A Killer in Winter

EPILOGUE

Three days later, Bartholomew and Michael sat side by side on the trunk of an old apple tree that had fallen in the orchard. The day was unseasonably mild, and the blizzards of the previous weeks seemed a distant memory. The sun shone, albeit weakly, and Bartholomew could feel its gentle warmth through his winter cloak. Most of the snow had gone, although several of the larger and deeper drifts remained, like the vast mound outside Bene’t College on the High Street.

A gentle breeze blew, rustling the dry grass and bringing the smell of the marshes that lay to the north. Bartholomew felt as though his life was finally returning to normal. The Lord of Misrule had been replaced with Master Langelee, Quenhyth’s ‘stolen’ scrip had been found behind his bed, lectures were under way, and there were disputations to arrange and patients to see. He was sad that Dunstan and Athelbald were not among them, despite learning about their hitherto unknown penchant for peddling stolen goods for itinerant jugglers.

‘Two bodies were found in the river near Chesterton village today,’ said Michael, turning his flabby face to catch some of the sun’s rays. ‘I rode out to view them and they belonged to Frith and Harysone, as I expected. We found Ailred’s corpse in much the same place the day before.’

‘There was no sign of the chest?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael shook his head. ‘I imagine that sank where it fell. The bottom of the Mill Pool is the best place for it. It is safe there.’

‘Until the weather grows warmer. Then people will start to dive for it.’

‘They will not find it,’ said Michael. ‘The pond is lined with deep mud, and the only way to retrieve the coins will be to drain the whole thing. That may happen one day, but I doubt it will happen in our lifetime.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Kenyngham was right: Dympna may have been set up to do good, but it corrupted people. Thick and inaccessible mud will stop it from doing so again.’

‘Speaking of corruption, Morice resigned today. People are angry that he never arranged another game of camp-ball, and claim he delayed just to keep the prize money for himself.’

‘He did,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that anyone should need to voice the obvious.

‘Dick Tulyet has agreed to stand in until someone else can be appointed. I hope it takes a long time for a suitable replacement to be found. We cannot have a better man than Dick.’

They were silent for a while, watching the sun playing through the winter branches of the fruit trees and listening to the distant sounds of the town. A dog yapped in the High Street, and a cart lumbered slowly along the rutted mud of St Michael’s Lane, which lay just over the wall. A man shouted something about a horse, and the gentle grunt of pigs could just be heard as they were driven towards the Market Square.

‘Turke was a nasty man,’ said Bartholomew at last. ‘His failure to help Isabella escape from the frozen River Thames started all this. Fiscurtune and Ailred allowed him to buy their silence when they should have denounced him, and the hatred Turke felt towards the men who could damage him eventually led him to stab Fiscurtune in a brawl.’

‘Do not forget Fiscurtune was not exactly an angel, either. He developed his salting method, but it did not work – as we saw with Norbert’s tench – and Turke was probably right to prevent him from inflicting it on his customers. Also, Fiscurtune was quite happy to be paid for his silence over Isabella, and so was Ailred. The records I examined with Godric yesterday indicate that Turke’s money has kept Ovyng afloat for years.’

‘I still do not understand why Turke was willing to dispense with his saintly finger,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why did he not keep it for himself? He was a man who liked material wealth.’

‘It was stolen property,’ said Michael. ‘I asked the Dominicans to investigate it, and they learned that St Zeno’s finger was taken from a Carmelite chapel in London some years ago. A likely thief was caught and relieved of a thumb, but the relic itself was never recovered.’

‘Gosslinge took it?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment.

‘So it would seem. I imagine he stole it on Turke’s instructions, and the resulting punishment put Turke under a certain obligation to him. But the net was closing, and the Carmelites were already on the relic’s trail. By handing it to Michaelhouse, Turke paid Gosslinge’s expenses with something he was going to lose anyway. I suppose if anyone had demanded to know how it came to be in his possession, he would have said it belonged to Gosslinge, and that he knew nothing about its origins.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘Godric found it among some reeds when he was looking for Ailred’s body. The Carmelites paid him a princely sum for its safe return and Ovyng Hostel now has fuel and food aplenty.’

‘I did not think for a moment it was a real relic. I always thought it was Gosslinge’s thumb.’

