Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Philippa asked me not to examine it. She made her feelings quite clear about that.’

  ‘That was before he died. You have just spent an hour poking and prodding at him, so how can she object to a little more now?’

  ‘Go and ask her,’ suggested Bartholomew. He nodded wryly when Michael hesitated. ‘You see? You do not really believe she will give us her permission.’

  ‘Michael is right to suggest an examination, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘There is something odd about this incident. She was convinced that Walter would never skate on the river, and was obsessed by that point earlier. And yet she did not once mention it when we were trying to revive him here.’

  ‘That is because she saw for herself that he was wearing skates,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘But was he actually skating?’ asked Michael, leaning down to inspect them. ‘I doubt he was. If you look here, you can see that one of the leather thongs crosses the blade. Not only would such an arrangement reduce friction and slow the skater, but it would quickly wear through and break.’

  Bartholomew stared at the monk in astonishment. ‘What makes you such an expert on icy pastimes all of a sudden? I did not know you could skate.’

  ‘Of course I can skate,’ said Michael testily. ‘How could I not, growing up in East Anglia, where the land is flat, the water plentiful, and the winters long and cold? And I can tell you that Turke did not travel far on these particular skates.’

  ‘He travelled far enough to break the ice,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

  ‘Unfortunately, I cannot tell much about these,’ Michael went on, taking one skate and examining it minutely. ‘They are cheap, sold by every butcher in the Market Square in winter. In fact, they are so common that Turke may even have found them abandoned by a previous skater.’

  ‘They break,’ added Stanmore, to explain the extravagance of disposing of something that could be reused. He, too, was a Fenman and knew about skating in cold winters. ‘They eventually crack when weight is put on them, especially by an adult. You often see them discarded.’

  ‘Inspect Turke, Matt,’ instructed Michael impatiently. ‘I will lift the covers, if it salves your conscience, so all you have to do is look. But I want to know the exact cause of his death. Oswald is right: there is something odd about this incident.’

  As it transpired, there was nothing to see. There was no wound or mark on the body, with the exception of some scratches that had probably been inflicted as Turke was rescued. There was no abrasion or bump on the head, no bleeding and no signs that he had been strangled or suffocated. A hard push on Turke’s chest revealed water in his lungs, although not enough to drown him. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Turke’s death was exactly as it appeared: he had fallen in the river, and had frozen.

  ‘Does anyone know what Turke meant by “Templar”?’ asked Michael. ‘No Knights Templar exist these days, so I cannot imagine what he was talking about.’

  ‘I did not hear him say “Templar”,’ said Stanmore, surprised. ‘I heard him say “temper” and “you”. His meaning was quite clear: he was telling Philippa to mind her temper, as a husband’s final piece of advice to his wife.’

  ‘That would be an odd thing to say to her,’ said Michael warily. ‘She has never struck me as a woman given to sudden rages.’

  ‘I did not hear “Templar” or “temper”,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I heard “you” though, and I thought the other word was “Dympna”.’

  ‘It was not,’ said Michael with determination. ‘That would mean there is a link between Turke and Norbert, and that is not possible.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Norbert was murdered after Turke arrived in Cambridge.’

  Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘A connection between a wealthy fishmonger and a debauched and worthless idler? I do not think so!’

  ‘Do not be too hasty to dismiss it,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Consider two things. First, Turke was a merchant and Norbert was a merchant’s nephew – both well-connected men with access to wealth and power, even if Norbert did have to go through his uncle for his. And second, Turke was a fishmonger. There was a fish on the ground the night Norbert was murdered.’

  ‘A fish?’ asked Stanmore, bewildered. ‘What kind?’

  ‘A tench,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I do not think the type is relevant.’

  ‘Nothing about it is relevant,’ said Michael. ‘You used the fish to connect Norbert to Harysone. Now you are using the same clue to connect Norbert to Turke.’

