from the icy muck of the High Street. The Philippa of his memories had been a practical woman, who would have worn boots. He wondered whether this Philippa had donned shoes because they looked better with her elegant fur cloak, or whether her mind was absorbed by other matters.

He stopped suddenly and turned to face her. They were near St Mary the Great, where hundreds of candles sent a flickering orange glow through the traceried windows to make intricate designs on the snow in its graveyard. People were gathering to celebrate the first Sunday after Christmas. She faced him with a wary expression, evidently anticipating what he was about to say.

‘Those scars on Walter’s legs,’ he said. ‘Why did you not want me to see them?’

Her face darkened. ‘I have already told you. I do not know how he came by those marks, but he disliked them being seen by others. Of course I did him the service of keeping them from curious eyes when he lay dying. Why do you want to know, anyway?’

‘Because there are questions about his death that remain unanswered,’ said Bartholomew, standing his ground. ‘You say he would not have gone skating on thin ice, and yet that is how he died. Why? And why did Gosslinge choke to death on a piece of vellum? Was he trying to eat it? Was he hiding it from someone? Was the vellum what the two intruders in our church were looking for?’

Philippa glared at him. ‘Most of your questions pertain to Gosslinge’s death, not Walter’s. But why do you persist in meddling when I have asked you to leave us alone? I have already told you that Walter and I were not a happy couple. Is that not enough for you? Perhaps I should leave Edith and hire a bed in a friary or a convent until the roads clear and I can escape from this miserable little town.’

‘All the friary guest halls are full, and I doubt you want to revisit St Radegund’s Convent. The only place I know with spare rooms is the Gilbertine Friary, but their guest wing is close to the King’s Head, which makes it noisy and sometimes dangerous.’

‘Why do you mention the Gilbertine Friary, specifically?’ she demanded coldly. ‘What is it about that particular institution that makes you associate me with it?’

‘It is the one with the vacant beds,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he had never mentioned Walter’s legs. ‘Do not abandon Edith. She will be upset, and then she will be angry with me.’

‘You would deserve it,’ said Philippa, starting to walk again, this time without holding his arm. She skidded on slick ice, but stubbornly refused his help.

‘I understand you hired the Chepe Waits last summer,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to walk in silence and so trying to make conversation. The words were only just out of his mouth when he realised this was not a topic entirely without contention either. It was something else he had suspected her of lying – or at least not being wholly truthful – about.

‘Did I?’ She sounded coolly uninterested as she negotiated her way around a sludge-filled morass that spanned most of the High Street. It was deep enough for a duck to swim on, and the bird poked under its lumpy surface in search of edibles with its tail in the air. ‘Walter liked to provide music when colleagues from the Fraternity visited, so I suppose I may have employed them on his behalf.’

Since she sounded indifferent about the Waits, Bartholomew pressed on, grateful for any topic they could discuss without unpleasantness. ‘Did they steal anything?’ he asked. ‘We have been told they remove things from the houses in which they work, and that they have amassed a fortune.’

She was surprised. ‘Of course they stole nothing. Walter was very possessive of his property, and would not have tolerated any kind of theft by Frith and his cronies.’

‘You know his name,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘A few moments ago, you barely recalled hiring them, and now you mention Frith’s name.’

She gave a gusty sigh, to indicate she was unimpressed with the way he was reading so much into what was a casual discussion. ‘It just came to me,’ she snapped. ‘Frith of Lincoln. And the woman with him is called Makejoy. I thought they seemed vaguely familiar at the feast, and you have just told me I had hired them. I suppose connections formed in my mind, and the names were suddenly there. Why are you interested in these Waits? Because they come from Chepe and may have known Gosslinge?’

‘Did they know Gosslinge?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said, becoming exasperated. ‘Chepe is more like a village than part of a large city, and residents do know each other. Gosslinge liked to go out and meet folk – Giles would say his motives were more commercial than friendly, but I do not know about that. All I can tell you is that Gosslinge knew a good many people.’

‘What did Gosslinge think about Fiscurtune’s death?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he believe Walter was justified in stabbing him in Fishmongers’ Hall?’

‘Gosslinge was loyal,’ she said simply. ‘It would not matter what he thought, because he always supported what Walter did or said. But we are at St Michael’s, and your friends are waiting for you. Goodbye, Matthew.’