‘Turke did not have a hope wearing those skates,’ determined Harold, the proud expert. ‘They were not even tied properly.’
Michael had said that, Bartholomew recalled. But it had been decided that the inexpert tying of thongs was not significant, whereas in reality it had been a vital clue to the cruel game Frith and Ailred had played with Turke. They had offered him a chance, but had actually ensured he would never reach safety. And then they had deliberately let him freeze to death.
‘Why did you not mention this before?’ he asked.
Harold looked aggrieved. ‘I tried! Twice! But no one would listen to me. I was sent off to warm myself by the fire like a small child. No one would even let me speak.’
That was true, Bartholomew remembered. Harold had tried to say something, but Stanmore had noticed the boy’s blue hands, and had dispatched him home; his protectiveness had resulted in valuable information going untold. Another mistake had been made: Turke’s murder had been deemed an accident, because there had been no marks of violence on the body. They had assumed – wrongly – that no coercion had taken place.
‘Philippa was not here, too, was she?’ he asked, wondering whether Stanmore’s suspicions had been justified all along.
‘No,’ said the boy, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm in a sudden, painful pinch and pointed across the water. ‘The friar is slipping! You had better see if you can save him, before it is too late.’
Cynric stepped forward and tied a rope around Bartholomew’s waist, handing the other end to Michael, who wrapped it around his shoulders, like someone preparing to climb a mountain. The book-bearer gave Bartholomew a second length of twine, which he said he should throw to Ailred when he was close enough. The notion was that Ailred would either tie it around himself or hold it, and Michael would haul them both to safety. Bartholomew gazed at the ice with trepidation, not at all sure their plan would work.
* * *
Ailred had chosen the exact centre of the Mill Pool through which to crash, and was not easy to reach. Bartholomew had misgivings immediately, when he knelt on the planks and there was an ominous crack beneath him. He lay on his stomach, and began to inch his way along, trying to spread his weight over as wide an area as possible. Slowly, wincing at every groan and creak, he eased towards the friar.
‘We have been looking for you,’ he called, mostly to assess whether Ailred was still able to think rationally or whether the cold had deprived him of his wits.
‘I have been staying with Robin,’ replied Ailred softly. ‘For two pennies a day, he offers a blanket near his fire, the company of a pig and no questions asked.’
‘You lied to us,’ said Bartholomew, as he crawled. ‘And you made your students lie, too. Why did you say you were at Ovyng the night the church was broken into, when you were out?’
Ailred gave a gentle sigh. ‘Because I went to make a loan to Harysone at the King’s Head, and wanted to keep the matter quiet. After that I went to Dunstan the riverman. I waited until Matilde left, then slipped in to sit with him. He died in his sleep, quite peacefully, but I did not like to think of him waking to find himself alone in his last moments.’
‘Why did you not tell us that?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is not a crime to be kind to a dying man, and it would have saved us – and Godric – a good deal of worry.’
‘I did not want anyone to know what I did for Dunstan,’ said Ailred, ‘partly because folk would assume I had continued to use Dympna illegally after Kenyngham told me not to, and partly because I believe charity should be practised quietly, so it does not become an act performed for the giver’s sake. That was what Dympna was about – secret charity. I am sorry it entailed a lie, and I am sorry I distressed Godric by putting him in an awkward position.’
‘This explains why you kept your vigil with Dunstan a secret,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it does not explain why you refused to tell us about the business with Harysone.’
‘Kenyngham forbade me to make any more loans.’ Ailred grimaced in anguish. ‘But it was the only way I could think of to recoup the losses before Tulyet learned what I had done. I was at my wits’ end, and did not know what else to do.’
