Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘You make it sound altruistic,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Be honest. You wanted to kill Turke because Fiscurtune’s death meant there was no one to recommend you to wealthy merchants.’

  ‘But Frith did not kill Turke,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘Turke fell through the ice while skating. The whole town knows his death was an accident.’

  ‘Uncle John’s son – my cousin – is not interested in avenging his father,’ said Frith bitterly, ignoring the friar. ‘He will spare a few pennies for a requiem mass, but that will be all.’

  ‘I thought Fiscurtune’s son had drowned himself,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a story Quenhyth had spun.

  ‘His rescuers should have let him die when he hurled himself into the Thames,’ said Frith, turning angrily on him. ‘Uncle John deserved better than that ungrateful wretch – he should have been disowned and I made heir in his place. I would have made Uncle John proud.’

  ‘By playing the pipe and tabor?’ asked Michael archly. ‘However, although you may not have killed Turke, two other men have died in suspicious circumstances: Norbert and Gosslinge are connected to the chain of events that led you to help Ailred collect his lost pledges.’

  ‘We had nothing to do with either of them,’ said Jestyn furiously. He turned accusingly to Frith. ‘You see? I told you they would blame us if we became involved in the mess your uncle created with his box of gold. Now they think we have committed murder!’

  ‘Well, we did not,’ said Frith shortly. Bartholomew found his denial unconvincing and, judging by the uncomfortable expressions on the faces of Jestyn and Makejoy, so did they. ‘This is all Turke’s fault. If he had kept control of his temper, Uncle John would still be alive and we would be enjoying a continuation of our success in Chepe.’

  ‘We should not be here,’ agreed Jestyn. He glanced around him disparagingly. ‘I do not like these religious institutions. They are full of fanatics and lunatics. We are not safe.’

  ‘We would have managed in Chepe without Fiscurtune, Frith,’ said Makejoy, bitterly. ‘But Jestyn is right: we should not have come and we should stay here no longer. I want to leave now.’

  ‘In a moment,’ said Frith, indicating Yna with a nod of his head and giving Makejoy a meaningful look. Yna was still unsteady on her feet, and Frith wanted to give her more time to recover before making what would probably be a dramatic escape.

  ‘What was Fiscurtune like?’ asked Bartholomew, taking advantage of the fact that the Waits were predisposed to talk. It occurred to him that the Fiscurtune described by Tulyet, Giles and Philippa did not seem the kind of character to inspire others to great loyalty. ‘You were ready to avenge him, and yet others claim he was … less worthy.’

  ‘I suppose you spoke to Abigny and Turke’s wife,’ said Frith with a sneer. ‘Of course they would not like Uncle John. He could be rude, and the early loss of his teeth did not improve his looks. But, nevertheless, he was hurt when Philippa rejected him as a suitor.’

  ‘Turke and Fiscurtune were both courting her,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Philippa had chosen Turke on the basis of his roofed latrine.

  ‘My uncle was better off without her,’ declared Frith vehemently. ‘Later, he invented a new method for salting fish, but Turke would not give him permission to develop it, despite the fact that it would have made the finished product cheaper to buy. My uncle was an imaginative man.’

  ‘So, you travelled to Cambridge after his murder, where you met Ailred and agreed to do two things,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘First, you would ensure that Turke never finished his pilgrimage; and second, you offered to help Ailred extricate himself from the mess he had created with Dympna. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, depending on your point of view – Turke died naturally before you could do anything about the first. But you have been very active as regards the second.’

  Frith looked away. ‘Ailred is not dishonest, just weak. I think he enjoyed the power to make people’s wishes come true. He is just a man who cannot say no – even to someone like Norbert.’

  ‘But he – with your help – intends to do something dishonest now,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Once Dympna has gone, it will never help needy souls again.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Frith. ‘But its disappearance also means that the amount outstanding from Ailred’s bad loans will be irrelevant, and he will be free from the whole nasty mess.’

