A Killer in Winter (18 page)

Some of the blueness faded from Turke’s face, and Bartholomew began to hope there might be a chance. Philippa insisted on
touching her husband, stroking his brow and murmuring to him. She was often in the way, but Bartholomew hoped her voice might
work its own magic and pull the man back from the brink of death. Meanwhile, Abigny watched from the door, an anxious expression
on his face, although who the anxiety was for – Philippa, Turke or himself – was impossible to say.

After a while, Turke’s eyelids fluttered and he muttered something incomprehensible. Philippa seized his hand and her soft
calls rose to a crescendo as she pleaded with him to speak to her. Turke’s eyes opened a second time, and he stared at the
ceiling.

‘I am here, Walter,’ Philippa shouted. ‘Come back to me!’

Turke turned his head very slightly in her direction, and his eyes appeared to focus on her face. He swallowed, then spoke.
He uttered two words in a low, hoarse voice that had everyone straining to hear him. And then he died.

Bartholomew spent a long time frantically pushing on Turke’s chest in a futile effort to make the heart beat again, but he
knew the situation was hopeless. Eventually, he stopped, rubbing a hand across his face as he did so. It was hot in the room,
and his attempts to revive his patient had been vigorous. Sweat stung his eyes and he could feel rivulets running down his
back under his clothes.

‘Just like the Death,’ said Philippa softly. ‘Medicine could not help people then, either.’

Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. ‘I am sorry, Philippa. I did all I could.’

She touched him on the cheek as tears began to spill from her eyes. ‘It is not your fault. You did your best.’

‘We will have to tell Sheriff Morice what has happened,’ said one of the soldiers nervously. ‘But it should make no difference,
should it, whether Turke died now or earlier?’ There was an almost desperate appeal in his eyes.

‘Are you asking whether Morice will be angry with you for sending him word that Turke was dead when he was still alive?’ asked
Michael archly. ‘I would not want to be so grossly misled by any of my beadles, but then my approach to these matters is infinitely
more professional.’

‘But Turke died anyway,’ insisted the soldier. ‘There was nothing Morice could have done had he been here himself. Was there?’

‘No,’ said Stanmore, evidently wanting the men gone from his house and deciding that telling them what they wanted to hear
was the best way to do it. ‘You saw for yourselves he was barely conscious.’

‘We did,’ said the soldier, relieved. ‘We should go and make our report, then.’

‘Will you or Morice be investigating further?’ Edith asked, catching the soldier’s arm as he prepared to escape.

He was puzzled by her question. ‘We have investigated, lady. He was skating and the ice was thin. What else is there to say?
It was an accident.’

‘I agree,’ agreed Abigny, a little too keenly for Bartholomew’s comfort. ‘All we can do now is take him home and give him
a decent burial.’

‘Very well,’ said Stanmore, nodding to the soldiers to indicate they should be on their way. ‘But tell Morice I expect him
to pay his respects to Mistress Turke today. I do not want her to return to London claiming Cambridge men have no manners.’

‘What did Turke’s dying words mean?’ asked Michael curiously after the soldiers had gone. ‘They made no sense to me.’

‘Nor to me,’ said Philippa, straightening her head-dress.
This time her grief was controlled. She was the dignified fishmonger’s widow, bearing her lot with grace and stoicism. By
contrast, Bartholomew felt drained physically and mentally, and all he wanted was to return to Michaelhouse and lie down.
‘I must buy some black cloth for mourning clothes,’ Philippa added as the physician moved towards the door.

‘I have plenty,’ offered Stanmore. ‘I always keep a good supply of black, because so many scholars and clerics need it and,
combined with this new fashion for black clothes to symbolise grief, there is always a demand for it.’

‘I will arrange to have your husband taken to St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘That is what we agreed before …’ He
trailed off, not liking to dwell on the fact that they had discussed Turke’s funeral arrangements while he had still lived.

Philippa nodded. ‘And Matt will ask his friends to say masses for Walter’s soul. I think I will bury him here. I should continue
the pilgrimage at the soonest opportunity, and Walter’s corpse will slow us down.’