When Bartholomew was about two-thirds of the way across, he noticed that there was blood on the friar’s hands, torn as he had scrabbled at the sharp ice in order to stop himself from sinking. The wounds were in a criss-cross pattern that was curiously familiar, and Bartholomew realised he had seen such cuts elsewhere. Turke’s legs, he thought. The marks were identical, and must also have been caused by ice. He paused for a moment, thinking about other things he had learned. Harold had said Turke had wept when his killers had forced him to skate, saying he was terrified. The physician also recalled the extremes to which William had gone to avoid leaving the College while the worst storms raged, and realised the Franciscan was not the only one who had a morbid fear of ice: Turke had been afraid of it, too. The pilgrimage undertaken during the winter was more of an ordeal than anyone had realised.
‘Turke was frightened of ice,’ he said to himself. ‘He did not like the scars on his legs to be seen, because answering curious questions about them forced him to remember how they were caused. And that memory was painful for him.’
‘You have done well to reason that,’ said Ailred, nodding approval. ‘It was why I chose the river as a means to kill the man.’
‘You killed Turke?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Godric maintains that you are innocent, and will be disappointed when he learns he is wrong. We all thought Turke’s death was an accident.’
‘Godric will understand when he learns my reasons,’ said Ailred. ‘So you must tell him. Turke murdered Isabella, you see, during the plague.’
‘Isabella,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Turke’s first wife.’ Clues suddenly slotted together in his mind. Turke had married John Fiscurtune’s – and therefore Ailred’s – sister, and Philippa said she had died during the pestilence. Bartholomew had made the erroneous assumption that dying during the plague was the same as dying from the plague, which had apparently not been the case. ‘Why did Turke kill her?’
‘They both went skating on the Thames, to take their minds from the Death that raged in the city. The ice cracked.’ Ailred gave a grim smile and indicated his own predicament. ‘They were both left clinging to the edge of a hole.’
‘And Turke saved himself, but could not rescue her?’
‘He used her as a ladder to haul himself to safety,’ corrected Ailred. ‘John and I saw it all from a nearby bridge. Then he did nothing to help as she slowly lost her grip and was swept to a horrible death. That is how he came by his scarred legs. She gripped his feet in terror, but he kicked her off. As he did so, the ice cut into him. He was ashamed of those scars, and always avoided going near frozen water.’
‘So, that was why Turke and Fiscurtune were such bitter enemies, and why they did all they could to harm each other’s businesses. Turke did not kill Fiscurtune in a fit of sudden rage, but after years of seething resentment and guilt.’
‘Turke paid us for saying nothing,’ said Ailred bitterly. ‘He bought our silence. All I can claim in my defence is that all my share went straight to Ovyng.’
And the loss of Ailred’s ‘share’ after Turke’s death was another reason why Ovyng was so suddenly plunged into poverty, Bartholomew thought. It was not just the fees the Tulyets paid for Norbert that were gone, but the money Turke provided, too. Meanwhile, all Ovyng’s savings had been spent to help Dunstan.
‘I suppose, when you heard Turke killed your brother as well as your sister, you decided you had remained mute for long enough, and it was time to dispense justice,’ he said.
‘I knew John could be difficult, and I wanted to hear Turke’s side of the story. But Turke would only say the pilgrimage would wipe out all his debts – including the one owed to Isabella – and he would no longer pay to keep details of her death silent. I was angry that he felt he could
murder my sister and my brother, and treat me so harshly, yet still expect to become Lord Mayor.’
‘So, you killed him?’
Ailred coughed weakly. ‘I had not intended to. Frith and I saw him hurrying towards the Mill Pool one day and we followed him. He was looking for the knife that killed Norbert – he was quite open about the fact that he had murdered my student – and even offered Frith a shilling if he would risk his own life to hunt for it. We did not plan to kill him, but once he was here, at the Mill Pool, it seemed the right thing to do. I suppose Stanmore’s apprentice told you how Frith and I encouraged Turke to cross the river, and how we delayed taking him home when prompt action would have allowed him to live.’
‘You knew Harold was watching?’
‘I did; Frith did not. Frith dislikes loose ends, and I did not want the boy to come to harm.’
‘Unlike Turke,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You gave him cheap skates and did not even let him tie them correctly.’