Michael shuddered. ‘That would have been perverted, Matt! Men do not adorn themselves with the severed digits of their servants. Even fishmongers from Chepe.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘Speaking of perversions, Agatha claimed Norbert visited Robin’s pig, to bestow affections on it. But, of course, Norbert was not visiting the pig at all. He was slipping into Robin’s house by the back door, hoping to persuade him to extend the loan Dympna had made.’

‘But Norbert could not have known Robin was a member of Dympna,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know Robin was the man who dispensed agreed funds – and so was the person the successful applicants met – but Norbert had been turned down by the official Dympna. By the time Norbert had his loan, Ailred was being helped by Frith.’

‘No. Ailred was making illegal loans before Frith arrived. Frith only became involved when Kenyngham discovered what had been happening, and set his ultimatum for Ailred to retrieve what had been lost.’

‘So, Ailred used Robin to dispense the illicit loans?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And Robin was blithely unaware of the fact that these were made without the consent of Dick and Kenyngham? I suppose that makes sense from the things they all told us.’

‘Robin should have mentioned Norbert’s visits,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘He has been apologetic ever since, but we would have solved his murder sooner had everyone been honest.’

‘William persuaded his Prior to declare Harysone’s book heretical,’ said Bartholomew, after a pause. ‘Anyone owning a copy is obliged to take it to the Franciscan Friary, where it will be burned. I do not approve of incinerating books, even ones like Harysone’s.’

‘I would normally concur, but Harysone’s was worse than heretical: it was full of errors and insulting to its readers. The world will not suffer from the loss of that particular tome. Indeed, I imagine it will be a good deal better off: someone like Deynman might have read it and thought it was true. It would not do for him to live the rest of his life imagining God as a gigantic pike.’

Bartholomew laughed, then became serious. ‘Harysone said he sent a message to Ailred, telling him he was coming to Cambridge. I think if Ailred had received that missive, the case would have ended very differently – especially for him. He and Frith would not have murdered Turke, but would have gone along with Harysone’s plan to continue blackmailing him. Ailred would have used his share of the money to repay the bad loans he had made, and Kenyngham would have forgotten the whole mess.’

‘Harysone claimed he sent a note,’ said Michael. ‘But there is nothing to say he was telling the truth. He was probably lying, as he lied about everything else.’

‘You were right about him. He did come here intending mischief.’

‘I knew it as soon as I clapped eyes on the fellow,’ declared Michael. ‘I have dealt with too many murderers and malcontents not to be able to identify a criminal when I see one. I should have told Sergeant Orwelle to deny him permission to enter the town. Then matters would have turned out differently.’

‘But not much. Ailred and Frith would still have killed Turke, and Gosslinge would still have choked on vellum.’

‘We were correct to be suspicious about the deaths of Turke and Gosslinge. I thought Turke’s demise was odd, and you thought it strange that Turke and his servant should die in such quick succession. We were both right. You were also correct in believing Norbert’s death was linked to Turke’s: if Turke had not gone looking for the murder weapon, he might never have provided Frith and Ailred with a chance to force him on to thin ice.’

‘And we were right to think fish was a strand that tied the whole thing together,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Norbert’s tench, won from Harysone in a bet, was badly salted; bad salting was what initiated the final quarrel between Turke and Fiscurtune; and Harysone was a fishmonger, but his business – and his inheritance – were lost to Turke’s Fraternity of Fishmongers’ machinations. However, Quenhyth being the son of a fishmonger was merely coincidence.’

‘Harysone wrote that dreadful treatise about fish, and the very name “Fiscurtune” should have alerted us to the connection much sooner. Also, we should have noticed that both Frith and Ailred professed to hail from the vicinity of Lincoln.’

‘Lincoln is a large city, Brother. It might have been a spurious link. But, although we may have been right about many things, we made mistakes, too.’

‘You mean like you telling me Gosslinge had died from the cold, when he had in fact choked to death? Or you assuming Turke’s death was an accident when he had actually been murdered?’

Bartholomew winced. ‘Actually, I was thinking about Harysone. You were convinced he played a role in Gosslinge’s death, but he did not. Your feral belief was wrong.’

‘Only in the details,’ retorted Michael. ‘I was wrong about which particular crime Harysone committed, but I was right in my assumption that he was guilty of something.’

‘We made a mistake with Giles as well. We thought he was involved in something sinister, but he was not. The few times he did venture out on his painful feet were to buy a book on Philippa’s behalf, to indulge an idle and harmless curiosity about Dympna, or to arrange for Turke’s embalming. And when he was so clearly relieved to hear us say we would not investigate Turke’s odd death, it was not because he had a hand in it, but because he did not want his sister distressed. He was being kind.’

