‘It is not difficult,’ said Michael, holding out his cup to be refilled. Langelee stood to oblige him. ‘First, a man named John Fiscurtune was murdered by Turke. Turke bought himself a pardon, and no more was said on the matter.’
‘That is odd in itself,’ said Langelee, frowning. ‘Someone must have objected to a murder.’
‘Someone did,’ said Michael. ‘Fiscurtune’s kinsmen: his brother Ailred and his nephew Frith. Meanwhile, Turke knew he needed to atone publicly for the crime – which otherwise might prevent him from becoming Lord Mayor of London – by undertaking a pilgrimage.’
‘Frith lived in Chepe, where his Uncle John Fiscurtune secured him plenty of business,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have been hard to watch Turke enjoy his freedom, while Frith and his friends began to lose their custom. I imagine his hatred festered and he began to plot a murder of his own. But Turke was wealthy and it is not easy to attack such a man in a well-populated city. It was only when Turke announced his pilgrimage that Frith saw his opportunity.’
‘The Waits are thieves,’ said Suttone, holding out his goblet for Langelee to fill. He had listened carefully the first time Michael had told his story, and understood the twists and turns well enough to explain them to the slower-witted Langelee. ‘They played in the homes of wealthy merchants in Chepe – thanks to Fiscurtune – and stole small things that would not be missed. These were passed to a third party to sell – Fiscurtune himself, I imagine. As time passed, wise investment and a steady trickle of pennies amassed them a fortune.’
‘Never mind what they did in London,’ said Langelee. ‘I am interested in what they did here.’
‘The same thing,’ said Suttone, annoyed by Langelee’s dismissal of his information. ‘They stole things like inkpots, salt dishes and knives – along with gold from the King’s Head.’
‘The pilgrimage,’ prompted Langelee, looking at Michael for an explanation. ‘What happened when Turke decided to undertake the pilgrimage?’
‘When Turke and his household arrived in Cambridge, Frith was hot on their heels. It must have been a shock for Turke to see him here.’
‘He knew Frith was Fiscurtune’s kinsman?’ asked Langelee.
‘Of course,’ replied Michael, shooting the Master a glance that indicated he thought Langelee was being very slow on the uptake. ‘Frith’s mother was Fiscurtune’s sister, Isabella. And Isabella was Turke’s first wife. Turke did more than know Frith and Fiscurtune were kin: Turke was Frith’s stepfather, so of course they knew each other.’
‘The fact that Turke and Frith were related by marriage explains the odd reactions of Turke, Philippa and Giles when the Waits performed at Michaelhouse on Christmas Day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Philippa refused to acknowledge them, and Giles immediately left the room – twice – when they appeared. Meanwhile, Frith jostled Turke – quite deliberately, I think – and made him spill his wine, but although Turke was furious at the insult, he did not make the sort of fuss I would have expected from a wealthy merchant doused in claret by an unrepentant juggler.’
Langelee still did not understand, so Bartholomew elaborated further. ‘Frith had a hold over Turke. Meanwhile, Philippa was a loyal wife, and did not reveal Turke’s nasty secrets even after his death, and Giles was just upset because he thought the Waits’ presence would distress the sister he loves. They all had their own reasons for their individual reactions.’
‘Gosslinge and Abigny were both seen talking to the Waits,’ added Michael. ‘Doubtless they were trying to find out what Frith had in mind. I think Frith intended to kill Turke, but Turke died before he could act.’
‘Meanwhile, Ailred had been using his position as “keeper” of Dympna to make illegal loans,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Among others, he made one to Norbert about a month ago, and another to Harysone last week. Kenyngham noticed the losses, and demanded that Ailred should hand the chest to him. He set a time limit for the money to be replaced.’
‘Next week,’ said Kenyngham in a soft voice. ‘We plan to use a large part of it to rebuild the hovels opposite St John’s Hospital.’
‘Ailred made the loan to Harysone last Wednesday,’ said Michael. ‘I know he did not lend his own money, because by then he had spent it all on supplies for Dunstan; and we know he did not use Dympna, because you had already taken it from him. So, we do not know how he came by two pounds to lend the pardoner.’
