He gave Michael a terse summary of the friar’s confession, adding that Turke had probably stabbed Norbert in a fit of outraged indignation. It was not the first time the fishmonger had vented his temper by using a knife on a man who had offended him. It also made sense that he had braved the ice he so feared in order to hunt for the weapon that would link his household to the crime – it was a desperate act of self-preservation.
‘Why did he choose that particular day to conduct his search?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Why not sooner? Or later?’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘Think about what transpired when he identified Gosslinge’s body. The matter of the missing knife was raised. Giles told us that Gosslinge had a dagger that was too large for him. We made the assumption that it was stolen with Gosslinge’s clothes. Then Turke gave us the relic to pay for a requiem, and we discussed St Zeno and fishermen.’
‘Giles said the relic would do Michaelhouse no good as long as the river was frozen,’ recalled Michael, ‘because anglers would not be able to break through the ice to reach the fish. Turke then mentioned a dislike of ice.’
‘Exactly. Giles also said he had thrown a stone on the river, and it had skittered across the surface. I think Turke realised then that the knife he had used on Norbert might have suffered a similar fate – it was not in the water, but on it. He searched for it that very day, perhaps obliged to wait until the Mill Pool was suitably deserted, but knowing it would only be a matter of time before someone recovered the murder weapon. And, if you recall, he said we should not bother to look for Gosslinge’s knife – only his valuable clothes.’
‘Because he did not want us to find the thing at all,’ concluded Michael, nodding. ‘A cold killer indeed. Poor Ailred! How hard it must have been to meet the man who had murdered both his siblings, and see he felt no remorse. Turke’s pilgrimage was not to atone for their deaths, but to make sure he was eligible to be elected Lord Mayor of London.’
‘There is no evidence to convict Frith of killing Turke. Morice cannot charge him with the murder, because we only have Ailred’s confession to go on, and Ailred is dead.’
‘True, but Frith was about to incinerate Michaelhouse,’ said Michael grimly. ‘He and his accomplices will not go free.’
‘They might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much do you think Morice demands from would-be arsonists for an early release?’
‘More than Frith has,’ determined Michael firmly. ‘If Morice does release them, he will be in for a bitter dispute with the University. He will not want that.’
‘Tulyet would not want that,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Morice does not care. And there is a lot you can do with the kind of bribe it would take to free four people from such serious charges.’
‘Look, Matt,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing the physician’s arm and pointing. ‘It is Philippa, and she is heading in the direction of the Gilbertine Friary. She is going to meet her lover, just as Clippesby told us she would.’
‘How do you know it is her?’ asked Bartholomew, eyeing the huddled figure doubtfully. ‘It is just someone wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up.’
‘It is her – she is wearing those elegant but impractical shoes she always dons when the snow lies thick on the ground. Shall we follow her?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I have just watched a man die, and I am in no mood for chasing widows through the Gilbertines’ stables. Besides, I am cold.’
‘You are not cold,’ determined Michael. ‘And you must want to see the man Philippa loves?’
‘I have had enough of Philippa, Turke, Gosslinge, Giles, Ailred and everyone else associated with this nasty case. We have solved your murders, Brother: Turke killed Norbert, Ailred and Frith killed Turke, and Gosslinge died because he tried to eat something he did not want someone else to have. That is all we need to know.’
‘Well, I am going,’ said Michael. He nudged the physician in the ribs and his voice became wheedling. ‘Come on, Matt. It will be interesting.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Teaching starts tomorrow, and I have lectures to prepare. You go, if you must. I will see you in Michaelhouse later.’
They parted company at the end of Small Bridges Street. Bartholomew turned to walk along Milne Street towards the College, while Michael left the town through the Trumpington Gate, dodging this way and that as he dogged Philippa’s footsteps along the road that led past the Hall of Valence Marie, Peterhouse and the King’s Head. Bartholomew watched him zigzag back and forth like a huge black crow, and smiled. It was good that Philippa was concentrating on walking and did not glance behind her, or she would have spotted the monk’s clumsy manoeuvres in an instant.
The physician walked slowly, thinking about Godric’s tears of grief when he heard Ailred was dead. Although shocked by his principal’s confessions, Godric insisted the recent changes in Ailred’s behaviour were an aberration, and said there must have been a bad alignment of celestial bodies to induce him to act in such a manner. Bartholomew thought about Turke, too, and his careless attitude towards the people he had killed. However, the physician gained no satisfaction from the knowledge that he had been right about why Turke had ventured near the Mill Pool the day he had died. It was not the kind of case where jubilation was in order.
The snow was still melting rapidly, and what had once been a pretty white carpet was now ugly brown sludge. Since the ice was thawing more slowly than the snow, the drains were still blocked, and filthy, slushy water stretched from one side of the High Street to the other in a foul lake. It was calf deep in places, and lumpy with pieces of rubbish, dead birds, straw, animal manure, fragments of ice and sewage. It was like walking through a cold porridge of filth and excrement.