‘It was more of a chance than he gave Isabella and John,’ snapped Ailred, anger giving his voice a strength that had not been there before. ‘Do not come any closer, Matthew. The ice is very thin near me. You will fall in and we shall both be swept to our deaths.’
‘I will throw you a rope. Tie it around yourself and we will drag you out.’ Bartholomew uncoiled the twine and hurled it as hard as he could, but it was short by the length of a man. He gathered it in, and began to inch forward again.
‘No!’ said Ailred, agitated. ‘Stay where you are. I do not want your death on my conscience, too.’
‘Why was Turke searching for the knife that killed Norbert?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if Ailred talked, he might calm down. The friar’s movements had caused more of the ice to crack, and it was becoming less safe with every passing moment.
‘Because it was evidence against him,’ said Ailred. ‘It was a dagger he had borrowed from his servant, and it would have led you to him as Norbert’s killer.’
‘So, Turke killed Norbert after all,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that he had dismissed the fishmonger as a suspect for the killing because there was no apparent motive for the wealthy merchant to slay the indolent student. ‘I thought it was Frith.’
Ailred’s voice was so soft it was difficult to hear. The physician inched forward a little more, and felt the ice begin to bend. He stopped in alarm.
‘I sent Norbert several notes in Dympna’s name,’ Ailred was saying. ‘I lied about that, too, I am afraid. Frith tried to force Norbert to pay me back, but it was Turke who murdered him. You should have known that; Turke was a natural killer. If you need evidence, look for bloodstains on his sleeve. His wife must have seen them, but perhaps she thought they were left from when he murdered John.’
‘But why did Turke kill Norbert?’ pressed Bartholomew, seeing the friar slip further into the water. He was weakening fast, and the physician saw he did not have much time left.
‘Turke would not give us the details, but I was under the impression that Norbert overheard him making some insalubrious business arrangement and threatened to blackmail him. So, Turke stabbed Norbert, then hit him with a rock. Poor Norbert did not deserve to die in such a manner, even though he was dissolute and selfish. Now do you see why I so badly wanted you to catch Norbert’s killer? The culprit was the one man in the world whom I truly despised.’
‘Frith had no hand in Norbert’s death?’
‘None.’
‘But it was Frith who pushed me and grabbed the salted fish?’
Ailred sighed. ‘I think so. I cannot prove it, but I think my nephew met Turke here, in the middle of the night, and begged him to continue the payments for my hostel. I think he probably witnessed the murder, which is why he denied any knowledge of it to you. He does not want to be charged as an accessory to such a crime.’
‘Did you really think you would get away with it?’ Bartholomew felt the ice stabilise and began to move forward once more. ‘Murdering Turke and Gosslinge?’
‘No one killed Gosslinge. He managed to acquire one of the notes we sent to Norbert. Norbert was careless, so I imagine he threw the message in the street, where Gosslinge picked it up. Gosslinge must have asked Turke to it read it to him, then decided to hide in St Michael’s Church to see what would happen. Those rotten albs are an excellent place to lurk unseen.’
‘How do you know all this? Were you there?’
Ailred nodded feebly. ‘Standing behind a pillar, so Norbert would not see me. But Frith and I discovered Gosslinge’s presence long before Norbert arrived. Gosslinge was a noisy breather and we heard him. Frith demanded the note back. Gosslinge claimed this was not the first time he had watched, and said he had already told Turke about my muddle with Dympna. He maintained it was one of the reasons why Turke had decided not to pay me any more – because he knew something bad about me, just as I knew about the vile death of Isabella.’
‘So, Gosslinge was spying for Turke,’ mused Bartholomew. He recalled Harysone mentioning that Gosslinge had smelled of mould. The pardoner had been right: the servant had spent more than one evening hiding among the decaying robes in order to watch clandestine meetings in St Michael’s.
‘Turke used Gosslinge for underhand acts,’ said Ailred. ‘It was why Gosslinge held such a unique position in his household. Turke did not like the man, but he was useful.’
