Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Only another four days,’ growled Suttone irritably. The bell had just chimed to announce the midday meal, and he was walking across the yard with Bartholomew and Michael, just back from their futile hunt. ‘Then this ridiculous charade will be over.’

  ‘You mean the season of misrule?’ asked Michael. ‘It has not been too bad this year. The cold weather spoiled some of the wilder schemes, and the fun is wearing too thin now for there to be many more surprises in store for us. Some students are already settling back to their studies.’

  ‘Quenhyth never stopped his,’ said the Carmelite in disgust. ‘Smug little beggar.’

  ‘I thought his obsession with learning would endear him to you,’ said Bartholomew, surprised the dour Carmelite so disliked Quenhyth. The student was dull, pedantic and single-minded, which were traits Suttone usually approved in a scholar. ‘He has not engaged in any of the antics surrounding the Lord of Misrule.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ replied Suttone. ‘His character makes people want to tease him. Indeed, his very presence in Michaelhouse has been the cause of pranks that would not have taken place had he been gone. We must remember to send him away next year – especially if Deynman is reelected.’

  They walked into the hall and went to the servants’ screen, where large pots of food were waiting to be distributed. The Fellows were still obliged to serve the others on occasion, and some students continued to occupy the high table, although many had reclaimed their own seats in the body of the hall. The novelty of eating with Deynman had completely worn off for Agatha, however, and she declined his invitations, claiming that she was bored with the prattle of silly boys. She had reverted to dining in the kitchen, along with the rest of the servants.

  ‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded Michael crossly, snatching up a dish of something that was coloured a brilliant emerald. ‘It will take us ages to serve everyone without him. And what in God’s name is this?’ His attention had been caught by the contents of the bowl.

  ‘Deynman said all food served today should be green,’ said Bartholomew, laughing when he saw the mouldy bread that Agatha had piled into a basket and the platter of rancid pork that had been prepared. ‘He should have chosen a different colour, because if anyone willingly eats this stuff he deserves to die of poisoning.’

  ‘That will teach Deynman to make life difficult for Agatha, with his ridiculous demands and orders,’ said Wynewyk in delight. ‘Decaying meat, mouldy bread, cabbage and pea soup with added colouring. It is all green, but Deynman did not specify it also had to be edible!’

  ‘I shall be glad when this is over,’ said Suttone vehemently, grabbing the bread and preparing to distribute it to hungry students who would be in for a disappointment. ‘Because the servants are not allowed to work, the hall has not been cleaned for days, and it stinks.’

  The odour of stale rushes and spilt food was indeed becoming noticeable, and Bartholomew was aware that fewer students used the hall for sleeping, preferring the fresher, if colder, air of their own rooms. The walls were splattered with wine and fat, where the Fellows’ inexpert handling of heavy serving vessels had resulted in mishaps, and the floor was lumpy with discarded scraps. It had almost reached the point where Bartholomew felt obliged to scrape his feet clean before he left.

  He escaped from the hall as soon as Deynman said the final grace. It was an unusually short meal, because so little was actually edible, and it was not long before the students were clamouring to leave, so they could find victuals elsewhere. Because his room was still encased in a cocoon of snow – although it was melting quickly and it would not be long before it would be accessible again – Bartholomew went to William’s chamber.

  The friar had not been obliged to consume green food. He sat replete and contented, with the remains of fish-giblet stew, and fine wheat-bread, which Bartholomew imagined had also been enjoyed by Agatha, lay in front of him. William informed Bartholomew that his meal had been excellent and that he was considering ‘breaking’ his other leg in order to be cosseted and excused from unpleasant duties.

  ‘Do not let Agatha know you are only pretending to be infirm,’ the physician advised. ‘If she discovers her charity has been in vain your life will not be worth living.’

  ‘The weather is changing,’ said William ruefully. ‘And the ground underfoot is not nearly as slick as it was. You can remove the splint in a day or two, but I may bribe you with books again, if I feel the need for a period of respite.’

  ‘Bribe away,’ said Bartholomew, running his hand lovingly over the fine cover of his Bradwardine. ‘Did you know that Michael spent all morning searching for one of your brethren? Ailred from Ovyng ran away when our questions became too uncomfortable.’

  ‘I heard,’ said William. ‘And I am astonished. Ailred is a kindly, God-fearing man. I cannot imagine him fleeing from anything.’

  ‘Has he ever spoken to you about kin from the village of Fiscurtune, near Lincoln? No one else seems to know much about his family.’

  ‘He has kin,’ replied William. ‘Or should I say had kin, since we Franciscans often renounce family ties once we have taken our vows. I know a little about Ailred’s, though, because we went on retreat to Chesterton together once. He talked about them then.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his excitement quicken.

  ‘Very little,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘He has a brother. Or was it a sister? I cannot recall now. And there is a nephew he is fond of.’

  ‘Do you know anything else about them?’ asked Bartholomew.

  William thought for a moment. ‘They used to go fishing together.’

