Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘A lover?’ suggested Michael casually.

  Matilde was thoughtful. ‘Possibly. But not one who makes her happy. Her sour expressions and irritable temper are not signs of a woman riding on a whirlwind of glorious infatuation.’

  ‘You do not like her, do you?’ said Michael, regarding her closely.

  ‘No,’ said Matilde bluntly. ‘I cannot imagine what made you fall for her, Matthew. She is everything you profess to dislike: obsessed with wealth and appearances, and difficult to draw into conversations that do not include hairstyles, jewellery or food prices.’

  ‘She was not always like that,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘She was lively and funny, and we talked for hours about many things – philosophy, foreign countries, music, medicine …’

  ‘Who did the talking?’ asked Matilde coolly. ‘I cannot imagine her holding forth about Galen’s theories pertaining to the colour of urine or the architecture of Italy. But your betrothals are none of my affair, although I am glad for both of you that that one failed.’

  She walked away, leaving the two men staring after her. ‘You should ask Matilde to marry you,’ recommended Michael. ‘She may accept, and she keeps a good cellar. I would not mind visiting you in her house.’

  ‘Rumour has it she does not want to marry anyone,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the whispers that had reached him via the Mayor, the Franciscan Prior, Father William and finally Clippesby and Suttone.

  Michael shook his head in amused contempt. ‘You know nothing about women, Matt! Let me give you an analogy. Lombard slices are my favourite pastry. If I were to tell you that I would never touch one again, what would you do? You would buy me a dozen, to induce me to rethink my position. That is what Matilde is doing: she is saying she will not do something so that you will persuade her to do otherwise. Also, the poor woman has been waiting a long time for you. You cannot blame her for wanting folk to think it is her refusals that are preventing the match, rather than the fact that you have not bothered to ask.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Do you think she would agree?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But perhaps not. Who knows? You may have dithered too long, even for her. However, I can offer you one piece of advice: if you do become betrothed, do not allow another fiancée to disappear to London without you.’

  Bartholomew was deep in thought as he walked with Michael towards Tulyet’s house near the Great Bridge. When he happened to glance up from watching where he was placing his feet in the treacherous muck, he spotted a familiar figure making its way towards them. For a brief moment he thought it was Philippa, but it was Abigny.

  Philippa and her brother were of a similar height, and both had abandoned the flowing locks of youth for the more conventional styles of middle age – Abigny’s cropped short and Philippa’s coiled in plaits. Both possessed cloaks with hoods, like most winter travellers, and neither was in the habit of walking fast. However, Abigny’s plumed hat made him distinctive, whereas Philippa favoured a goffered veil – yellow when she had arrived, but dyed black since Turke’s death. The goffered style comprised a half-circle of linen draped over the head with a broad frill along the straight edge framing the face. Philippa and Abigny wearing their preferred headgear could not be mistaken for each other, but Philippa and Abigny with their cloaks’ hoods raised or their hats exchanged might.

  The physician thought back to the time of the plague. Philippa and her brother had changed places then, too, fooling folk for several days. Could they be doing the same thing a second time? He recalled Stanmore commenting on the amount of time Abigny spent outside. Was it actually Philippa in disguise? No one would look too closely, because it was common knowledge that she declined to leave the house on Milne Street without an escort. Bartholomew saw that was probably just a ruse, designed to ensure no one would suspect her of going out at all.

  All at once Bartholomew knew Clippesby was right: it was not Abigny who ran the errands around the town, but Philippa. He knew perfectly well Abigny was not exaggerating when he complained about the pain in his feet, and the physician realised with disgust that he should have guessed days ago that the clerk had not been traipsing endlessly around in the cold and the wet. His feet simply would not have allowed him to do it.

  ‘Giles,’ he called, attracting his old room-mate’s attention. ‘Where is Philippa?’

  ‘In the church with Walter,’ replied Abigny, wincing. ‘These feet are no better, Matt. Do you have no stronger cure to offer me?’

