A Killer in Winter

PROLOGUE

Feast of Saint Josse (13 December), 1354,

near Cambridge

The winter that gripped England was the worst anyone could remember. It came early, brought by bitter north winds that were laden with snow and sleet. The River Cam and the King’s Ditch – usually meandering, fetid cesspools that oozed around the little Fen-edge town like a vast misshapen halo – froze at the end of November, and children made ice skates from sheep bones. Both ditch and river thawed soon after, but not before claiming two lives: a pair of boys rashly ignored the ominous cracks and increasing slushiness, and plunged through the treacherous surface to their deaths.

At the beginning of December came the first heavy snows, smothering the countryside with an ivory blanket and transforming the brown desolation into a landscape of dazzling, pillowy white. As the snow continued unabated, buildings and trees disappeared beneath drifts. Because winter had come so early, people were unprepared. They had not cut enough firewood, stored enough vegetables, salted enough meat or ground enough grain. Ice choked the mills, and prevented them from satisfying the demand for flour. The price of food – already high after the plague that had ravaged the country five years before – began to spiral upwards again.

More than one family perished when the soft powder crusted over and sealed roofs or blocked chimneys, so that smoke from their fires suffocated them while they slept. Beggars, stray dogs and even folk tucked up in their beds froze to death during the night, and were found dusted silver by frost’s brittle fingers. Others fell victim to shivering agues, or hacking coughs that seared the lungs. Others still broke bones on the icy streets or were crushed by skidding carts or horses. Some refused to allow the weather to interfere with long-laid plans, and set out on journeys from which they never returned: they failed to take into account that icy blizzards could suck warmth and vigour from weary bodies, and make them long for rest among the downy-soft drifts at the sides of the roads – rest that turned into sleep of a more permanent nature.

Josse knew he was taking a risk by travelling from London to Cambridge when the weather was so foul, but he was young, strong and confident. He was a messenger by trade, a man who made his living by carrying written and spoken communications from one person to another. The early winter had been a boon for him, since his services had been in demand by people wanting to inform others about changes of plan brought about by the storms. Usually, Josse confined his business to London, where he lived, but he had been paid handsomely to deliver the letter from the Thames merchant to the Cambridge friar, and half a noble was not a sum to be lightly declined.

The journey of sixty miles would usually have taken a good walker like Josse two or three days. But the snows had slowed him down, and by the sixth day of travelling he had only reached the village of Trumpington, still two miles from Cambridge. He was frustrated by the time he had lost: buxom Bess at the Griffin Inn back at home had agreed to wait for him, but he knew it would not be long before she grew lonely and allowed another man to warm her bed. Bess would inherit the Griffin when its current owner died, so it was more than mere lust or affection that was driving Josse to complete his mission and return with all haste.

As he ploughed through the drifts, his feet felt like lumps of ice, and his legs ached from lifting them high enough to step forward. The lights of Trumpington’s tavern gleamed enticingly through the sullen December day, golden rays of warmth in a world that was cold and white. He decided to rest, reasoning that an hour with a goblet of hot spiced ale in his hands would give him the strength needed to finish the journey before dusk. It was just after noon and, although the days were short, he still had about three hours of good daylight left – more than enough to allow him a brief respite from his journey. He pushed open the creaking door of the Laughing Pig, and entered.

Because ploughing and tilling were impossible as long as snow covered the ground, the tavern was filled with men. They were pleased to see a new face, and the taverner provided Josse with free ale in return for news from London. Josse was good at telling stories, and more time had passed than he had intended by the time he rose and said his farewells. The landlord tried to stop him, claiming that more snow was expected and that the road had been all but impassable earlier that day, but, with the arrogance of youth, Josse shook off the man’s warnings, donned his cloak and set off down the Cambridge road. The landlord watched him go, then poured himself a cup of mulled ale, grateful that he was not obliged to undertake such an unpleasant journey.

Josse had second thoughts himself almost as soon as the landlord closed the door, shutting off the comfortable orange glow from the tavern and leaving him in the twilight world of black and white. However, he told himself that almost two weeks would have passed by the time he returned to London, and that Bess had a short memory. He hefted his pack over his shoulder and began to plough clumsily through the drifts.