‘He was being a fool,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘He allowed Philippa to borrow his cloak and that silly feathered hat without asking why. All this relates to your observation about distinguishing features – you said a really prominent characteristic will mask all else, and Philippa used Giles’s hat to do just that. Harysone knew about distinguishing features, too, and adopted those teeth. His disguise fooled his kinsmen, as well as Giles. It was a pity Philippa was not more skilled in the use of her dagger. If she had stabbed Harysone properly, then he would not have dragged his cousin to a watery grave or locked me in a damp cellar for so many hours.’

‘Matilde was right and wrong, too. She knew there was something sad about Philippa, which was correct, but it had nothing to do with love, as she surmised.’

‘And we were definitely wrong about Dunstan and Athelbald,’ said Michael, chuckling fondly. ‘I still cannot believe they were so deeply involved in the case. The old devils! Still, it is good they had the last laugh. I shall miss them.’

‘So shall I,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

Michael nudged him in the ribs, wanting to dispel the sudden pall of gloom that had descended on them. ‘There is another thing: I know the identity of the rogue who fashioned that wicked but very clever model of William out of marchpane.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Oh, yes. There is only one man in the College who has a talent for drawing and other artistry, and a pair of skilled hands.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘However, I did not know the thing was disguised under all those veils purporting to be the Virgin, nor that the marchpane was made from salt, so do not blame me for either of those.’

‘You must have known about the salt,’ said Michael in disbelief. ‘Do not tell me you did not take a bite when you were labouring over those details!’

‘I am not you, Brother. Gorging myself on the marchpane Gray provided for his prank did not cross my mind. Supposing there was not enough to finish it properly?’

Both scholars looked up when the latch on the orchard gate clanked, heralding the arrival of someone else. It was Philippa, leaning on her brother’s arm and escorted by Cynric. Unfortunately, the sudden thaw had confounded the embalmer’s calculations, and the resulting problems with Turke’s body had kept her and Abigny in Cambridge longer than they had intended.

‘We have come to say our farewells at last,’ said Abigny, leaning against the wall. He was smiling, and Bartholomew saw again the carefree young man with whom he had once shared a room. A great weight had been lifted from Abigny. ‘We are going to Walsingham, to complete our pilgrimage. Personally, I would be just as happy to go home, but northward we shall venture.’

‘What about Turke?’ asked Michael baldly. ‘Will you leave him here while he rots?’

Philippa winced. ‘I wanted to take him with us. It was his pilgrimage, after all, and I think he needs to complete it. But the embalmer says he will not last, so we have compromised.’ She held a small box in her hands, which she passed to Bartholomew.

‘What is it?’ It was heavily sealed, so he could not open it.

‘Walter’s heart. We will carry it to Walsingham and leave it there. Meanwhile, young Quenhyth is going home to make peace with his father over the misunderstanding with the Waits and the chalice he accused them of stealing. He has offered to accompany the rest of Walter to Chepe. It is very kind of him.’

‘Very,’ said Bartholomew, shoving the box back at her with some distaste. ‘Quenhyth will take good care of Walter. The lad has his faults, but unreliability and carelessness are not among them.’

She turned to Michael. ‘When I return home, I shall send funds from my inheritance that will help to establish a new Dympna.’

‘All right,’ said Michael warily. ‘Although I am not sure we need another of those.’

‘It will be safe in the hands of good men,’ said Philippa.

‘Ailred was a good man,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Abigny pointed to the sky, and took his sister’s arm. ‘We should go, or we shall have to delay our departure until tomorrow – and I am certain Edith and Oswald want us gone.’

‘Edith has offered us her home when we return from Walsingham,’ said Philippa shyly. She glanced at Bartholomew. ‘When I come back, with all stains of these horrible events wiped from my conscience, perhaps I could stay a while in Cambridge, and you and I could resume our friendship Perhaps where we left off, all those years ago?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘It is a tempting offer, but we have both changed over the years. Although I shall always remember you with affection, my heart belongs to another.’

‘That is a shame,’ said Philippa, disappointed. ‘But I wish you happiness nonetheless. Do not spurn her because she is poor, and make the mistake I made.’

‘I will not,’ promised Bartholomew.

