‘Kenyngham?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘You entrust all that gold to a man who cares so little for worldly possessions? What if he forgets where he has stored it?’
Tulyet laughed. ‘He is not that absent-minded. But we know accidents happen – it would be unfortunate if the keeper died, and no one knew where the box was hidden. So, the keeper always tells one other member as a safeguard. He must have told Ailred, because I do not know, and we do not let Robin near the actual money. The temptation might prove too much.’
‘How long has it been with Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Three weeks, perhaps. Ailred had it before him. Why? Are you saying that Norbert’s death has something to do with the chest being passed from Ailred to Kenyngham? That Ailred stored it somewhere in Ovyng, where Norbert lived?’
‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘The timing certainly fits, because Norbert has been dead for twelve days now, and he started to receive letters from “Dympna” about a week before he died. That is roughly three weeks in total. Do you really have no idea where Kenyngham keeps it?’
Tulyet’s face creased in a frown of concentration. ‘I imagine it is with the Gilbertine friars. I expect you would have noticed a chest in Michaelhouse.’
‘How big is it?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to envisage potential hiding places.
‘It is a walnut chest, perhaps the length of my forearm, and about two hand widths deep.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Bartholomew, smiling as he recalled various incidents that should have warned him sooner that something was amiss. ‘The conclave.’
‘It is not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘The conclave’s contents comprise benches, a table, two chairs and some rugs. There are no walnut-wood boxes there, because we would have noticed.’
‘About three weeks ago – the time the chest passed to Kenyngham – the floorboards in the conclave became uneven,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have all stumbled over them, and William hurt himself quite badly. I suspect that is where Kenyngham has stored Dympna.’
‘I do not see Kenyngham prising up floorboards to make himself a secret hiding place,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘He is not sufficiently practical.’
‘That is probably why the floor is now uneven,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, he did tell Langelee that he worked with wood before he became a friar. Remember?’
Michael gnawed his lower lip. ‘I do, now you mention it. And I recall his odd reaction when he learned the students planned to use the conclave for the duration of the Twelve Days. He was appalled, and that surprised me because he does not normally care about such things. He was not concerned about his personal comfort, as we all assumed: he was worried about access to his chest.’
‘And once I saw him working on some documents,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the first night he had been driven by cold to spend the night in the conclave. ‘I asked him what he was doing, and he declined to tell me. Doubtless that was Dympna’s business, too.’
‘We shall look into it, and recommend the thing be moved to the Gilbertine Friary,’ said Michael. ‘I do not want our students unearthing it – especially this week, when we have a Lord of Misrule to make stupid suggestions about how it should be spent.’
‘You say Dympna refused to lend Norbert money?’ asked Bartholomew of Tulyet, wanting to bring the discussion back to the student’s murder.
‘He did not meet our two basic criteria – that the money is for a worthy cause and that it will be repaid. Where are these messages? May I see them? I may recognise the writing.’
‘All destroyed,’ said Michael. ‘I have searched Norbert’s possessions on at least three occasions, and found nothing.’
‘Perhaps Godric was lying about them,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Ailred said he has peculiar ideas about love-letters and suchlike.’
‘Norbert received them,’ said Michael firmly. ‘The other Ovyng lads saw them too, remember?’ He turned to Tulyet. ‘And you are sure Kenyngham, Ailred or Robin have not written to Norbert in Dympna’s name?’
‘I am sure Dympna gave nothing to Norbert. We discuss every loan made – no one person is allowed to act alone, because that would leave us open to charges of corruption.’
‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had the chest, and Norbert lived in his hostel. There is a connection here. Perhaps Norbert found the chest and stole from it, so Ailred sent messages demanding it back. Or perhaps Ailred made an exception for Norbert, because he was a member of his hostel.’
‘Made an illegal loan, you mean?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully. ‘Ailred is an honest fellow. I do not see him breaking our rules – especially for Norbert, who would have spent the money on his own pleasures.’