Michaelhouse was alive with activity when Bartholomew returned. The snow had been dug away, so it was once again possible to enter the north wing. He went to his own room and threw open the window shutters, to fill the chamber with the milder air from outside and dispel the dank chill that pervaded it. He discovered a thin layer of ice coating the walls, where mildew and running damp had frozen solid, while there were slippery patches on the floor that reminded him of Ailred and Turke, and their diametric attitudes to ice. He begged some logs from Langelee and lit a fire, prodding it until it blazed furiously. Then he swept the last remnants of snow from the windowsill and shelves, while William shook the ice from the blankets on the bed. Eventually, the room began to look more homely.
Enjoying the luxury of a private fire, Bartholomew closed the shutters and sat at the table with a lamp. He worked on a lecture until the bell chimed for the midday meal, then strolled across the courtyard to join his colleagues in the hall. Michael was not there, but the monk often missed College meals when he was engaged on proctorial duties. Bartholomew was surprised, and a little disgusted, with himself when he realised he was disappointed, for there was a part of him that very much wanted to know the identity of Philippa’s lover.
Since it was the last day of Deynman’s rule, the student had gone to some pains to ensure it was pleasantly memorable. There was undiluted wine to drink, and several fine hams had been purchased, all glazed with honey and flavoured with winter herbs. The bread was made from expensive white flour, and there were pats of creamy butter to go with it. Bartholomew knew Michael would be chagrined to learn that spying on a lusty widow had deprived him of such a fine, if simple, meal.
After Deynman had struggled through what he considered to be an accurate rendition of the final grace and had dismissed his ‘court’, Bartholomew found Cynric waiting with a summons. Harold, Stanmore’s apprentice, had been hit with a snowball that contained something sharp, and had a bleeding scalp wound. Bartholomew grabbed his bag and set off at a trot to Milne Street.
When he arrived, he saw that Edith had been overly hasty in demanding that her brother come at once. Harold’s cut had clotted of its own accord, and the lad’s initial fright at the sight of his own blood was being assuaged by piles of comfits and ca
ndied fruits. Bartholomew cleaned the gash, although it was obvious that Harold just wanted the physician to go away, so he could concentrate on the array of treats that were laid out in front of him on the kitchen table.
‘They were throwing snowballs in the Market Square,’ said Edith, smiling fondly as she left the boy to his feast and led Bartholomew to the solar. ‘But the snow is not what it was yesterday, and it was apparently difficult to find a clean handful. In the excitement, missiles were thrown that contained more than snow.’
‘Harold has had quite an eventful day,’ said Bartholomew, following his sister up the stairs. ‘First he helped with Ailred’s rescue, and now he has himself a sliced head.’
‘Oswald was proud of him for acting so promptly, and wanted to reward him. The best of the snow will be gone tomorrow, and he decided to give him a last chance to enjoy it. Who knows when we will see its like again?’
‘Not too soon, I hope; I have only just retrieved my room. But this warmer weather must mean Philippa and Giles will be leaving soon?’
Edith nodded. ‘Tomorrow morning, assuming there is not another blizzard tonight. I like company, as you know, but I confess I shall be glad to bid them farewell.’
‘They have not been easy guests. Giles is no longer the carefree, amiable man he was before the Death, while Philippa is …’ He gestured expansively, not quite sure how to put his thoughts into words.
‘She is not the Philippa you were set to marry,’ supplied Edith. ‘Having a wealthy husband brought her luxury, but also disappointments. My heart broke when I saw what she had become.’
‘Rumour has it that she fashioned her own remedy to Walter’s inadequacies,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting his sister to waste sympathies where they were not needed. ‘Michael followed her this morning, when she went to meet a lover behind the Gilbertine Friary.’
Edith was startled. ‘Philippa did not go to meet a lover this morning. She has been in her chamber, folding clothes and deciding which of her husband’s possessions to donate to the poor. Did I mention that one of his sleeves was covered in blood? I suppose it must have happened when he murdered Fiscurtune in London, although the stain looks more recent to me.’
‘She must have slipped past you,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in Philippa than in the fact that the stained sleeve was evidence that Ailred had been right about Turke killing Norbert. ‘I saw her myself, and we know she uses Giles’s cloak and hat to go about business of her own. It was not him who wandered freely around the town – he is restricted by his chilblains – but her.’
‘That may have been so in the past, but not today,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She is upstairs. Listen – you can hear her walking in the chamber above us. She has not left the house.’
‘It must be Giles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is him you can hear.’
Edith cocked her head as footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘Here she comes. You can ask her.’
Philippa seemed tired and careworn. She smiled at Bartholomew as she entered the solar, although her expression was more wary than friendly. She was already wearing clothes for travelling, the others presumably packed away. Attached to the belt around her waist was a knife and a pomander for warding off the foul smells she was likely to encounter on her journey.
‘Matt thinks he saw you out today,’ said Edith bluntly. ‘I have been telling him you have not left the house.’
‘Edith is right,’ replied Philippa, regarding Bartholomew with a face that was curiously devoid of expression. ‘There is much to do if we are to go tomorrow. Giles has gone to check the horses, and I am obliged to pack our belongings, since Gosslinge is not here to do it.’
‘Rachel is helping,’ said Edith, indignant that her guest appeared to be complaining when assistance in the form of Cynric’s competent wife had been provided. ‘She has been with you all morning – and continued the work when you were receiving your various guests here in the solar.’