  Makejoy cleared her throat noisily, giving Frith the kind of look that indicated she thought he was making a grave mistake by telling the scholars all their secrets. Bartholomew felt his hopes rise. Makejoy would not be concerned about such matters if she believed the encounter would end with their deaths. Meanwhile, Yna was recovering fast.

  ‘Is that why you killed Norbert?’ asked Michael. ‘Because he did not pay what he owed?’

  ‘We have killed no one!’ shouted Jestyn, becoming distressed by the repeated accusations. ‘We occasionally relieve folk of baubles, but we have not committed murder!’

  ‘Baubles like our salt dish and Wynewyk’s inkpot?’ asked Michael. ‘And Ulfrid’s knife, which led me to wonder whether he had stabbed Harysone? And Quenhyth’s scrip?’

  ‘We would not touch anything of Quenhyth’s,’ said Makejoy in distaste. ‘He hates us, because we made him look foolish over the “theft” of a chalice. He blamed us, but it later transpired that his father had sold the cup in order to pay for the wedding we were hired to perform at. He had not wanted anyone to know he was short of funds, and was furious when his son drew attention to his missing silver. It created a breach between them that has never healed.’

  Bartholomew noted Makejoy had only denied stealing the scrip, and assumed they had indeed taken the other items. ‘You took Gosslinge’s clothes,’ he said, thinking their light fingers probably explained other mysteries, too.

  ‘He did not need them,’ replied Frith. ‘And I did not see why we should leave them for Turke to reclaim.’ He spat into the rushes on the floor.

  ‘If it was not you,’ said Michael, ‘then who killed Norbert?’

  ‘Turke,’ said Frith flatly. ‘He was the sort of man who enjoyed taking the lives of the innocent – as poor Uncle John could tell you.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’ asked Bartholomew. He had suggested this particular solution earlier, but had discounted the possibility because he could not think of a plausible motive.

  Frith sneered, in a way that suggested he could not.

  ‘Gosslinge, then,’ said Michael. ‘Did you kill him by stuffing vellum into his throat?’

  ‘We did not!’ denied Jestyn hotly, the knife even more unsteady in his sweating hand. ‘What kind of folk do you think we are? We have killed no one!’

  ‘We have not,’ agreed Frith. ‘Indeed, I even tried to save Gosslinge when he started to choke, but the vellum was lodged too deeply inside him. It later occurred to me that his corpse was being kept above ground for an unnaturally long period of time, and I thought the physician here might be planning to dissect him for some anatomy lesson. I was afraid he might find the vellum, and associate Gosslinge with Uncle Ailred and Dympna …’

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘So you were the intruders in St Michael’s Church that night.’

  ‘But we did not do anything,’ said Jestyn in a voice that shook with tension. ‘Those priests arrived before we could have a proper look for the thing, and as soon as they left we heard a commotion outside. We saw we were going to have no peace, so we escaped while we could.’

  ‘I searched your room the night that blizzard raged,’ said Frith to Bartholomew, gloating at the appalled expression on the physician’s face when he realised that he had slept through the invasion. ‘But when I saw what had become of the vellum after a week in a corpse, I could not bring myself to touch it. However, I was fairly certain that nothing would be legible, anyway.’

  ‘But we killed no one,’ said Jestyn, returning to a theme that was clearly important to him. He stepped forward and brandished his knif
e in a way that made Bartholomew think it would not be long before the juggler claimed his first victim. ‘No one.’

  ‘I shall make my own mind up about that,’ said Michael, disdainfully watching the knife that quivered in the man’s hand. Bartholomew nudged him, sensing Jestyn was near the end of his tether. As long as the Wait was brandishing a weapon, he did not think it was wise to aggravate him.

  ‘Then let us return to Turke,’ said Michael, the tone of his voice making it clear that he still had the entertainers marked as responsible for the death of both Norbert and Gosslinge. He looked at them one by one. ‘Did you force him on to the ice against his will?’

  ‘We were not there,’ said Makejoy, casting another uneasy glance at Frith, as though she was not sure that was true of him.

  ‘No one killed Turke,’ said Frith firmly. ‘I would have knifed him, as he killed my uncle, to let him see his life blood drain away and know that there was nothing he could do to save himself. And Ailred did not do it, either, before you think to abuse his good name.’