‘Well, we shall have to ask Ailred himself,’ said Michael, draining the wine in Bartholomew’s goblet as he prepared to leave. ‘And we shall ask him about the murdered Chepe fishmonger John Fiscurtune, too, since I have reason to believe he and Ailred were related.’
Bartholomew and Tulyet gazed at him in astonishment, and Michael’s face became smug when he saw he had startled them.
‘Fiscurtune?’ asked Tulyet. ‘The man Turke killed, whom I told you last night that I had met many years ago?’
Bartholomew had forgotten Michael’s mention of a previous association between Tulyet and the dead fishmonger. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Tulyet spread his hands to indicate he knew little of interest.
‘I met Fiscurtune before the Death, in the market at Chepe. He sticks in my mind for two reasons: first, because he was unforgivably rude, and second, because he was totally devoid of teeth. Fortunately, an excess of gums rendered his speech indistinct, so most folk could not understand him. But I am not surprised someone tired of his offensive manners and murdered him.’
‘We should see Ailred, Matt, and ask him about Fiscurtune. I think he has met the fangless fishmonger far more recently than Dick has done.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘Fiscurtune had no association with Cambridge as far as I know. He has certainly not been here recently, because I assure you I would have noticed him.’
‘I came across the information last night, when Matt was visiting Edith,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘I trawled through some University documents and discovered that Ailred hails from near Lincoln – not Lincoln itself, but a small village just outside it.’
‘We know that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is no secret: he is very proud of the fact that he is a Lincolnshire man.’
‘The name of his manor is Fiscurtune,’ announced Michael momentously.
‘It is a common name,’ warned Tulyet. ‘I imagine any village with some kind of fishing industry may have taken the Saxon word “fisc” for fish, and added “tun” for village or manor. You cannot connect Ailred with your dead fishmonger on that evidence alone.’
‘I do not believe in coincidences,’ said Michael pompously and untruthfully. ‘Anyway, when I learned where Ailred spent his early years, I visited Sheriff Morice, who gave me permission – for a price – to refer to the taxation lists compiled in the days of the Conqueror. They are a good source of information about places in obscure parts of the kingdom.’
‘Lincolnshire is not obscure,’ said Bartholomew, amused by Michael’s description.
‘Morice asked for money before he let you see Domesday?’ asked Tulyet, horrified. ‘It is just as well he is not investigating Norbert’s death, because I do not want to be presented with a bill for his labours, as well as with a killer!’
‘It is your fault for resigning,’ retorted Michael unsympathetically. ‘But I learned from Domesday that Fiscurtune boasts three and a half fisheries.’
‘Fisheries,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Fiscurtune was a fishmonger, and so was Turke. Now we learn that Ailred hails from a village with fisheries. Perhaps there is a connection here.’
‘Fiscurtune village is small,’ Michael went on. ‘So, assuming I am right, and the murdered John Fiscurtune and
Ailred hail from the same settlement, then it follows that they must have known each other. Indeed, I feel they knew each other rather well. Was there any physical resemblance between Fiscurtune and Ailred, Dick?’
‘Fiscurtune had no teeth,’ said Tulyet apologetically. ‘It changed his face so much it is impossible to say.’ His expression became thoughtful. ‘However, now that I think about it, I do vaguely recall Fiscurtune mentioning a kinsman who was the head of a Cambridge hostel.’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed Michael with immense satisfaction.
Bartholomew walked briskly towards Ovyng Hostel, urging Michael to hurry. He sensed that Ailred had the answers to many questions, and wanted to speak to him as soon as possible. Michael puffed along behind him, growing more breathless and red-faced with every step. The thaw was continuing apace, and the town was a morass of sticky slush and sloppy, ice-spangled puddles. Snow was dropping from roofs in clots, and Bartholomew paused for a few moments to excavate a cat that was buried by a sudden fall. It clawed him when it was freed, and raced down one of the darker runnels, as if mortified by its sodden fur and bedraggled appearance.