Philippa gave an absent smile. ‘She has been very helpful, especially since visitors like young Quenhyth have interrupted me so often. But I shall be finished before dusk, and we will be on our way at first light tomorrow.’
‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did he come?’
‘He visits me often,’ replied Philippa. ‘His father is a colleague of Walter’s, and he feels obliged to see me on a fairly regular basis.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘London manners.’
Bartholomew glanced at her shoes as she left, half expecting to see the delicate leather sodden with muck from the High Street. But Philippa was not wearing her flimsy shoes, and he was not surprised she had been making such a noise on the wooden floor above when he observed the pair of heavy boots. He regarded them uneasily, wondering why she had donned such robust footwear when she had just claimed that she planned to spend the rest of the day packing.
* * *
Bartholomew was thoughtful as he strode the short distance between Milne Street and Michaelhouse. He asked Quenhyth, who had been assigned gate duty again, whether Michael had returned, and the student said that he had not. Quenhyth mentioned that Beadle Meadowman had asked the same question less than an hour ago, because the Chancellor had been demanding a report on Ailred’s death and wanted Michael to provide him with one. A nagging concern gnawed at Bartholomew as he trotted up the stairs to Langelee’s room to ask whether the Master knew where the monk might be. Langelee shook his head.
‘Why do you ask? Is he in trouble? I heard there was a scuffle in the Market Square, when a snowball fight between scholars from Peterhouse and Stanmore’s apprentices turned into something a little more dangerous. Perhaps he is still dealing with that.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew, although his growing sense of unease would not be ignored. He went to his room, intending to spend the rest of the afternoon working on his lecture, but found he could not settle. He grabbed his cloak and set off again, heading for Michael’s offices at St Mary the Great. On the way, he met Cynric, who also claimed he had not seen the monk since the incident at the Mill Pool. Without waiting for an invitation, the Welshman fell into step as the physician walked briskly towards the High Street.
Michael was not at St Mary the Great, and Meadowman claimed he had spent the last three hours trying to find him. The beadle’s irritation with his master’s disappearance turned to worry when he saw he was not the only one who had been trying to track Michael down. He mentioned the incident in the Market Square, and informed Bartholomew that it was unusual for the monk not to appear in person to ensure potentially explosive situations were properly diffused – especially since the incompetent Morice had become Sheriff.
‘I am going to the Gilbertine Friary,’ said Bartholomew, looking both ways up the High Street, and half expecting to see the familiar figure sauntering towards them. ‘That was where he was going when we last spoke. He wanted to follow Philippa, to see her lover – although she denies that she has left the house today.’
‘I do not like this,’ said Meadowman, his pleasant face creased with concern. ‘Brother Michael does not usually wander off without telling a beadle where he might be found.’
‘I am uneasy with him following this Philippa, who was not Philippa,’ said Cynric. ‘Edith is right: Philippa has not been out today, because my wife has been helping her pack. However, although Philippa may not have ventured out today, she certainly has done so on other occasions.’
‘Clippesby said that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was sceptical at first, because I was under the impression that she always demanded a male escort when she went out – even when it was inconvenient for them.’
Cynric shrugged. ‘She insisted on escorts so everyone would think she would never leave without one. But the reality is that she did. Often. I followed her once, just for something to do. She went to the Gilbertines’ stables, where there are several derelict outhouses. Because there are not as many Gilbertines now as before the Death, most of these sheds have fallen into disuse.’
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‘We are wasting time,’ said Bartholomew abruptly and, with Cynric and Meadowman at his heels, he ran along the High Street and through the Trumpington Gate. He pounded on the door to the friary, and fretted impatiently when the gatekeeper took his time to answer. But the lay-brother said there had been no visitors that day, and he had not seen Michael, Philippa or anyone else.
‘I suppose he may have followed Philippa, then gone elsewhere,’ said Meadowman, although he did not seem particularly convinced by his own explanation.
‘He did not follow Philippa at all,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘Or rather, it was not Philippa he thought he was following. She wears those silly shoes, but today she donned boots. It is obvious she lent the shoes to another person, so people would think it was her hurrying to the friary.’
‘I do not see why she would do that,’ said Meadowman doubtfully. ‘Especially since you just said she was at pains to make folk believe she never walks out unescorted.’
‘I suppose the person wearing the thin shoes was actually Giles,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his head tiredly. ‘There is not much difference in their size. He took her shoes with the intention of making people believe he was her.’
‘We need to look in some of these deserted outbuildings,’ said Meadowman, wanting to waste no more time in speculation.
Together they began a systematic search of the ramshackle sheds and storerooms that formed a separate little hamlet behind the main part of the friary. Most were lean-tos, which had been used to store firewood, peat, and hay and straw for horses in more prosperous times. There was also a disused brewery, a laundry and some substantial stables. But all were empty.
‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Where can he be?’
‘Hopefully in the Brazen George, unaware of the worry he is causing,’ said Meadowman. ‘I shall go there now, then round up some of the lads to search his other favourite haunts.’ He left without waiting for an answer.
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 47