The landlord had not been exaggerating when he said the stretch of road between Trumpington and Cambridge would be the worst part of the whole journey; it was not long before the effort of walking had the messenger drenched in sweat. Josse stopped for a moment to catch his breath, but the wind whipped around him, freezing the clammy wetness that trickled down his back. He started moving again, slowly and wearily. The day began to fade, dusk coming early because of the heavy-bellied clouds that slumped darkly overhead.

Fearfully, Josse began to wonder if he would ever reach Cambridge, and acknowledged that he should have listened to the landlord after all. His leg muscles were burning and his back aching, so he turned his mind to what celebrations might be held that evening to observe the feast of St Josse. He gave a thin smile and muttered a prayer. The saint for whom he was named would watch over him.

Soon, the darkness was complete. Clouds blotted out any light that might have come from the moon, and it began to snow, great stinging flakes that hurt his eyes and pricked his face like sharp needles. He sank to his knees, and felt the first hot tears of panic roll down his cheeks.

Then he saw a light. Eagerly, he staggered towards it, hope surging within him. St Josse was watching over him after all! The light came from a lamp swinging outside a priory chapel: the friars had evidently anticipated that there might be travellers on the road, and the torch was a beacon to guide them to warmth and safety. His chest heaving with the effort, Josse reached the priory, then plunged on to where other lights gleamed in the winter darkness.

He passed a noisy tavern with a crude drawing of a man wearing a crown swinging over the door. The King’s Head, Josse surmised. Its occupants were singing lustily, yelling one of the bawdy songs that were always popular around Christmas time. Near the inn was a sombre building with a red tiled roof, which Josse supposed was one of the Colleges. Scholars were a rebellious, unruly crowd, and Josse was heartily glad there was no university developing in the area of London where he planned to live. A board pinned next to the sturdy gate told him that the College was called Peterhouse.

Next to Peterhouse was a church. A sharp new statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a plinth atop what was clearly a recently finished chancel, her blank stone eyes gazing across the road and her hand raised in benediction. An older, chipped statue stood forlornly down in the churchyard, and Josse recognised the characteristic square face and curly beard of St Peter. Here was something that had happened frequently since the plague: an old church – in this case St Peter’s – rededicated to St Mary, because many believed she was more likely to intercede on their behalf should the pestilence ever come again.

But it was no time for thinking about the Death and the changes it had brought, because Josse had at last reached the town gate. He started to make plans, his terror at almost being swallowed by the storm already receding. First, he would deliver his letter to the friar, then he would find a cosy inn, hire a pallet of straw near the fire and sleep until dawn the following day. And then he would set off towards home – to London, Bess and her tavern.

He hammered on the gate, hoping that the guards had not gone home early, secure in the knowledge that no sane person would want access to the town on an evening when a blizzard raged. He was in luck. The sergeant on duty was Orwelle, a reliable man who slept little because his dreams still teemed with memories of the Death – especially of the dear son he had lost. While his companions dozed, Orwelle usually stayed awake, idly rolling dice in games of chance against himself. He had finally managed to banish the chill from his feet, and was not pleased when a knocking meant that he was obliged to go outside.

Because it was bitterly cold, and Orwelle did not want to spend longer than was necessary away from the fire, his questioning of the messenger was brief. He asked to see the money that Josse carried and, satisfied that he could pay for his needs and would not beg, Orwelle opened the gate and allowed him inside.

Josse made his way up the High Street, drawing level with another of the town’s Colleges, this one identified by a long and complex name that was carved into the lintel over the door. The title involved guilds and saints, and Josse could not make sense of the snow-filled letters. Someone, however, had taken a piece of chalk and had written a simple ‘Bene’t College’ next to it. Josse rested there for a few moments, catching his breath and offering another prayer of gratitude to St Josse for a safe deliverance while he fingered the letter he was going to deliver.

As he stood, feeling his heartbeat slow and his breathing become more regular, he saw he was not the only man braving the elements that night. A scholar wearing a black tabard was struggling through the drifts towards him. The fellow glanced at Josse as he joined the messenger in the dim pool of light filtering through the College’s glass windows. With a start, recognition passed between them, but before they could speak a peculiar hissing sound distracted them both.

