Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  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 s
ee 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 n
ot 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.