  ‘You said yourself there is something strange about Turke’s death, and I think it odd that Turke and his servant should die in such rapid succession,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the three deaths are related. There is nothing to say they are not.’

  ‘But you said Norbert won the tench from Harysone by dicing, and dropped it as he fled for his life,’ said Michael. ‘How can that possibly have anything to do with Turke? And you told me earlier there was nothing odd about Gosslinge’s death. Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘I think there is something odd about the timing of Gosslinge’s and Turke’s deaths, not the deaths themselves – they both appear to be accidental and caused by the cold. And I think Turke muttering “Dympna”, the fact that he and Gosslinge were in the fishmongering trade, and that Norbert won a fish indicates all three deaths may be related. Perhaps Harysone is the factor that connects them.’

  ‘I would like you to be right,’ said Michael. ‘You know how dearly I would like to catch that man doing something wrong. But even I cannot see how he can have anything to do with Turke and his servant, just because Norbert happened to win a tench before he died.’

  ‘You are wrong about Turke’s last words, too,’ added Stanmore. ‘He did not say “Dympna”.’

  ‘Temper, Templar, Dympna,’ mused Michael thoughtfully. ‘We all heard different things, and there is no way to prove which of us is right. However, there is one other thing we should consider.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, anticipating what the monk was going to say. ‘We might not know what Turke meant, but Philippa certainly did. Her behaviour changed from grief-stricken to coolly contained almost the instant he spoke to her.’

  When Bartholomew and Michael arrived back at Michaelhouse, an afternoon meal was ready, and the students were in a state of excitement; they were going to elect their Lord of Misrule, who would run the College for the Twelve Days. This was an ancient tradition and, although some of the Fellows were keen to have it abolished, the students were equally determined to see it continue. The Lord of Misrule had absolute power over all College members, and everyone was obliged to do what he ordered. Usually, this was confined to ordering the Fellows to serve the students at the dinner table, or obliging them to listen to lectures written and delivered by students for their edification. Sometimes the pranks could be amusing, but sometimes they were a nuisance, and other times they were a genuine menace.

  Bartholomew felt guilty about joining a room full of celebrating scholars while the woman he had loved was so fresh in her grief, but there was nothing he could do to help her, and it seemed a pity to curb his enjoyment because of the death of a man he had barely known. Resolutely, he pushed the fishmonger from his mind, and tried to give his full attention to the events unfolding in the hall. With some trepidation the Fellows took their places. The students were already there, and there was an atmosphere of tense anticipation among them. Rather unwisely, considering his unpopularity with the undergraduates, Father William had ordered two of his students to help him up the stairs, keen not to miss anything.

  ‘I do not approve of this ceremony,’ he boomed, sitting on a bench with his damaged leg propped in front of him as he ate stewed turnips and cold meat left over from the feast. ‘Why can we not elect a Boy Bishop, instead? That would be much more in line with the teachings of the Church, and is what the scholars at Valence Marie do.’

  ‘There is no difference, as far as I can see,’ said Kenyngham. ‘A
Boy Bishop is just as likely to cause mischief as is a Lord of Misrule. It is only the name that is different, not the activity.’

  ‘But a Boy Bishop is obliged to give a sermon in the church,’ argued William. ‘And a church is the best place for these lads at this time of year.’

  ‘You would not say that if you heard some of the sermons,’ said Suttone, picking up the remains of an eel and gnawing along its backbone with his large teeth. ‘Believe me, William, it is best to keep this sort of thing well away from the sacred confines of God’s houses.’

  ‘Let us proceed,’ said Langelee, addressing the waiting students. ‘Who are your candidates?’

  ‘Gray and Quenhyth,’ called the Franciscan Ulfrid, a mischievous grin creasing his face.

  Quenhyth was immediately on his feet, his face flushed with outrage. ‘I will not be party to such a disgraceful spectacle! I have no time for stupid pranks and only want to study. You can leave me out of this!’