At first, Josse did not know what had made the noise, but, suddenly, something of colossal heaviness landed on top of him, blotting out all light and wrapping him in an icy, wet coldness. He was too startled to do anything, but then he tried to move and found he could not. With a sharp stab of horror, he realised exactly what had happened: the snow from the roof of Bene’t had fallen, probably loosened by the fire the scholars were burning in their hall. It had sloughed off like sand, and Josse had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He was held fast. He could wriggle one finger, but he could not move his arms or legs. He opened his mouth to shout to the fellow in the tabard to dig him out, but snow immediately poured into it, and he found he could not breathe, either. He became frantic, trying to draw air into his lungs. But he was helpless. His mind screamed in terror, even as a peculiar lethargy crept over him. His last thoughts were of bitter regret. He had almost delivered his message, and he could have spent Christmas with Bess, in London.

20 December 1354,

Cambridge

Josse was not the only man to die as the small market town prepared to make the best of the miserable weather and celebrate Christmas. The icy winds had abated somewhat since he had reached Cambridge, and there had been no blizzards for several days. It was still cold, however, and the snow that had already fallen stood in large, odorous heaps, speckled brown, yellow and green with sewage, dirt and any other rubbish that could be caught in the wheels of carts or the hoofs of horses and flung up. Many of the drifts, including Josse’s, had solidified into mounds of hard, unyielding ice, and the man who had recognised him was comfortable in the knowledge that it would be some time before the messenger was released from his icy tomb.

The parts of the river and the King’s Ditch that had fast currents had broken free of the ice, and were once again ferrying their sinister olive-black contents around the town’s edges. Offal, dead animals and discarded clothing bobbed past, turning this way and that, while shelves of ice jutted tantalisingly across the more sluggish sections, inviting the foolish or unwary to skate on them. The rutted surfaces of the town’s roads froze nightly, creating a series of ankle-wrenching furrows that were then mashed into an icy sludge by the feet and wheels that ploughed along them during the daylight hours – a dismal cycle of freeze and thaw of which Cambridge’s citizens had grown heartily weary.

Christmas was not the most important festival of the year, but it was one people enjoyed nonetheless. The celebrations began on Christmas Day and lasted twelve nights. Churches were decked with greenery – although some priests balked at pagan traditions being allowed in houses of God – and special foods were cooked by those who could afford them. However, Norbert Tulyet could not help but notice that the icy weather had made the town strangely subdued that year, and that the atmosphere of pleasurable anticipation was uncharacteristically lack-lustre.

Norbert had spent an agreeable evening in the company of a woman who had flattered him and made him feel important. Being told he was intelligent, handsome and worthy was not something that happened very often, and while he considered the woman right in every respect, it also engendered feelings of resentment that more people did not share her opinions. He felt particularly angry with his uncle, who claimed that Norbert was a disappointment to him, and constantly asked why he was not more like his own son, Richard. Richard Tulyet had been Sheriff for some years, but had recently been obliged to relinquish the post in order to help with the family business. Richard had not complained overtly, but he had made it clear that he would not have had to resign if his dissolute cousin had done what was expected of him.

Determined that Norbert should possess the means to support himself before he was turned loose on the world, his uncle had taken him to Ovyng Hostel, so that he might learn the skills necessary to become a clerk or a lawyer: the number of contested wills since the plague meant that there was no shortage of work for such men. But Norbert had not enjoyed his letters when he was a boy, and he did not like studying grammar, rhetoric and logic now that he was a man. He soon discovered that Ovyng was not a suitable place for a pleasure-loving fellow like himself.

Ovyng was a hostel for Franciscans who, not surprisingly, deplored Norbert and his excesses. In return, Norbert loathed everything about the Grey Friars – from their shabby habits and leaking boots, to their tedious lessons and preaching about morality. Fortunately for Norbert, Ovyng’s principal was very grateful for the fees the Tulyets paid for their kinsman’s education, and intended to keep their reluctant pupil for as long as possible. This meant that most of Norbert’s bad behaviour went unreported, and the young man was free to do much as he wanted. His uncle continued to pay for the privilege of a University education, the friars made valiant but futile attempts to teach Norbert the law, and cousin Richard watched it all with thinly veiled contempt.

Earlier that evening, Norbert had informed Principal Ailred that he planned to celebrate the Feast of St Thomas with his uncle. Ailred had chosen to believe him, because he was not in the mood for an argument he knew he would not win anyway: Norbert would leave the hostel whether he had permission or not, but Ailred was sure it would not be to visit his family. Ailred was right: Norbert had other business in mind.