‘But you must return to London, so that we can inter him at Garlicke Hythe,’ said Abigny, horrified by her plans. ‘You know
that is what he would have wanted.’

‘He would have wanted me to complete the pilgrimage for him,’ insisted Philippa stubbornly. ‘His immortal soul is more important
than his mortal remains. We cannot go all the way to Walsingham and back to London with him. It would not be practical.’

‘Then we should settle for taking him home,’ argued Abigny.

‘I want to go to Walsingham,’ said Philippa, becoming tearful again. ‘I made promises to saints that I would go, and I do
not want to break them, or I may never have a child.’

‘Would you like me to do anything?’ offered Michael kindly, not pointing out that with Turke dead she was free to take a man
who might not need divine intervention to produce a baby. ‘It seems Morice’s men regard the matter
as closed, but I could make some enquiries, since you had questions earlier about his death. Perhaps I can learn why he was
near the river, or discover his state of mind. Sometimes having answers makes a loss easier to bear.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Philippa flatly. ‘Walter is dead, and that is the end of the matter. I do not want you or the Sheriff
to look into his personal affairs. I want his memory respected.’

‘Michael would be respectful,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by her sudden change of attitude. ‘But it was you who told us that
Walter would not have gone skating. Are you not curious to learn more about that?’

‘No,’ said Philippa firmly. She pointed to two sheep bones that had been tied to Turke’s expensive shoes with pieces of leather.
Now they lay on the floor in a sodden heap with the rest of his clothes. ‘I can see he was wearing skates, and so my initial
claim was obviously wrong. Please respect my wishes and leave him alone.’

‘She is right,’ agreed Abigny. ‘No amount of questioning will bring him back, and there is no point in causing distress by
prolonging the incident. I shall arrange for him to be prepared for his journey to London.’

Philippa stared angrily at her brother for a moment, then took Edith’s arm and strode from the room. Abigny scurried after
her, and Bartholomew could hear them arguing as they crossed the yard and climbed the stairs that led to Stanmore’s solar.

‘How strange,’ said Stanmore, watching them in puzzlement. ‘It was not many moments ago that she was so distraught with grief
she could barely speak. Now she seems almost cold.’

‘Poor choice of words,’ said Michael, indicating the corpse. ‘But I know what you mean. What can you tell from the body, Matt?’

‘Philippa asked me not to examine it. She made her feelings quite clear about that.’

‘That was before he died. You have just spent an hour
poking and prodding at him, so how can she object to a little more now?’

‘Go and ask her,’ suggested Bartholomew. He nodded wryly when Michael hesitated. ‘You see? You do not really believe she will
give us her permission.’

‘Michael is right to suggest an examination, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘There is something odd about this incident. She was convinced
that Walter would never skate on the river, and was obsessed by that point earlier. And yet she did not once mention it when
we were trying to revive him here.’

‘That is because she saw for herself that he was wearing skates,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But was he actually skating?’ asked Michael, leaning down to inspect them. ‘I doubt he was. If you look here, you can see
that one of the leather thongs crosses the blade. Not only would such an arrangement reduce friction and slow the skater,
but it would quickly wear through and break.’

Bartholomew stared at the monk in astonishment. ‘What makes you such an expert on icy pastimes all of a sudden? I did not
know you could skate.’

‘Of course I can skate,’ said Michael testily. ‘How could I not, growing up in East Anglia, where the land is flat, the water
plentiful, and the winters long and cold? And I can tell you that Turke did not travel far on these particular skates.’

‘He travelled far enough to break the ice,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

‘Unfortunately, I cannot tell much about these,’ Michael went on, taking one skate and examining it minutely. ‘They are cheap,
sold by every butcher in the Market Square in winter. In fact, they are so common that Turke may even have found them abandoned
by a previous skater.’

‘They break,’ added Stanmore, to explain the extravagance of disposing of something that could be reused. He, too, was a Fenman
and knew about skating in cold winters. ‘They eventually crack when weight is put on them, especially by an adult. You often
see them discarded.’