‘There is Robin of Grantchester,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a hunched figure that was making its way uncertainly down the High Street. ‘Robin!’
The surgeon leapt in alarm and started to run. It was an instinctive reaction, and something he often did when someone hailed him. It usually meant he had lost a patient and was afraid the deceased’s family were out for revenge.
‘Oh, it is you,’ said Robin, relieved when he saw it was Bartholomew who had caught his arm and arrested his desperate flight. ‘I thought it was a relative of Dunstan and Athelbald.’
‘Why would they chase you? You did not treat them – I did.’
‘They are both dead, and people tend to associate me with deaths, even though I am not usually there when they happen.’ Bartholomew knew that was true: Robin’s patients died of fright, pain or poisoned blood days or hours after he had finished his grisly business with his rusty knives. ‘Fifteen years ago I extracted a nail from Dunstan’s hand. I thought his kinsmen might believe that brought about his demise.’
‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pronouncing the name with relish. ‘Tell me about Dympna.’
Robin’s small eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about? I know no one of that name.’
‘It is a money-lending charity,’ said Bartholomew, watching Robin shift and turn uneasily, like a cornered rat. ‘And you are one of its four members.’
‘Clippesby,’ said Robin in disgust. ‘I had a feeling he was eavesdropping when I confided in Helena. She is my only true friend, and I often talk to her when I am lonely or have enjoyed a little wine and wish for a companion who will listen without interrupting.’
‘She sounds like a saint,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not know her.’
‘My pig,’ said Robin. ‘A man needs friendship, and there is none better than that offered by an animal. They are loyal and do not judge you. Clippesby feels the same way, and likes to spend time with the horses in the stables of the Gilbertine Friary, near my house. Doubtless he heard me confiding in Helena then.’
‘And he assumed the disembodied voice came from the horses,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘I wondered why information from his animal friends is so often accurate. It is not because the animals speak to him, but because he overhears other people’s conversations.’
‘It is almost impossible to know he is there,’ said Robin disapprovingly. ‘He sits still and quiet for so long you think you are alone, and then he hears your innermost secrets.’ A horrified expression twisted his face. ‘He did not mention Mayor Horwood’s goat, did he? I would not like that bandied about the town!’
‘Fortunately not,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘But what can you tell us about Dympna? Did it ever make a loan to Norbert?’
‘Of course not,’ said Robin scornfully. ‘The money is used for pious and deserving cases, not for folk who will spend it on themselves. I have my own ideas about recipients, of course, but the other members seldom listen to me. They never lend money to the cases I bring before them.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael.
Robin effected a careless shrug. ‘I suppose they think the causes I support might benefit me personally, although I am an honest and compassionate man, and would never do such a thing.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, in a way that indicated he held his own views on the matter of Robin’s honesty and compassion. ‘Why have you never mentioned your involvement with this worthy charity before? You must realise that helping the sick and desperate is a thing to be proud of?’
‘I would love people to know that I have been working for years to alleviate pain and suffering,’ said Robin resentfully. ‘But the others pay me a retainer on the understanding that I will lose it if I mention Dympna to anyone. Money is money, and not to be refused. So, I obey their rules, and the only person I tell is Helena. I suppose I will be deprived of that income now you know about Dympna.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘We can be discreet.’ Bartholomew noticed he did not say he would be discreet.
Robin went on, in full flow now the secret he had kept so well was out. ‘I am a member, but I do not know how much money Dympna owns. The other three tend to exclude me from the financial discussions, and I am only involved when they ask for a list of my current patients or when they want me to deliver something for them.’
‘Like food and fuel to Dunstan?’ asked Bartholomew.