First, Norbert had been obliged to meet men who had lent him money. Their demands for repayment had become more aggressive over the last few days, and this was a problem, because Norbert had already spent the three pounds, eight shillings and fourpence they had lent him, and had none left to give back. Begging another day’s grace, Norbert had escaped to the King’s Head, where he had enjoyed a good meal – still to be paid for – and won a salted fish from another patron in a game of dice. The fish was tucked under his arm in a piece of sacking, and he planned to sell it to his ever-hungry Franciscan classmates. The evening had improved thereafter, and he had passed the next few hours with a woman whose company he enjoyed more each time they met.

By the time he left the tavern, he was drunk and it was late. Unfortunately for him, the clouds had thinned during the evening, leaving a full moon to illuminate Cambridge’s dismal streets like a great white lantern. The snow reflected the moonlight, making it brighter than ever, and even the drunken Norbert knew it was not a good night for dodging proctors and beadles – the men who prowled the streets looking for scholars breaking the University’s rules. Hoping to avoid such an encounter, he took the towpath along the river, weaving his way along it unsteadily. As he walked, icy water seeped through his shoes in a way that was far from pleasant, and his thoughts turned maudlin.

Much of his pique was directed against his cousin. It was Richard who had recommended the cut in Norbert’s allowance, which had obliged him to borrow to pay for his pleasures. So, it was Richard’s fault that he was now under pressure from the lenders to give it back. The latest demand had been intimidating, and he wondered whether he should break into his uncle’s house in order to steal what he needed to pay them off. Since the town was full of travelling entertainers, all hoping to make money during the Christmas season, one of them would probably be blamed. Norbert’s wine-soaked mind told him that burglary was a good idea, and he was about to wend his way to the Tulyet home on Bridge Street, when he spotted someone walking towards him.

He staggered quickly to one of the wall buttresses behind Trinity Hall and waited with a thudding heart. His first thought was that the figure was a beadle, who knew perfectly well that the back of Trinity Hall provided plentiful hiding places for undergraduates. Norbert did not want to be fined for drunkenness or to spend the rest of the night in a miserable cell with others who had enjoyed too much wine. But the man who hastened quickly through the snow was only Doctor Bartholomew from Michaelhouse, who was far too engrossed in thoughts of his patients to notice furtive shadows lurking at the backs of colleges.

The physician entered one of the hovels that lined that part of the river like a row of broken teeth. A candle burned dimly within, and, with wine-fuelled curiosity, Norbert tottered forward to peer through a gap in the woven willow-twig walls, all thoughts of stealing from his uncle temporarily forgotten. Inside, he saw Bartholomew kneeling on the ground to tend an old man whose painful, hacking cough fractured the silence of the night. The patient was Dunstan, and his equally ancient brother Athelbald hovered anxiously over them like a skeletal angel. Simultaneously fascinated and repelled by the treatment the physician was giving the sick man, Norbert edged around to the rear of the hut, where the twigs were more rotten and afforded a better view of the scene within.

He had not been watching for long when he became aware that he and Bartholomew were not the only men out at a time when most law-abiding folk were tucked up in their beds. Low voices drifted to him on the still night air, and Norbert stiffened, holding his breath and hoping the speakers would pass by without seeing him.

‘I am growing weary of your demands,’ one man hissed furiously, as he and a dark-cloaked companion drew level with the hut. ‘You push me too far.’

Norbert heard Dark Cloak sneer his contempt. ‘I have only just started.’

‘You will be sorry for this,’ warned the first man venomously, his beard wagging in the moonlight. ‘I am not a man who easily forgives, and I have a long memory.’

‘So do I,’ claimed Dark Cloak in a furious whisper. ‘You have done me a great wrong, and I do not let such matters pass unremarked. You will pay.’

Their voices faded as they moved along the towpath towards Small Bridges. Norbert rubbed his chin, trying to make sense of their conversation. He left his hiding place and set off after them; he was fortunate that all their attention was on their quarrel, or they would have heard his clumsy pursuit far sooner. They walked stiffly, as though being in such close proximity to each other was anathema, and Norbert was fairly sure the bearded one held a knife. He tried to walk closer, to hear more of their discussion. The disagreement reached a climax when the towpath met the Mill Pool, and the two men stopped dead in their tracks, facing each other like enraged fighting cocks.