The huge drift of snow outside Bene’t College did not thaw as quickly as was hoped, but attacking it with shovels proved to be hard and futile work, so the citizens of Cambridge were obliged to let it melt in its own time. It did so gradually, and people commented on its slowly diminishing size when they passed it on the High Street. Children played on it, using its slick sides for sliding, while some enterprising souls caused a good deal of delight by carving faces into it. Morice’s was one that was prominently featured, and Agatha’s was another.

Weeks passed, until eventually it dwindled to the point where people barely noticed it was there. Then, one morning, only the very base remained. It was Kenyngham who discovered its grisly secret. He was walking from Michaelhouse to his friary when he saw the hand of the long-dead Josse protruding from it. He knelt, sketching a benediction and muttering prayers for the soul of a man who had lain unmissed and undiscovered for so long. There was a piece of parchment clutched in Josse’s hand. Kenyngham removed it from the dead, white fingers, and read the message.

It was from John Fiscurtune the younger to Ailred, and informed the friar of the imminent visit of his nephew and his ‘plan’ to relieve Turke of more money. Kenyngham recalled the events that had unfolded that Christmas with a shudder. He folded the parchment carefully, and put it in his scrip, intending to hand it to Michael later. But first, there was a man’s soul to pray for, and Kenyngham lost himself in the sacred words of a requiem for a man he had never met.

Sheriff Tulyet tried hard to discover the dead man’s identity, but Josse had carried nothing to give him any clues, and a week later he was buried in an unmarked grave in a quiet corner of St Botolph’s churchyard. Quenhyth, recently returned from delivering Turke’s body to Chepe, heaved a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that someone clever, like Michael or Bartholomew, would tie the time of Josse’s death to one of the days that Quenhyth had slipped out of Michaelhouse and had gone to the King’s Head. Gray had told Quenhyth on two occasions that someone there had a note from his father, but both times the summons had transpired to be a cruel joke that had seen Quenhyth fined by William for being in a tavern. In normal circumstances, Quenhyth would have ignored Gray’s message, but he had left home on bad terms with his family, and he had so desperately wanted them to write and tell him that all was forgiven.

Quenhyth recalled the day vividly. It had been after dusk, and the streets were deserted as he had struggled through the blizzard to the inn. When he had seen Josse, he had stopped dead in his tracks and stared in disbelief. It was the man who had stolen away his lovely Bess and broken his young heart: Josse was older and more handsome, and the fickle tavern wench had abandoned Quenhyth for the sturdy messenger without a backward glance. To soothe his hurt, Quenhyth had decided to give up his apprenticeship as a fishmonger and become a physician instead, wanting to change every aspect of his unhappy life.

When the snow had sloughed off Bene’t College’s roof to land on Josse, Quenhyth’s first reaction had been to rush across and begin digging him out. But he had stopped himself. If Quenhyth could not have Bess, then Josse should not have her, either. He had stood for a long time, staring at the pile of snow and thinking about what would be happening underneath. And then he had gone to the tavern.

When he attended Josse’s requiem – the only person to do so – Quenhyth felt a grim satisfaction. Life was definitely looking better: he was reconciled with his father, Gray had left Michaelhouse to take up a new appointment in Suffolk, and no one had discovered his connection with the messenger he could have saved. Yes, he thought; things were turning out very well indeed.

Two weeks later, Kenyngham met Bosel the beggar, who made his customary plea for spare coins. The elderly friar emptied his scrip in search of pennies, and did not notice Josse’s forgotten parchment flutter to the ground. Bosel noticed, however, and snatched it up as soon as Kenyngham had gone. He peered at it this way and that, but since he could not read, the obscure squiggles and lines meant nothing to him. He sold it to Robin of Grantchester for a penny.

Robin suffered from poor eyesight when the light was dim, and could not make out the words, either. He did not care what it said anyway, because parchment was parchment, and too valuable not to be reused. He scraped it clean with a knife, then rubbed it with chalk, and sold it for three pennies to Godric, the principal of Ovyng Hostel. Robin went to spend his windfall on a jug of spiced ale at the King’s Head, where he listened, yet again, to Agatha relating the tale of the camp-ball and the gargoyle at St Mary the Great.

Later that night, Godric wrote a prayer on the parchment he had purchased from Robin. Then he folded it, and took it to the grassy mound in St Michael’s churchyard, where Ailred had been laid to rest. He scraped a shallow hole and inserted the prayer inside, before bowing his head and walking away.