  Bartholomew told Michael about his conversation with William as they sat in the Brazen George, eating roasted sheep with a sauce of beetroot and onions. There were parsnips and cabbage stems, too, baked slowly in butter in the bottom of the bread oven, so that the flavour of yeast could be tasted in them. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to Bartholomew that Ailred was indeed associated with the dead John Fiscurtune. And he wondered whether there was some significance in the fact that Walter Turke had died while skating, when Ailred had shown himself to be a veteran on ice.

  ‘Do you think Ailred did something to bring about Turke’s death?’ he asked.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Michael. ‘There are too many connections between them to be ignored. So, Turke murdered Fiscurtune, then bribed the local Sheriff to ignore the crime. Fiscurtune’s family must have been outraged. Then Turke embarked on a pilgrimage to “atone” for his sin, making it clear he was doing so only because he intended to be elected Lord Mayor and did not want an inconvenient matter like murder to stand in his way.’

  ‘It would have added insult to injury,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And then this pilgrimage took him through Cambridge, where one of the wronged kinsmen lives. When the snows isolated the town and trapped Turke here, it must have seemed as though fate was screaming for vengeance.’

  ‘God was screaming for vengeance,’ corrected Michael. ‘Ailred is a friar, remember? What did he do, do you think? Force Turke on to the ice somehow?’

  ‘There were no obvious injuries on Turke’s body, so I do not think violence was used.’

  ‘Ailred could have threatened him with a crossbow,’ suggested Michael.

  ‘In broad daylight on the Mill Pool? Someone would have seen them.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, and asked the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since he had first learned about the possible connection between Ailred and Turke. ‘Do you think Philippa suspects her husband’s death was not an accident, and she knows or has guessed that Ailred is involved?’

  ‘I do not see how, unless she was there.’ Michael studied his friend with sombre green eyes. ‘And I do not think she was there, despite the fact that we know Giles regularly locked himself in her room, leaving her free to wander.’

  ‘Then why do I feel as though she is not telling us the truth? Even Matilde can see the
re is something strange about Philippa, and they do not even know each other.’

  Michael patted his arm. ‘Eat your parsnips, Matt. Then we shall search again for the elusive Ailred. He cannot be far – the roads are still closed, and he has nowhere else to go.’

  Bartholomew and Michael left the Brazen George, and were about to turn down St Michael’s Lane when they encountered Langelee striding towards them, gripping Quenhyth by the scruff of his neck. Langelee’s face was impassive, but the student’s expression revealed exactly how he felt: angry, maligned and humiliated. He was trying to explain something to Langelee, but Langelee was refusing to listen.

  ‘I was on my way to your prison,’ Langelee said, thrusting Quenhyth at Michael, so hard that the lad bounced into Michael’s substantial girth and almost lost his balance. ‘I want you to take charge of this miserable specimen.’

  ‘What has he done this time?’ asked Michael, fixing the hapless student with a stern eye. ‘Another whore in his bed? Or has he hidden Father William’s crutches again?’

  Quenhyth bristled. ‘I did neither of those things, and you know it. They were pranks designed specifically to land me in trouble.’

  ‘I caught him searching the servants’ belongings,’ said Langelee to Michael with considerable anger. ‘The steward came to me in a panic, saying there was a burglar in the stable loft, and when I investigated I found Quenhyth. I cannot imagine what he was thinking of.’

  ‘I was not among the servants’ possessions,’ said Quenhyth. ‘I was looking through baggage belonging to the Chepe Waits. Brother Michael himself gave me permission to search them, so I could prove they stole my scrip. I would have gone sooner, but I had to wait until they were out.’

  ‘Your obsession with the Waits verges on the fanatical,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘Such an attitude will land you in hot water one day.’

  ‘It has landed him in hot water today,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘I cannot condone students rifling through our servants’ belongings. They will leave us, and then where will we be? Good retainers do not grow on trees, unlike bothersome students.’

  ‘I was only doing what you told me to do,’ cried Quenhyth, appealing to Michael. ‘And I discovered something important, so it was worth my efforts.’

  ‘You found your scrip?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Something much more important than that,’ said Quenhyth, a note of triumph entering his voice when he saw he had Michael’s attention. ‘I can prove the Waits knew Dympna – the woman who sent notes to Norbert and lured him to his death.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘And how can you do that?’

  ‘Because I have a message written by her,’ said Quenhyth smugly. He produced a piece of parchment with a flourish. ‘I decided to take it, because Frith would have rid himself of it by the time I had alerted you. The message was in plain view, between two floorboards.’

  Michael snatched the note from him, read it quickly, then handed it to Bartholomew. It contained nothing other than the name Dympna and a series of numbers, just like the ones they had seen on the parchment in Gosslinge’s throat. These were one, thirteen and four, and the ink was pale enough to be all but invisible. The message still made no sense to the physician, although Quenhyth was right in that it indicated an association between the Waits and the benevolent moneylenders. Or perhaps they had gained possession of one of the messages sent to Norbert.

  ‘Being between the floorboards is not in plain view,’ said Bartholomew, passing it to Langelee.

  ‘It was in plain view to anyone conducting a thorough and meticulous search,’ said Quenhyth pedantically. ‘Well, what do you think? It is damning evidence, is it not?’

  Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him away, so they could speak without being overheard by Quenhyth. Langelee followed, raising an imperious finger at the student to tell him to stay where he was.

  ‘It is possible that the Waits applied for a loan from Dympna, and this message is Dympna’s response,’ said Michael. ‘It is obviously in some kind of code.’

  ‘The one we found inside Gosslinge was written with onion ink or some such thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It only became visible when warmed. I wonder why this is not the same.’

  ‘I was once fooled by that, too,’ said Langelee, who knew a lot about codes and secret messages from his days as a spy for the Archbishop of York. ‘I believed a message had been written invisibly, but it transpired some cheap inks just fade with extremes of temperature – as this has started to do. The recent weather has been very cold.’

  ‘So Gosslinge’s note was not written in secret ink?’ asked Michael, shooting Bartholomew a look that indicated he felt the physician had misled him.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Langelee. ‘Why write invisibly, if the message is meaningful only to the recipient? However, remember also that codes are only good if the recipient knows what they mean, otherwise there is no point in using them.’

  Bartholomew took the parchment, and thought about Langelee’s words: something that would be understood by each recipient. The fact that these possibly included Norbert, Gosslinge and the Waits meant it had to be something very simple. Suddenly, the whole thing was crystal clear.

  ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘I understand! One, thirteen and four.’

  ‘I can see that,’ snapped Michael testily. ‘The question is, what does it mean?’

  ‘There are three numbers here, just as there were three on the note we discovered in Gosslinge. And those numbers represent pounds, shillings and pence.’

  ‘Can it really be as basic as that?’ asked Michael, inspecting the parchment with renewed interest. ‘Someone makes an application, and Dympna responds by sending a note specifying the amount it is prepared to advance?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There is no reason to believe it is more complex. The Waits have asked for five nobles – one pound, thirteen shillings and fourpence. Or perhaps they have borrowed money, and this is the sum Dympna would like repaid.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael, nodding excited agreement. ‘The latter. Such a scheme would explain why Norbert received messages from Dympna with such frequency: he had borrowed money, and Dympna was issuing demands for its repayment, either in full or in part.’

  ‘But Norbert had not borrowed money,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Tulyet, Robin and Ailred all said his was not the kind of case they sponsor.’

  ‘Then perhaps Dympna’s members have not been acting together,’ suggested Michael. ‘It seems to me that one has been making loans without the knowledge of the others. We know Robin is not involved in financial decisions. Meanwhile, Kenyngham’s retirement has made him very absent-minded and Dick Tulyet is busy watching Sheriff Morice destroy everything he has worked to achieve. Neither of them will be watching Dympna very carefully at the moment.’

  ‘That leaves Ailred,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do not forget the chest was in his care until recently, so he was in a position to raid it without the others being any the wiser.’

  ‘And then he wrote messages to Norbert demanding it back,’ said Michael nodding. ‘And as long as Norbert was crippled by repayment obligations, he would remain at Ovyng, where his uncle would pay for his education.’

  ‘Did Norbert know the principal of his own hostel was a member of Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew. He answered his own question. ‘Of course he did not. Ailred would not have written notes if that were the case – he would just have asked Norbert for the money.’

  ‘Ailred was in a perfect position to demand reimbursement from Norbert,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He would have known exactly where and when to leave messages, and Norbert must have imagined Dympna had eyes everywhere. We know Norbert had debts – it was one of the first things I learned when I started to investigate his murder. He must have borrowed money from Dympna in an effort to repay some of them.’

  ‘But Norbert would have recognised Ailred when they met in St Michael’s,’ said Langelee reasonabl
y. ‘Even if Ailred wore a disguise, there would be small traits to betray him – his gait or his voice. He must have recruited someone else to help him.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I doubt Robin could be trusted with that sort of thing – and certainly not unless he was paid.’

  ‘Not Robin,’ determined Michael. ‘He would have blurted it out when we spoke to him earlier. And not Kenyngham or Tulyet, either, because we think Ailred has been acting without their knowledge in this matter. It is someone else. But who?’

  ‘Someone who lives here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It cannot be a stranger, like Harysone, because Ailred will not have known him long enough to establish any kind of trust.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, reluctant to admit that Harysone could be innocent of something. ‘But we have to remember the changes that have taken place in Dympna recently. Everyone says Norbert would not have been granted a loan, and yet it appears he had one. Similarly, it looks as if the Waits and Gosslinge also had them – and neither of those are worthy cases.’

  ‘The Waits,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes as something else occurred to him. ‘I knew their connections to so many aspects of this case were significant!’

  ‘The Waits are not Ailred’s accomplices,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘Why should a respectable principal throw in his lot with a band of jugglers?’

  ‘Because of Lincoln,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Remember how Frith first introduced himself? Frith of Lincoln. It is not unknown for folk to claim they come from large cities instead of small villages, thinking it increases their credibility, so Frith may well be a Fiscurtune man.’

  Michael was unconvinced. ‘That represents a huge leap in logic,’ he warned.