‘Inspect Turke, Matt,’ instructed Michael impatiently. ‘I will lift the covers, if it salves your conscience, so all you have
to do is look. But I want to know the exact cause of his death. Oswald is right: there is something odd about this incident.’

As it transpired, there was nothing to see. There was no wound or mark on the body, with the exception of some scratches that
had probably been inflicted as Turke was rescued. There was no abrasion or bump on the head, no bleeding and no signs that
he had been strangled or suffocated. A hard push on Turke’s chest revealed water in his lungs, although not enough to drown
him. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Turke’s death was exactly as it appeared: he had fallen in the river, and had frozen.

‘Does anyone know what Turke meant by “Templar”?’ asked Michael. ‘No Knights Templar exist these days, so I cannot imagine
what he was talking about.’

‘I did not hear him say “Templar”,’ said Stanmore, surprised. ‘I heard him say “temper” and “you”. His meaning was quite clear:
he was telling Philippa to mind her temper, as a husband’s final piece of advice to his wife.’

‘That would be an odd thing to say to her,’ said Michael warily. ‘She has never struck me as a woman given to sudden rages.’

‘I did not hear “Templar” or “temper”,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I heard “you” though, and I thought the other word was “Dympna”.’

‘It was not,’ said Michael with determination. ‘That would mean there is a link between Turke and Norbert, and that is not
possible.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Norbert was murdered after Turke arrived in Cambridge.’

Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘A connection between a wealthy fishmonger and a debauched and worthless idler? I do
not think so!’

‘Do not be too hasty to dismiss it,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Consider two things. First, Turke was a merchant and
Norbert was a merchant’s nephew – both well-connected men with access to wealth and power, even if Norbert did have to go
through his uncle for his. And second, Turke was a fishmonger. There was a fish on the ground the night Norbert was murdered.’

‘A fish?’ asked Stanmore, bewildered. ‘What kind?’

‘A tench,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I do not think the type is relevant.’

‘Nothing about it is relevant,’ said Michael. ‘You used the fish to connect Norbert to Harysone. Now you are using the same
clue to connect Norbert to Turke.’

‘You said yourself there is something strange about Turke’s death, and I think it odd that Turke and his servant should die
in such rapid succession,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the three deaths are related. There is nothing to say they are not.’

‘But you said Norbert won the tench from Harysone by dicing, and dropped it as he fled for his life,’ said Michael. ‘How can
that possibly have anything to do with Turke? And you told me earlier there was nothing odd about Gosslinge’s death. Have
you changed your mind?’

‘I think there is something odd about the
timing
of Gosslinge’s and Turke’s deaths, not the deaths themselves – they both appear to be accidental and caused by the cold.
And I think Turke muttering “Dympna”, the fact that he and Gosslinge were in the fishmongering trade, and that Norbert won
a fish indicates all three deaths may be related. Perhaps Harysone is the factor that connects them.’

‘I would like you to be right,’ said Michael. ‘You know how dearly I would like to catch that man doing something wrong. But
even I cannot see how he can have anything to do with Turke and his servant, just because Norbert happened to win a tench
before he died.’

‘You are wrong about Turke’s last words, too,’ added Stanmore. ‘He did not say “Dympna”.’

‘Temper, Templar, Dympna,’ mused Michael thoughtfully. ‘We all heard different things, and there is no way to prove
which of us is right. However, there is one other thing we should consider.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, anticipating what the monk was going to say. ‘We might not know what Turke meant, but Philippa
certainly did. Her behaviour changed from grief-stricken to coolly contained almost the instant he spoke to her.’

When Bartholomew and Michael arrived back at Michaelhouse, an afternoon meal was ready, and the students were in a state
of excitement; they were going to elect their Lord of Misrule, who would run the College for the Twelve Days. This was an
ancient tradition and, although some of the Fellows were keen to have it abolished, the students were equally determined to
see it continue. The Lord of Misrule had absolute power over all College members, and everyone was obliged to do what he ordered.
Usually, this was confined to ordering the Fellows to serve the students at the dinner table, or obliging them to listen to
lectures written and delivered by students for their edification. Sometimes the pranks could be amusing, but sometimes they
were a nuisance, and other times they were a genuine menace.