‘Did Turke relieve him of his thumb?’
Ailred was surprised. ‘I understood he lost it to the King’s justices for stealing. But to go back to the church, Frith demanded the note from Gosslinge. Gosslinge looked him in the eye and ate it. Then he choked. We did our best, and Frith even broke one of the man’s teeth trying to pull the thing from his throat, but it was all to no avail. It was a horrible thing to watch.’ He closed his eyes.
Ailred’s account tallied with Frith’s, and explained why Gosslinge’s mouth was damaged. Gosslinge’s fingernail must have been torn in his death throes. Although bruised lips and broken teeth were usually indications that someone had been deliberately suffocated, in this case they had been the result of clumsy attempts to save him. Bartholomew was inclined to accept that Frith had been telling the truth after all – about this particular incident, at least. No one had killed Gosslinge.
‘What else did Frith tell you?’ Bartholomew could see that Ailred was beginning to lose consciousness, and sensed it would not be long before he relinquished his hold on the ice. And then there would be nothing anyone could do to save him. The friar had to be kept alert. ‘Come on, Father! Speak to me!’
‘Gosslinge was wearing his livery, but Frith said it was a pity to waste good clothes when such items are expensive. He took them, then replaced Gosslinge among the albs in exactly the same way in which we had found him. He hoped you would see what had really happened – that Gosslinge had choked on something he was trying to keep for himself, and that he had been spying. But you misunderstood and misdiagnosed everything.’
‘The change of clothes did not help,’ said Bartholomew defensively, hurling the rope. He did not want to hear again how he had failed everyone with his careless examination of Gosslinge. Ailred reached for the twine, but it was still too short. The ice under Bartholomew bowed more than ever, and he saw part of it disappear under the black water in front of him.
‘Go back,’ ordered Ailred. ‘I do not want to be rescued.’
‘You might have mentioned that before I started,’ said Bartholomew, throwing the rope again. This time, it reached the hole where Ailred floated. The friar did not touch it.
‘I want to die,’ he said quietly. ‘That was my intention when I began to skate on ice that I knew was too thin. I have spent the past few days meditating on all that has happened, and it seems fitting that I should die in the same way as Turke and my sister. I have gone too far along a dark road, and all I want to do is atone for my mistakes. I was confused when I came to the surface again and allowed my fear to deter me from the course I had chosen. Go back. You have done a
ll you can.’
‘I can save you,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Although I hate to admit it there is very little solid evidence against you, if you recant your confession to Turke’s murder.’
The friar gave a grim smile. ‘I know. And that is why you will allow my nephew and his friends to go free. But I do not want to live. I was a good man, but I do not like what I have become. So, go away, and leave me in peace.’
‘But I can almost reach you,’ objected Bartholomew, starting to move forward again.
The friar gave a smile that was unreadable, before lifting his arms above his head. The current immediately snatched him and his head disappeared from view. Bartholomew glimpsed his face, distorted with anguish, as it passed under the transparent ice below, and thumped the surface hard with his fists, trying to smash it and grab the man. But the current was too strong, and Ailred was gone.
Within moments, Bartholomew realised that striking the ice with such force had not been a wise thing to do. It started to crack, tiny zigzags spreading around him in all directions with a noise like close thunder. The planks on which he lay were suddenly on the move, and Bartholomew saw the black water of Ailred’s hole rushing towards him. He was certain he was about to suffer the same fate as the friar, but the shocking cold never came. He felt hands hauling him to safety, and realised Cynric and Michael had tugged the wood free, with him on it. For a long time, he stared at the opaque surface of the Mill Pool, hoping that Ailred was not still struggling underneath it.
* * *
‘You and Ailred had a lot to say to each other,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands vigorously as he watched people disperse from the Mill Pool now that the excitement was over. The physician supposed he should feel satisfied – he finally had answers to the questions that had plagued him since Norbert had been murdered – but instead he felt tainted, as though he had uncovered secrets that should have been left undisturbed.
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 46