‘I can explain that,’ said Kenyngham tiredly. ‘Ailred said he had devised a way of retrieving two nobles, but said he needed six to bring it about.’
‘The loan to Harysone,’ said Michael.
‘I suspected that was the kind of thing he had in mind,’ Kenyngham continued, ‘and I was loath to give him the money. But he was so desperate to make amends for his earlier mistakes that I did not have the heart to refuse him.’
‘You should have done,’ said Michael. ‘I doubt Harysone had any intention of giving Ailred two nobles in interest.’
‘You cannot know that, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Harysone was guilty of nothing except borrowing money. He was just a pardoner, who had the misfortune to arrive in Cambridge the same time as Turke and Frith, and who happened to have an interest in fish. He will talk to virtually anyone to sell a book, which explains why he was seen with Frith and Gosslinge, but it meant nothing significant. He was not the criminal you imagined.’
‘Norbert was unable to repay Ailred, because he had already squandered his loan,’ said Michael, electing to explain a different aspect of the tale, since he did not want to acknowledge he had been mistaken about the pardoner. ‘Frith or Ailred – probably Frith – killed him after the several summons they issued failed to bring back the money.’
‘But Frith said Turke killed Norbert,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I heard him myself.’
‘He was lying, Father,’ said Michael patiently. ‘Turke had no reason to stab a student he did not know. Matt thought Turke was looking for the murder weapon when he went skating on the Mill Pool, but he is wrong, too.’
‘I know that,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘As you said, Turke had no reason to harm Norbert. It must have been Frith who killed him.’
‘Quite,’ said Michael, satisfied. ‘But let me continue with my story. After Frith murdered Norbert, he devised a plan that would see Ailred relieved of the Dympna problem once and for all. It would also allow him to repay Michaelhouse for what he considered shabby treatment.’
‘He planned to burn the College with Kenyngham in it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That would protect Ailred – who was doubtless unaware his nephew’s plan extended to murder – and would be a neat end to the adventure.’
‘But we thwarted it,’ said Langelee, pleased. ‘The College is still here, and Dympna is in the possession of a man who will use it justly and wisely. I do not want the thing in Michaelhouse, though, Father. When do you propose to remove it?’
‘It has already gone,’ replied Kenyngham. ‘I am shocked by Ailred’s role in this. We worked together for years, until the sheen of gold seduced him. Gold is a curse, not a blessing.’
‘I hope you have not hidden it under any more floorboards,’ said William accusingly, glancing at his leg, newly relieved of its splint.
Kenyngham smiled. ‘I have forgotten the skills I once had with nails and wood, but I did not make a total mess of it. You all looked at the boards, but none of you realised I had created a storage hole below them. I did better than you give me credit for.’
‘So, Frith killed Norbert,’ mused Langelee, still thinking about the deaths that had occurred so close to his college. ‘And Turke just had an accident while messing around on the Mill Pool. What did you decide about Gosslinge?’
‘He choked on a piece of vellum,’ replied Michael. ‘This was marked with Dympna’s name and a sum of money, and was sent to Norbert the night he died. I think what happened was this. Norbert went to the church and told Frith he could not pay him. Meanwhile, Gosslinge had either found the note or overheard the interchang
e between Norbert and Frith. He was caught watching, and Frith – or it could have been Ailred, I suppose – rammed the vellum down his throat and suffocated him. Then Frith stole Gosslinge’s fine clothes and hid his body among the albs, where it was found by us two days later.’
‘But Frith denies killing anyone,’ said Bartholomew, thinking there were still questions unanswered about the whole affair, such as why Philippa wandered around the town wearing Abigny’s cloak and why Turke carried Gosslinge’s finger and claimed it was St Zeno’s.
Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? But do not cast shadows over our achievements, Matt. I want to bask in our success, and enjoy the fact that we have culprits for Dick Tulyet.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed William suddenly, stooping to retrieve something from the floor near the conclave door. With amusement, Bartholomew saw it was part of the marchpane Madonna Deynman had presented at his first feast as Lord of Misrule. Because the floors had not been cleaned, the piece had remained hidden among the rushes after Michael had flung it from him in disgust when he realised it was made from salt. ‘What is this?’
No one liked to answer. The sculpted head had not fared well from its time in the rushes: it had been trampled and its face was distorted, and the hairs of the tonsure had slipped and were in a lopsided beard. However, Bartholomew thought it was still recognisable as William, and judging from the expressions of mirth on the other Fellows’ faces, so did they.
‘Marchpane,’ replied Langelee nonchalantly, struggling not to laugh. ‘It was one of Deynman’s jests. Do not eat it: it is salty.’
‘I am not in the habit of devouring scraps retrieved from the floor, Master,’ said William indignantly. He turned it over in his hand. ‘It seems familiar, although I do not know why. It is as if it is wearing a disguise, and the face is just beyond the reaches of my memory.’
‘It is a good thing he does not spend much time in front of a mirror,’ whispered Michael gleefully. ‘Or his memory might be more reliable. It still looks like him, even though it is crushed.’
‘It is the hair around the tonsure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is his most notable feature, and the thing I always imagine when his face appears in my mind.’
‘I try to avoid that,’ said Michael. ‘I would rather dwell on more pleasant images. Like Matilde. Or Yolande de Blaston. I tend not to contemplate the faces of men.’
‘I did not say I was swooning over him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And my point remains: most people have a distinctive feature that makes them unique. Take Suttone’s big hands, Clippesby’s mad eyes, Wynewyk’s nose and William’s hair as examples. This single feature can often be so distinctive that it masks all others. For example, do you know the colour of William’s eyes?’
‘Blue,’ said Michael immediately. ‘No, brown.’ He sighed. ‘I have no idea.’
‘That is because you see the tonsure,’ said Bartholomew, satisfied that he had proved his point. He was about to add more, but the door opened and Cynric entered.
‘I think you had better come,’ said the Welshman. ‘Ailred has been found.’
CHAPTER 12
FROM THE TONE OF CYNRIC’S VOICE, BARTHOLOMEW ASSUMED that Ailred was dead. The book-bearer would say nothing more, and Bartholomew and Michael hurried after him as he led the way. Everywhere, Cambridge dripped. Snow still dropped from roofs, gables and trees, while melting icicles added a new peril as they plummeted like lethal daggers to the ground below. Bartholomew had already attended two nasty accidents that week, and hoped the thaw would soon be over. He wondered if Ailred had died because an icicle had fallen and pierced his skull. He sensed it was only a matter of time before someone did.
But Ailred was not dead. He had fallen through the sheet of ice that covered the Mill Pool near the Small Bridges, and a head and two clawing hands were all that could be seen of him. The ice was grey-white near the centre of the pond, indicating that it was rotten, and Bartholomew could not imagine what had induced the friar to venture out so far on to a surface that was patently unsafe. Ailred was making a valiant effort to stay afloat, but the ice was thin enough for Bartholomew to see the current running swift and strong underneath it, made more powerful by the melted snow that had flooded the river. He knew that the friar would be swept away if he relinquished his tenuous hold even for a moment.
‘What happened?’ asked Michael, horrified when he saw Ailred’s predicament. A crowd of people had gathered, some to help and some to watch. Three of Stanmore’s apprentices were tying together a number of planks, so that they could be used to crawl across the treacherous surface and reach the stricken man. Bartholomew sensed they did not have much time. Ailred’s strength was being leached away by the cold water and the effort of clinging to the broken edges, and it would not be long before his frozen fingers failed him.
Godric was in the crowd, and hurried forward when he saw Michael. ‘We cannot believe he is guilty of the crimes you have charged him with.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘We know he is not a murderer, despite developing an uncharacteristic interest in riches over the last few weeks.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Michael kindly, squeezing his arm comfortingly, although Bartholomew was not so sure Ailred was the innocent Godric believed him to be. ‘Has he become more interested in money recently?’