  ‘If you divide Dympna between you – I assume you plan to share with Ailred – how will he explain his sudden riches?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it will raise questions, especially so soon after the mysterious disappearance of a large sum of money from his keeping?’

  He saw Frith look at Makejoy, asking silently whether Yna was sufficiently recovered. He obviously wanted her alert and mobile, so they could leave and put an end to the uncomfortable inquisition. Makejoy examined Yna, then indicated that more time was needed.

  ‘He can say it is a legacy from a kinsman,’ said Frith. He grimaced. ‘Perhaps even from his brother, John. That would be an ironic twist to the tale, would it not? Besides, no one will be looking at Ailred’s finances when all attention is fixed on Michaelhouse. Fires are always breaking out in the winter, when the weather is cold and people are careless with their hearths. The one that starts here today will give people enough to talk about.’

  ‘But you said if I gave you the chest you would leave with no violence,’ objected Kenyngham.

  ‘I never intended you to live,’ said Frith coldly. ‘I love my uncle, and I do not want you alive to denounce him as a thief. It would break his heart.’

  ‘So will being an accessory to murder,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I do not know about this, Frith,’ said Makejoy uneasily, exchanging an agitated glance with Jestyn. ‘It is not what we agreed …’

  ‘We cannot back down now, unless you want to hang,’ said Frith, silencing her with a look. ‘This is our only way out. If you leave these men alive they will set Sheriff Morice after us and we will all die.’

  ‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew desperately. ‘No one need—’

  ‘I have made up my mind,’ interrupted Frith. ‘I will not leave you scholars in a position to harm us. Uncle Ailred will assume the fire started by accident, just like everyone else and will never know your deaths were a deliberate act.’

  ‘But other people share our suspicions,’ argued Michael untruthfully. ‘We are not the only ones who know about Ailred’s abuses of Dympna and your role in the affair.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Frith, furiously. He approached Michael with menace in his eyes, fingering his knife. He drew back his arm, and with horror Bartholomew saw he intended to stab the monk there and then, perhaps in the hope of frightening the others into telling him what he wanted to know.

  The physician cast around desperately, looking for something – anything – he could use as a weapon. Frith stood over Michael and assessed the monk coldly, as if deciding which part he should pierce first. With mounting panic, Bartholomew saw there was nothing available, that he would be obliged to watch while his friend was butchered. Then his frantic gaze fell on the open box of coins at his side. He dropped his hand and snatched up as many as he could hold, then flung them as hard as he could in Frith’s face.

  As the sharp edges cut into him, Frith howled in pain and Jestyn sprang forward with his dagger poised to strike. Jestyn was agitated, fearful that Frith’s plan would see him hanged even if they did manage to escape with the gold, and Bartholomew saw again that he was irrational enough to kill all three scholars just because he did not know what else to do. The physician braced himself as Jestyn lurched forward, ready to fight back if he could.

  With cool aplomb, Kenyngham thrust out a foot and Jestyn stumbled into Michael. The monk gave the Wait a hefty shove that sent him sprawling into the two women. With shrieks of pain and outrage, Makejoy and Yna were bowled to the ground for a second time that day.

  Bartholomew leapt to his feet and flung more coins at Frith, wondering how long he, Michael and the elderly friar could hold off strong, armed men like the Waits. He yelled for Langelee, shouting even more loudly when he saw the two women – Yna was now fully recovered – draw small, nasty-looking knives of their own. He lobbed more coins in their direction, then backed away in alarm as Frith uttered a howl of fury and advanced on the physician with his dagger stretched in front of him and his left hand raised to protect his bleeding face from further injury.

  There was a loud thump at the door and everyone jumped in alarm. Even Frith stopped in his tracks. Then there was a crash, and the blade of an axe could be seen glinting through the wood before it was torn out again. Langelee was coming to rescue his colleagues.