  ‘Only the recommendation that you stay in and keep them warm and dry.’

  ‘I have been staying in,’ snapped Abigny, pain making him irritable. He glanced at the physician furtively, realising he had just said something he should not have done.

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘It is not you who has been seen all over the town. What has Philippa been doing?’

  ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ Abigny tried to push his way past.

  Bartholomew grabbed his arm. ‘Who has Philippa been meeting? Why does she feel the need to sneak around in disguise, rather than going openly to meet her friend?’

  Abigny sighed heavily, while Michael listened to the exchange in astonishment. ‘I am no good at this kind of thing,’ said the clerk tiredly. ‘It is a pity, because I might be offered a better post at the law courts if I were more expert at lying and subterfuge. The King likes men with those skills.’

  ‘So?’ demanded Bartholomew, not to be side-tracked. ‘What do you say to my questions?’

  ‘I say you should ask Philippa. They are not my secrets to reveal. I have my failings, but breaking confidences is not among them.’

  ‘Then you can reveal some secrets of your own,’ said Michael. ‘You met a man called Harysone in the King’s Head. Why?’

  Abigny gazed at him in astonishment. ‘That is none of your business! What did you do? Follow me there, after I met you near the Trumpington Gate?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Michael bluntly. ‘And Harysone is a suspect in a murder enquiry, so it is not casual inquisitiveness that makes me ask you about him: my questions are official.’

  ‘I went to buy his book,’ replied Abigny, evidently alarmed by Michael’s veiled threats. ‘It is about fish, and I thought it would make a suitable gift for the Fraternity of Fishmongers in Walter’s memory. It is packed in my saddle-bag at Edith’s house. I can show you, if you like.’

  ‘You bought Harysone’s scribblings?’ asked Michael in disgust. ‘To commemorate Turke?’

  ‘Why not?’ flashed Abigny. ‘There is a certain justice in purchasing a volume of dubious scholarship as a tribute to a dubious man. Walter would have hated the errors in it, and it will give me no small satisfaction to see the thing forever bearing his name in the Fishmongers’ Hall.’

  ‘What about Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject. ‘I do not believe you know nothing about that. Pechem and William would not have answered your questions if they thought you were asking out of idle curiosity.’

  Abigny rubbed his hands over his face, then gave a rueful smile. ‘I thought I had deceived you successfully about that. You seemed to believe me at the time.’

  ‘We did not,’ said Michael. ‘It takes a far more accomplished liar than you to fool the University’s Senior Proctor.’

  ‘You were not there – it was a discussion between Matt and me,’ Abigny pointed out coolly. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘You were right to assume I knew more about Dympna than I revealed. However, my knowledge dates from the Death, when the charity was established. I was a founding member, but resigned when I left Cambridge and have heard nothing from it since. That was why I pestered William for information. It really was “idle curiosity”, as you put it.’

  ‘Why him?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I heard in the King’s Head that Dympna had financed some repairs to the Franciscan Friary. I thought William might be able to tell me more about it. Of course, he could not, and neither could Pechem. It was neve
r an open charity, but it has become much more secret since I left. I suppose it is to safeguard itself against too many claims for its funds.’

  ‘Tell us what you do know,’ ordered Michael. ‘It may help.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Abigny. ‘Dympna started during the Death, when men were healthy one moment and dead the next. Wealthy folk gave friars gold for the poor, hoping their charity would save them from infection. Dympna was founded using these benefactions, so the money could be fairly and properly distributed. You see, once or twice, mistakes were made, and unscrupulous folk made off with funds they should not have had. Including Michaelhouse, I might add.’

  ‘Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael, astonished. ‘We never made a claim from Dympna.’

  ‘Thomas Wilson did, though,’ replied Abigny. ‘You will recall he was Master during the Death and was greedy and corrupt. He inveigled funds from Dympna that he should not have been given, and they went directly into his own coffers. You must have heard the stories about how rich he was when he died.’