Godric nodded miserably. ‘None of us understood it, because it was so unlike him. It was as if he had been seduced by something that had tainted him.’
Kenyngham had said the same thing, Bartholomew recalled. Access to large amounts of treasure brought a degree of power – the power to grant and refuse people things they craved. Perhaps it was that, rather than the gold itself, that had corrupted Ailred.
‘What was he doing here?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he return to Ovyng first?’
‘We have not seen him since he fled from you,’ said Godric. ‘But I was going to collect flour from the mill a short time ago, and I happened to glance over the bridge. Ailred was there, skating round and round in the centre of the pool. I shouted the ice was too thin, but he ignored me, or did not hear. Then there was a crack and he went down. He has been hanging there ever since.’
Bartholomew clambered over the bridge and slid down the river bank to join Stanmore’s apprentices, who were still working feverishly on their makeshift ladder.
‘It is almost finished,’ said the freckle-faced youngster called Harold. He sat back to assess his handiwork, and exchanged a nervous grimace with his fellows, to indicate it was not all they could have hoped for. He glanced up at Bartholomew. ‘Are you ready? We will hold this end and haul it back again when the ice starts to crack.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘You think I am going?’
Harold was surprised by the question. ‘Cynric said you would; it was why he fetched you. He says the friar may need medical attention, and that it would be dangerous to tug him out of the water any old way. He thinks Turke died because inexperienced hands snatched him clear, and we should not let the same thing happen to Father Ailred.’
Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows at his book-bearer.
Cynric was unabashed. ‘Turke might have lived if a physician had been on hand sooner. You said so yourself. Do not fret, boy. I will tie a rope around you and will not let you sink.’
‘This is very ironic,’ said Harold, squinting across the bright ice towards the trapped scholar. ‘Father Ailred was among the folk who rescued Turke from this very spot the day after Christmas.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Ailred was not here when I came to examine Turke.’
‘It was Ailred who ordered us to let Turke rest before summoning other help,’ said Harold. ‘Or was it his friend – that Chepe Wait? Anyway, they both agreed we should wait until the ice formed on Turke’s clothes.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.
‘Of course,’ said Harold scornfully. ‘Well
, I am not certain exactly who said what, but I know they told us it is best to let a man freeze after a dip in cold water. They said it is something to do with slowing the blood and preventing the heart from exploding.’
‘Who else was here, besides Ailred and Frith – the Wait?’ asked Bartholomew, his own heart pounding as he considered the implications of the boy’s statements. It sounded as though Turke had been deliberately allowed to freeze to death, and a physician summoned only when it was certain that nothing could be done to save him.
‘Just us,’ said Harold, indicating himself and two other boys. ‘When Frith and Ailred eventually decided that Turke might benefit from your services, they sent us to fetch Cynric.’
‘And all this took time,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I arrived, Turke was beyond saving.’
Harold exchanged a frightened glance with his friends. ‘You mean they were wrong, and we should have fetched you immediately? But I thought they were trying to help Turke.’
‘They were not,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘Quite the reverse. By waiting until his wet clothes turned to ice, they ensured he died. He was murdered, after all.’
‘They forced him to skate,’ said Harold miserably. ‘He said he did not want to, because the ice was too thin. But they promised him that if he could reach the other side of the Mill Pool, then he would be free of them for ever. We thought they were playing games, like we do – you know, daring each other to do dangerous things. Except that Turke was crying, because he said he was afraid.’
‘Did Frith or Ailred see you watching them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Harold gave the ghost of a smile. ‘We were hiding under the bridge, because it is sheltered from the wind. They did not see us until we came to help – after Turke fell in.’
‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that the apprentices might well have been forced to do some skating on thin ice themselves had Ailred and Frith known their murderous fun had been observed. He stared at the floundering figure in the distance, and thought about what Ailred had forced Turke to do. ‘It looks as if he offered Turke a chance of life – saying that if he reached the other side, he would be free of their vengeance.’
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