‘You committed a foul crime!’ Dark Cloak was shouting, all attempt to keep his voice low forgotten. Norbert supposed it did not matter, since there were no houses nearby and no one was likely to overhear him anyway. ‘You should think about that before you make those kind of threats.’

‘I do not care what you–’ Both men turned abruptly when Norbert trod on a rotten piece of wood and its sudden crack gave away his presence.

Norbert was not afraid. His drunken mind had been mulling over what he had heard, and it occurred to him that their argument could be turned to his advantage. What he had in mind was a tempting and easy alternative to burgling his uncle’s house.

‘Crimes,’ he slurred with a dissolute leer, waving his fish at them. ‘And blackmail. I heard you both, gentlemen. Crimes and blackmail are illegal, and unless you want me to repeat this conversation to the King’s justices, you will make it worth my while to keep silent.’

The two men gazed at him in astonishment, before glancing at each other, then returning their mystified stares to the dishevelled, red-eyed spectre that swayed before them. Norbert became aware that the hostility that they had aimed at each other was now focused wholly on him. Suddenly he felt uneasy.

‘It strikes me that you are attempting to blackmail us,’ said the bearded man eventually, not bothering to hide his contempt at the ludicrous nature of Norbert’s demand. ‘You will also be fined or imprisoned if you take this tale to the Sheriff.’

This had not occurred to Norbert. He stood still for a moment, his mouth working like that of a landed fish as his alcohol-soaked mind thrashed about for an answer. But the bearded man was taking no chances. The knife was in his hand when he stepped forward. With horror, but far too late, Norbert realised that he had made a serious mistake in attempting to extort money from this pair. Gripping his fish like a talisman, he turned to flee, but he had taken no more than two or three steps before he felt something thump hard into his back. A searing pain drove all else from his mind. He felt his legs give way, and he slumped to the ground.

Dark Cloak eyed his companion uneasily. ‘That was unnecessary.’

‘What would you have me do? Pay him, as well as you? One of your kind is more than enough for me, thank you very much.’

Dark Cloak took a step away, not liking the expression on his companion’s face, and was glad he had thought to mention earlier that others knew his whereabouts and his business, or he suspected he might well have suffered the same fate as the unfortunate drunk. The bearded man made an annoyed sound when he saw that Norbert’s blood had splattered up his sleeve. His weapon was stained, too, and he hurled it with all his might into the river, before scooping up a ball of snow to clean his hand.

Tossing away the knife had been premature, however. While Dark Cloak argued with the killer, Norbert struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the agonising ache in his back that made it difficult to breathe, and started to run. But his legs were heavy and unresponsive, as though he were moving through a vat of treacle. Terror drove him to put one foot in front of the other, forcing him along the towpath. He was aware that his attacker was coming up behind him, but pushed the knowledge from his mind, obeying some deep-rooted instinct that urged him to reach Ovyng Hostel. He passed the huts where he had watched Bartholomew tend the sick man just moments before, and felt the fish slip from his numb fingers. He glanced at it with regret as he staggered on, sorry to abandon it when it would have fetched a few pennies. But he no longer had the strength to carry it. He turned up Henney Lane, his breath coming in painful, laboured gasps, irrationally reasoning that his attacker would leave him alone now that he was no longer on the towpath.

He was wrong. The bearded man was behind him, watching dispassionately as Norbert’s movements became increasingly erratic. Since he no longer had a dagger, he picked up a heavy stone. He hoped he would not have to use it: braining someone would be a messy business, and he did not want any more damage to his fine clothes.

Meanwhile, Dark Cloak had been startled by the speed and brutality with which his companion had reacted to Norbert. He was relieved that Norbert would not live to relate the incident to the Sheriff, but a murder was bound to spark off an investigation, and he had enough to worry about without being obliged to dodge one of those. He began to follow them. He watched his companion turn into Henney Lane after his victim, and supposed he should not have been surprised that the man had met the drunken challenge with instant and unhesitating violence. After all, he had done so before.

As Norbert’s panicky gasps disrupted the silence of the night, the door to Athelbald’s hut opened and the old fellow stepped out, pulling the physician with him. Cursing under his breath, Dark Cloak ducked quickly under cover and stood still and silent, while Bartholomew peered down the path in both directions, urged on by Athelbald, whose eyesight was poor.