  ‘Silly boy,’ muttered Michael, shaking his head in reproof. ‘He should have accepted the nomination, and taken the opportunity to avenge himself on those who have plagued him since September.’

  ‘Quenhyth is a dull boy,’ said Suttone, spitting eel bones on to the table, where they landed with a light pattering sound. ‘He talks about his lectures and his reading, but nothing else.’

  ‘He is unwise,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By standing down, he has effectively ensured that Gray is elected. And Gray will make his life a misery over the next twelve days.’

  ‘Gray had better not try to make my life a misery,’ said William threateningly. ‘I will not be harassed by a group of boys.’

  ‘You have no choice,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘You must bide by any decisions the Lord makes, while at the same time promising no retribution in the future. You know this; we have been through it before.’

  William growled something incomprehensible, and snapped his fingers for Cynric to fetch him some wine. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Gray, and neither did Cynric’s long-suffering grimace. Bartholomew was certain William would soon pay for his abrupt treatment of the servants.

  ‘I nominate me,’ said Deynman, loudly and rather unexpectedly. For a moment, no one spoke, and everyone in the hall stared at the lad whose limited intelligence would never see him pass his disputations.

  ‘You cannot nominate yourself,’ said Gray eventually. ‘It is not done.’

  ‘Who says?’ demanded Deynman, uncharacteristically pugilistic. ‘Just because it has not been done before does not mean that it cannot be done now. And anyway, you were Lord of Misrule last year, and I do not want you again. This year it should be me.’

  Several of the students began to cheer his audacity, while Gray looked as black as thunder. ‘But I have made arrangements,’ he said in a low, angry voice. ‘I will ensure that no one will ever forget my last Christmas at Michaelhouse: my reign will be remembered for decades to come.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in alarm. ‘I do not like the sound of that. It does not bode well for us Fellows, of that you can be sure.’

  ‘I do not care about the Fellows, only that we still have a College at the end of it,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘Gray’s idea of a memorable time might be to set the place alight and dance in the flames.’

  ‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of the student who had been with him since the plague. ‘He knows there are limits. I cannot say the same for Deynman, however, so you had better hope Gray wins the election.’

  But Gray did not win the election. The students were amused by the fact that Deynman had issued a direct challenge to Gray, who was a bully, and the vote for Deynman was almost unanimous. Gray was furious, and slouched on his bench with a face that could curdle milk.

  ‘Good,’ said Deynman, rubbing his hands together. ‘Give me your tabard, Master Langelee. I shall wear it until Twelfth Night, so that everyone will know that I am in charge.’

  ‘Very well, but you had better not spill anything on it,’ said Langelee, reluctantly handing over the garment. ‘I want it back clean.’

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Deynman carelessly, indicating that Langelee would be unlikely to be able to wear the item again. He turned to address his new ‘subjects’. ‘There are some things I should make clear. First, you have to do anything I say … ’

  ‘Within reason,’ cautioned Ulfrid warily. ‘You cannot ask us to do anything dangerous or too nasty. For example, I refuse to be the one to remove Father William’s habit and wash it.’ The chorus of cat-calls and laughter made William gape in astonishment. Ulfrid hastened to explain to the bemused Fellows. ‘That was on Gray’s list of things to do during the Twelve Days. It is something that should happen, but none of us wants the task.’

  ‘Brother Michael can do it,’ said Deynman. ‘He is big, strong and used to unpleasant sights.’

  ‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement,’ said Bartholomew hastily, anticipating that Michael would refuse to undertake such a gruesome task, which might result in all manner of chaos. ‘If William will relinquish it willingly, then Michael can take it to Agatha—’

  ‘I will not have that filthy thing in my laundry,’ came Agatha’s voice from behind the servants’ screen, where she had been listening and probably enjoying herself – at least, until she had been mentioned in connection with William’s infamous robe. ‘The bonfire is the best place for that.’