Robin nodded. ‘And gold for the Carmelites’ new robes, or to help that potter through the inconvenience of a lost foot. I arranged for Bosel the beggar to borrow a cloak for the winter, and I did most of the organising when the Franciscans needed a new roof. It is me who tells folk they will only be lent money if they do not tell anyone how it came about.’
‘You did not ask Dunstan not to mention Dympna,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You left the food, fuel and Yolande de Blaston, then went home.’
‘That was different,’ replied Robin. ‘Dunstan was the town’s most active gossip when Athelbald was alive, but that changed the instant he died. I doubt Dunstan even knew I was there. There was no point mentioning the fact that the food and fuel came courtesy of Dympna.’
‘Dick Tulyet said the funds for Dunstan did not come from Dympna,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Of course they did,’ replied Robin waspishly. ‘I have no money to throw away on dying men, while Kenyngham and Ailred are friars, who have little in the way of worldly goods. Perhaps the two of them acted quickly and did not have time to consult Tulyet.’ His smile became malicious. ‘Now he will know what it is like to belong to a group that does not bother to solicit his opinion!’
‘Ailred was certainly aware of Dunstan’s case,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We mentioned it when we were at Ovyng, and he knew all about it.’
‘We have taken up enough of your time, Robin,’ said Michael. ‘Thank you for your help. And give our regards to Helena.’
Bartholomew and Michael continued towards Ovyng, where both scholars felt they would have better answers from Ailred than those they had squeezed from Robin. It was obvious that Robin was not involved in the more important decisions, and that Tulyet had been correct in saying he had been invited to join only as a way for the group to know which of the townsfolk had hired his services and so might be candidates for Dympna’s charity. Robin received payment for his membership, indicating that the others knew he was the kind of man whose help and silence needed to be bought.
Bartholomew’s feet were sodden by the time they reached Ovyng, and his toes ached from the icy water inside his boots. Michael’s face was flushed and sweaty, and he removed his winter cloak and tossed it carelessly over one shoulder; part of it trailed in the muck of St Michael’s Lane. He knocked loudly and officially on Ovyng’s door. It was eventually opened by Godric.
‘You took your time,’ said the monk accusingly. ‘We have come to speak
to your principal.’ He pushed past the friar, and Bartholomew followed, surprised to find the main room of the hostel empty. The hearth was devoid of even the most meagre of fires, and the room felt colder than the air outside. It smelled stale, too – rancid fat mixed with boiled vegetables and dirty feet. Godric had been given the tedious task of rewaxing the writing tablets the students used for their exercises. The size of the pile on the table suggested that Godric would be labouring for some hours to come.
‘Father Ailred is not here,’ said Godric sullenly, stating the obvious. ‘He has gone out and taken the others with him. Except me. I am obliged to remain here.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘What have you done to displease him? Gambling? Taverns?’
‘Telling you he went out when he claims he stayed in,’ said Godric resentfully. ‘At least, I am sure that is the real reason. The official one is he thinks my humours are unbalanced, and that I should stay inside until they are restored.’
‘Do you feel unwell?’ asked Bartholomew. The friar looked healthy enough, despite his unshaven and pale cheeks. But most people in Cambridge had a seedy sort of appearance during winter, when days were short and chilly and shaving was an unpleasant experience involving icy water and hands made unsteady by shivering.
‘I am cold and hungry, because we have no money for fuel and not much for food. But other than that I am well. I think Ailred is angry with me for telling you the truth about his evening out. I should never have allowed you to bully me into talking about it in the first place. He was furious.’
‘Was he, indeed?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘And why would that be? What is he hiding?’
‘I do not know; I was not with him,’ replied Godric petulantly. ‘And anyway, he says he was in, and I am mistaken about his absence.’
‘Where is he now?’ asked Michael. ‘Or will he later say he was here all the time and you have been mistaken about that, too?’
This coaxed a rueful smile from Godric. ‘He is skating on the river. Ice skating.’
Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘You mean fooling around, like children? That does not sound like a suitable activity for the principal of a hostel.’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 39