  Bartholomew knew all about Wilson’s ill-gotten wealth. He and Michael had recovered some of it a couple of years ago, but not before men had died over it.

  ‘Is that all Dympna is?’ pressed Michael. ‘A charity?’

  Abigny raised his hands, palms upward. ‘It was a charity five years ago, but who knows what it is now? That was why I asked William about it, and why I have made several journeys around the town, even though my feet pain me. I am curious to know what it has become.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Abigny smiled. ‘Because I feel honoured to be one of its original members. It is a worthy cause, and I hope it thrives for many years. But standing in the cold is agony for me. You must come to Milne Street, if you wish to talk further. Good morning.’

  ‘Is he telling the truth now, do you think?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, as the clerk hobbled away.

  ‘He is telling the truth about his sore feet. And as for the rest – I have no idea.’

  Dick Tulyet was pleased to see Bartholomew and Michael, and invited them into the warm chaos of his house on Bridge Street. His energetic son was racing here and there with a wooden sword, an item that Bartholomew thought was far too dangerous a thing to place in the destructive hands of the youngest Tulyet. The child was in constant trouble, much to the consternation of his sober and law-abiding parents.

  Tulyet led Bartholomew and Michael to the room he used as an office, where he slipped a bar across the door, explaining that young Dickon would dash in and disturb them if it were left unlocked. The ear-splitting sounds of the boy’s battle calls echoed from the solar, where his mother and a couple of servants tried to keep him quiet until his father’s visitors left. The Tulyets would never have another child, and both treated the boy far more tenderly than was warranted for such a brutish little ruffian. Dickon was rapidly becoming a tyrant, and Bartholomew’s heart always sank when he was summoned to tend the brat’s various minor injuries – cuts and bruises usually acquired by doing something he had been told not to do.

  ‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pouring himself a cup of wine from the jug that stood on the windowsill before settling comfortably on a cushioned bench. ‘What does that mean to you, Dick? Mayor Horwood intimated you know something about it.’

  ‘Is this relevant to Norbert’s death?’ asked Tulyet warily. ‘Only I would rather not discuss it, if there is a choice.’

  ‘Dympna sent a number of notes to Norbert, summoning him to meetings in St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘You already know this, because I told you. Then a note from Dympna was discovered inside the corpse of a man called Gosslinge. So, I think information about this strange group could well be relevant – if not to Norbert’s murder, then to Gosslinge’s death.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Tulyet reluctantly. ‘We swore an oath that we would not speak about Dympna without due cause, but the murder of my cousin is due cause. I think no one would take issue with that. I shall tell you about Dympna, but please do not make anything I say public.’

  ‘You claimed you knew nothing about it on Christmas Day,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You told me I would waste my time if I investigated Dympna.’

  ‘The latter statement is true, but the former is not,’ replied Tulyet evenly. ‘I denied knowing a woman called Dympna – and that is correct – but I did not say I knew nothing about it. And I genuinely believed that enquiries into Dympna would bring you no closer to Norbert’s killer, that it would lead you to waste time. It seems I was wrong.’

  ‘You were,’ affirmed Michael testily.

  ‘But I do not see how! Norbert did petition Dympna for funds, but apart from a single message refusing his application, Dympna had no correspondence with him. I cannot imagine where these other missives came from.’

  ‘Let us go over what we know,’ said Michael. ‘Dympna is a charitable group that helps people in need. We know it supplied funds to the Franciscan Friary, for example.’

  Tulyet nodded. ‘It was founded during the Death, but I was made a member later, when I became Sheriff. Originally, gifts of money were made to the needy, but it soon became clear that Dympna would run dry if that practice continued. It was decided to make loans instead, so that larger and more useful sums could be offered. By the time I joined, most of Dympna’s transactions involved loans; there are very few gifts these days.’