  Frith glanced at Jestyn, and Bartholomew saw them reach an unspoken understanding. Not wanting to find out what it entailed, he went on the offensive. He lunged for Jestyn but missed, and the burly Wait raced past and hurled himself at one of the tall windows. Glass flew in all directions as he hurtled through, leaving a jagged hole behind him. Frith followed, lumbering like an ox, while the women were more agile as they disappeared. Bartholomew darted forward, half expecting to see them lying with broken bones on the ground below. But all were up and running, and heading for the open gate.

  ‘Catch them!’ he yelled to Quenhyth, who was gaping stupidly at the spectacle. ‘Do not let them escape!’

  But even the Waits’ mediocre skill in somersaults and tumbles made them adept at avoiding Quenhyth’s clumsy lunges. They jigged past him, and he only succeeded in snatching thin air. Bartholomew watched helplessly as they reached the gate and Frith turned to make a defiant and abusive gesture. Makejoy was fumbling with the latch, and Bartholomew saw she would have it open long before Quenhyth could stop them.

  The Waits, however, had not taken Michaelhouse’s stalwart Fellows into account. Alerted by Bartholomew’s shouts and the sound of smashing glass, they emerged from the porters’ lodge, where they had evidently been given gate duties by the Lord of Misrule. William was wielding a crutch like a madman, while Clippesby had grabbed a poker from the fire. Its end glowed red hot, and the Waits backed away in alarm. Wynewyk was waving the sword the porters kept for emergencies in a way that suggested that although he was not competent with it, he could still do a lot of damage. Suttone, while declining to go too near the affray lest he come to personal harm, lobbed logs at the escaping entertainers.

  The Waits did not stand much chance once the Fellows had sprung into action. Makejoy dropped shrieking to the ground as a log caught her a nasty blow on one knee. Jestyn abandoned his knife in order to smother the flames that started to lick up his tunic, then surrendered to Clippesby when he saw the friar was prepared to set him alight again. Wynewyk had Yna backed up against a wall, and she was covering her head with her hands as the wavering blade threatened to scalp her. And, as for Frith, there was a sharp crack as a crutch met a head, and he crumpled into an insensible heap on the snowy ground.

  The following morning, Bartholomew sat in William’s room, explaining to the bemused Franciscan Thomas Bradwardine’s theory about the relationship between moving power and resistance. It was a difficult text, full of mathematical statements and axioms, all leading to calculations showing the variations in velocity that occurred when the original ratios of moving force and resistance were less than, more than or equal to
the proportio dupla, which was two-to-one. Despite its complexity, the physician regarded it as exciting scholarship, and tried hard to simplify it for William, so they could debate it together.

  ‘Heresy,’ muttered William darkly, before Bartholomew had reached the end of his analysis of the second of Bradwardine’s twelve conclusions. ‘You do not need to know ratios in order to apply force or resist something.’

  ‘That is not the point,’ said Bartholomew, frustrated. ‘Bradwardine is explaining moving power and resistance in mathematical terms – to define them as universal laws.’

  ‘Only God makes universal laws,’ said William firmly. ‘It is not for men from Oxford to try to do it.’ So much contempt dripped from his voice when the name of the Other University was mentioned that Bartholomew decided he had better find someone else to debate with. His eyes lit up when there was a perfunctory knock at the door and Michael entered.

  ‘Good,’ he said, pleased. The monk had a sharp mind, and was easily the best Fellow to engage in a discussion about natural philosophy. The others tended to dismiss physics and mathematics as secular – and therefore inferior – subjects. ‘Let me read you Bradwardine’s refutation of Aristotle’s theorem pertaining to the second opinion—’

  ‘When will Matthew’s own room be available?’ interrupted William rudely. ‘I do not think I can take much more of this velocity business. I should have offered him a copy of Thomas Sutton’s De pluralitate formarum instead. That is a religious commentary, and would have kept him away from all this nonsense involving resistance.’

  ‘You gave him a book?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Why did you do that?’

  William blanched, rubbing the still-splinted leg in agitation. He began to prevaricate, clearing his throat and coughing, while he tried to invent a reason for the gift that Michael would accept. He certainly did not want the Senior Proctor to know he had been malingering.