  ‘I will buy a new one,’ said Deynman generously. ‘And then no one need touch it. That is my second command: William’s vile habit shall never again make an appearance in Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Now just a moment,’ began William indignantly. ‘This is a perfectly serviceable garment. I admit it is marred by one or two stains—’

  Whatever he had planned to say was drowned by laughter. The students hefted their new leader on to their shoulders and carried him to the conclave, which they evidently intended to wrest from the Fellows for the next few days. Gray followed them, a thoughtful expression on his face. His train of thought was obvious to anyone who knew him: Deynman was fond of Gray, and would listen to anything he suggested. So, while Gray might not be Lord of Misrule himself, being the friend of one was the next best thing. Gray would have his power after all.

  ‘You cannot take the conclave!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, his usually benign face filled with dismay. ‘It is where the Fellows go in the evenings.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The Gilbertine was not a man who usually cared much about personal comforts. Indeed, Bartholomew would not have been surprised if Kenyngham had failed to notice that the conclave was unavailable, so immersed was he in spiritual matters.

  ‘The Fellows can use the hall instead,’ said Deynman carelessly, struggling out of his friends’ grasp and walking towards the friar. If he was annoyed to have his authority contested quite so soon after his election, he did not show it. ‘That is what this season is all about – changing things and breaking customs.’

  ‘But I might want to go into the conclave,’ protested Kenyngham, becoming distressed.

  ‘Do not worry, Father,’ said Deynman kindly, after glancing questioningly at his friends to ensure he had their support. Everyone liked the Gilbertine, and there were nods and smiles all around. ‘You can come in any time you like. The other Fellows are banned, though.’

  Kenyngham raised a blue-veined hand as he muttered a blessing. Deynman gave him a conspiratorial wink, then followed his colleagues. Several stumbled over the loose board as they went, unused to the conclave floor’s irregularities.

  ‘What was that about?’ Bartholomew asked Kenyngham, as they walked together across the hall to the spiral staircase that led to the yard. ‘You do not usually care about such things.’

  ‘I find the conclave more peaceful than the hall.’

  ‘You will not if it is full of celebrating students,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he felt the friar was not being entirely honest with him.

  He watched Kenyngham head
towards his room, then went to his own chamber, intending to leave Michaelhouse before Deynman had time to flex his new muscles of power and ask him to do something inconvenient or silly. The other Fellows had the same idea, and there was a concerted dash for the gate. Bartholomew decided to visit Dunstan, partly because he wanted to see whether there was anything he could do to help the old man, but partly because he hoped Matilde might be there. As he walked along the river bank towards the crumbling huts, he thought about Turke, and wondered what the death of her husband would mean for Philippa and her comfortable life on London’s Friday Street.

  CHAPTER 5

  THERE WERE MORE CELEBRATIONS IN MICHAELHOUSE THAT night, with the Lord of Misrule sitting in Langelee’s seat for the St Stephen’s Day supper. Predictably, the Fellows had been instructed to serve, while Deynman was surrounded by his friends at the high table. Agatha, of course, was considered far too venerable to sit with the rabble, so she was placed at Deynman’s right hand, looking pleased with herself as she swilled back plentiful quantities of wine.

  The atmosphere was light-hearted and jovial, and everyone seemed to be enjoying himself – although one or two Fellows were grim faced. This merely increased the students’ amusement. Warned by Langelee that the College wine supplies were low and would not support a season of continuous drinking, Deynman had solved the problem with large sums of money. The cellars had been restocked, and the kitchens received a welcome boost of new and interesting victuals.

  ‘Now we shall have the Chepe Waits,’ decreed Deynman, standing and waving a slopping cup to give emphasis to his instruction. ‘And everyone has to talk while he is eating – English or French, not Latin. We will have no silence or Bible-reading at any meal for the next two weeks.’

  ‘Twelve days,’ corrected Suttone grimly, struggling with a bowl of leeks. ‘Let us not lose count, please. William knew what he was doing when he broke his leg – at least he is not being submitted to this kind of indignity.’