‘I heard breathing,’ Athelbald insisted, shaking the physician’s arm, as if that would give more credence to his claim. ‘Heavy breathing.’

‘Well, there is no one here now,’ Bartholomew replied, looking down the moon-shadowed path, from which Norbert and his assailant had already turned.

‘What is that?’ demanded Athelbald, poking at the sack-covered fish with his foot. The wrapping parted and the faint gleam of scales could be seen within.

‘A fish,’ said Bartholomew, sounding amused as he bent to inspect it. ‘Tench, by the look of it. Salted.’

‘For us?’ asked Athelbald eagerly. ‘Someone has left us a gift of salted fish?’

Bartholomew bent to inspect it. ‘Not unless you like it rotten. It must have been thrown away, and a cat dragged it here. But there is nothing to see out here. Come back inside.’

The night was bitterly cold, and the old man willingly obliged, although Bartholomew continued to gaze around uncertainly, as if he sensed something was wrong. Dark Cloak held his breath, willing the physician to go back to his patient and mind his own business.

Eventually, Bartholomew turned to re-enter the hovel. Plenty of rats inhabited the river bank; perhaps one of them had made the noises that had disturbed the old man. Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek cut through the air, and the physician took a step back outside. To Dark Cloak, the sound had been unmistakably human, but he hoped with all his heart that Bartholomew would assume it was just an owl hunting among the rubbish.

The physician listened hard, looking around him carefully. Then he gazed directly at Dark Cloak. Dark Cloak had no idea whether Bartholomew could see him, but decided he had better act while he still had the element of surprise. With a screech of his own, he exploded from the shadows and pushed Bartholomew with all his might, sending the physician crashing backward. With an easy, sinuous movement, he grabbed the fish before darting along the towpath in the opposite direction to the one Norbert had taken. He zigzagged through the cemetery surrounding the church of St John Zachary and made his escape, confident that Bartholomew would never recognise him, moonlight or not.

Bartholomew fell into the hut with such force that, for a moment, he was afraid the whole thing would come tumbling down, leaving the two old men homeless. Dunstan coughed in protest, while his brother made his way unsteadily through the door to see what was going on.

‘Slipped on the ice, did you?’ he asked with a cackle of amusement when he saw the physician sprawled on his back. ‘I told you to watch your footing.’

‘Someone pushed me,’ said Bartholomew indignantly, scrambling to his feet. He knew there was no point in giving chase: his assailant could be hiding anywhere by now. It was cold and dark anyway, and the physician had no desire to be out longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘He must have wanted his fish,’ said Athelbald, a little resentfully when he saw the package had gone. ‘You told me it was no good for eating.’

‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least, I would not have eaten it.’

‘Not everyone can afford fastidious tastes like yours,’ grumbled Athelbald. ‘It would probably have been all right with a few fish guts begged from the eel catchers and a good long boil in water from the river.’

Bartholomew felt faintly queasy.

‘Come inside,’ said Athelbald, taking the physician’s arm to guide him back into the hut. ‘Whoever it was meant you no harm, or he would have used a knife and not his fists. We would do well to mind our own affairs, and ignore whatever happened here tonight.’

Bartholomew conceded that he was right, and returned to his duties with the old man’s ailing brother.

Meanwhile, Norbert had headed for Ovyng’s door, hoping that once he reached it he would be safe. Already he had tried screaming for help, but few folk were rash enough to respond to howls in the night, and all that had happened was that he had wasted valuable energy. He gained the door and grasped the latch, praying that the officious friars had not locked it after he had been careful to leave it open. He never found out. No sooner had his fingers touched the metal than there was a crushing pain in his head that all but blinded him.

The bearded man watched Norbert crumple into the snow. Dispassionately, he saw his victim’s eyes close, and a few moments later, heard his breathing stop. Norbert was dead. He dropped the stone and wiped his hand in the snow. It was too dark in the shadows of the lane to see whether the skull-shattering blow had stained his clothes, but he was fairly certain that it had not. He knew from experience that the first strike was relatively clean. He straightened his cloak, dried his wet hand on his jerkin, and made his way towards the High Street, thinking grimly about the unfinished business he still had to resolve with his dark-cloaked companion.