  ‘So, Dympna is just a money-lending fraternity,’ said Michael dismissively.

  ‘Not at all. Moneylenders make profits from interest. But Dympna does not charge interest, nor does it demand repayment by specific dates.’

  ‘Then why do people repay you at all?’

  ‘Because Dympna does not help just anyone. Each case is carefully considered, and the honesty and integrity of the applicant is assessed. We would not lend money to someone we could not trust to pay us back. So, for example, we made loans to pay irate builders at Bene’t, when the College suddenly found itself without the funds to pay for work already completed; and we made one to allow the Carmelites to buy new habits when a fire robbed them of most of their clothes.’

  ‘And the recipients always pay you back?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

  ‘Always, but never with interest – unless they choose to make a donation for our future work. The Carmelites were generous in that respect, although there was no pressure on them to do so.’

  ‘Who are the other members of Dympna?’ asked Michael.

  Tulyet hesitated, but then seemed to reach a decision. ‘There are four of us. But you must never reveal our identities. If that happens, and everyone learns who we are, we will be overwhelmed with demands for help, and our funds will dissipate like mist in the summer sun. Then Dympna will be dissolved, and the town will lose something good.’

  ‘Who?’ pressed Michael. ‘You, and three others?’

  ‘Master Kenyngham is one, and Robin of Grantchester is another.’

  ‘Robin?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished that Clippesby had been right, and even more astonished that a disreputable fellow like Robin should be chosen to serve an altruistic organisation.

  ‘Kenyngham?’ asked Michael at the same time. ‘I suppose that should not surprise me. He is exactly the kind of man to engage in kindly acts and keep his beneficence a secret.’

  ‘Robin is not, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why did you select him to help?’

  ‘Many of the people he treats die or become very ill,’ explained Tulyet. ‘They often need Dympna to pay for healing potions or to allow their families to bury them. Robin keeps us informed of who might require such assistance.’

  ‘I should have guessed this ages ago,’ said Bartholomew, putting together facts in his mind. ‘All the evidence was there, but I did not make the connections. We were told that Robin has been associated with various acts of charity recently – by Ailred, among others. It was also Robin who brought food for Dunstan after Athelbald died.’

  ‘That was not Dympna,’ said
Tulyet. ‘Each transaction must be agreed by all four members, but we have not met for several weeks now. Dympna did not help Dunstan. As I said, we seldom make gifts, only loans. We would not have lent money to Dunstan, because dying men are unlikely to pay us back. Robin must have arranged that out of the goodness of his heart.’

  ‘I do not think so!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the notion.

  ‘Kenyngham, then,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is generous and compassionate. So is Father Ailred of Ovyng. I am lucky to have two such honest and kindly souls to work with.’

  ‘Ailred is the last member?’ said Michael. ‘Now, that is interesting! What was his reaction when Norbert’s classmates said he had received messages from Dympna, Matt? Can you remember? Indignant? Thoughtful? Concerned?’

  ‘He told us we should look elsewhere for answers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just like Dick.’

  Tulyet winced. ‘What else could I do? Dympna has done a great deal of good in the town. Ailred feels as I do – that we should do all we can to protect it, so it can continue to help the needy.’

  ‘Robin lent Ailred a backgammon board and pieces,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I was surprised at the time that they knew each other well enough for borrowing and lending, but now I see exactly how that came about: they are colleagues.’

  ‘Robin is hardly our colleague,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘But he serves his purpose, and we have no complaints about the way he discharges his responsibilities.’

  ‘We shall speak to him and the other two members later,’ vowed Michael. ‘But where do you keep Dympna’s money?’ He looked around him, as though he expected a large chest filled with coins to manifest itself.

  ‘I cannot tell you – not because I am refusing to cooperate, but because I do not know. It moves between members, so no outsider will guess where it is and steal it – a chest of coins is a tempting target for thieves. It is Kenyngham’s turn to be keeper at the moment.’