Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘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, a
nd 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.’