A Killer in Winter (40 page)

‘We shall have to ask Philippa,’ said Michael. ‘She will know where the relic came from.’

‘Do not,’ pleaded Abigny. ‘You will upset her if she thinks you are probing Walter’s death after she asked you to leave him
alone. She was fond of him, despite his shortcomings, and will grow fonder still once the bad memories have faded
and only the pleasant ones remain. She will be a good widow, and will never say anything to harm his reputation – no matter
what the truth.’

‘And what about you?’ asked Michael. ‘What did you really think of Walter?’

Abigny smiled. ‘I always said that Philippa made a mistake in her choice of husbands, which did not make me popular with Walter.
You would have been a much better brother-in-law, Matt. We would have been friends.’

‘Walter was not your friend?’ asked Michael.

‘Lord, no! He was too busy running the Worshipful Fraternity of Fishmongers and
making everyone believe he was respectable and decent. Of course, the murder of Fiscurtune made people think again. Would
you want the prestigious post of Lord Mayor filled by a man who had stabbed another in what basically amounted to a fit of
pique? Fiscurtune
was
being abusive and he
had
brought the Fraternity into disrepute with his poor salting techniques, but honourable men do not resolve arguments by stabbing
unarmed opponents. However, now you must excuse me …’

‘Before you go, why are you here in Cambridge?’ asked Michael. ‘Is it really to protect Philippa?’

‘Totally – and you can see I was right to have misgivings about the venture. I am glad I was here to help her when she needed
me. But now I really must go.’

He gave them a jaunty wave as he entered the King’s Head. Bartholomew waited a moment, then ploughed through the snow to the
window. The shutters were drawn, to keep out the cold, but there were enough gaps in the wood to allow him to see through.
He watched thoughtfully as Abigny doffed his hat in an amiable greeting to Harysone, then sat next to him and began to talk.

‘The Chepe Waits. Abigny. Fish. Dympna,’ said Michael, counting them off on his fingers late the following afternoon, as dusk
was settling over the town. ‘These are the strands that connect Turke and his lazy servant, the dancing
pardoner and the murder of Norbert. The only problem is that I cannot see how.’

Nor could Bartholomew, and he had been mulling over the information all day. The whole morning had been spent making enquiries
about Harysone, but these yielded nothing they did not already know: the pardoner had arrived with his cartload of books,
but no one knew anything about him other than that which he had chosen to divulge. No one could say how he had come by his
curious fascination with fish. No one had seen him with Turke, but he had been noted in company with Gosslinge, although it
seemed they had not spoken. No one could offer any plausible theories as to why someone should stab him, and the most likely
explanation seemed to be Bartholomew’s – that the pardoner’s gyrations had driven him accidentally on to a knife worn in someone’s
belt.

Michael had listened to reports from his beadles about Dympna that morning, but was disappointed with their trawl of information.
Several witnesses had heard of Dympna, but no one had actually met her. A man who had lost a foot in an accident with a cart
claimed Dympna was a saint, but would say no more about her, despite Meadowman’s best efforts and a large jug of ale. Later,
Michael had gone to Ovyng. Ailred was preaching to his students – with apparent sincerity – about the virtues of honesty,
but still insisted he had not left the hostel on the night the intruders had invaded St Michael’s. Godric said nothing at
all.

When he returned to Michaelhouse, the monk struck up a conversation with Makejoy. The woman said the Waits had been together
five years, and had spent most of their time enjoying lucrative careers in Chepe. The journey to Cambridge was unusual for
them, and was undertaken partly because business was currently poor in London, and partly because Frith had expressed a desire
to see the Fen-edge town. For want of anything better to do, the troupe had agreed to travel.

‘You would be better off without Frith,’ Michael had advised. ‘Not only is he surly and aggressive – and his rude tongue must
lose you business – but he has no talent.’

Makejoy pulled a wry face. ‘None of us are overly endowed in that area, Brother, but we get by. Frith is good at organising.
It is he who secures us our customers, he who negotiates better pay, and he who invests our takings and turns pennies into
shillings.’

Michael’s interest quickened. ‘And how does he do that?’

But Makejoy would say no more, and turned the conversation to how
she had learned to tumble.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew had gone to Stanmore’s house, to ask Abigny why he had met Harysone in the King’s Head. Bartholomew
did not imagine for a moment that Abigny would tell him, since he had already said his affairs were no one’s business. But
when he arrived he was told that both Philippa and Abigny were at St Michael’s Church, talking to the man who was to embalm
Turke’s body for its journey to Chepe. Stanmore and Edith were at home, however, and both claimed that Abigny often went out
on unspecified business, while Philippa refused to leave the house at all unless someone was with her. Stanmore remained convinced
that something sinister was going on, and pressed Bartholomew again to discover why Turke had died.

When the physician looked into the church on his way home he found the embalmer working with his potions and knives, but Philippa
and Abigny were not there. Bartholomew had not passed them, and he wondered where they could have gone. By the time he returned
to Michaelhouse he was irritable, tired of being lied to and misled for reasons he could not understand, and there was a headache
thumping behind his eyes.

He was just settling down for the evening, and was about to discuss the odd links between the Waits, fish, Dympna and the
Turke household with Michael, when Cynric arrived to say they were invited to celebrate the passing of the old year at Milne
Street. Bartholomew was surprised, because
Philippa had effectively turned Stanmore’s home into a house of mourning, and a feast – even a small one – was an unexpected
turn of events. He was sure Edith would not have made the suggestion, and so could only assume that it was Philippa’s idea.
Michael, usually more than willing to accept an invitation from the Stanmores – Edith’s table was always well stocked – declared
that he had some pressing documents to read, and Bartholomew saw that the monk no more wanted to pass an evening in the strained
atmosphere at Milne Street than he did.

He considered declining the offer, too, pleading that he too was obliged to remain in Michaelhouse. But then Cynric mentioned
a decree by Deynman that no one was allowed to speak English, Latin or French that evening; since few Michaelhouse scholars
spoke any other languages, the occasion promised to be simultaneously silly and frustrating. Bartholomew knew Italian and
some Spanish, and could converse with Michael in Greek, but the thought of trying to communicate with his other colleagues
with hand gestures and gibberish was not at all appealing. Also, Edith was his sister, and he did not like to refuse her hospitality
when he knew his absence would disappoint her.

Because his room was inaccessible under the snowdrift, he was obliged to share William’s until it was cleared. The friar watched
critically as he brushed mud from his clothes and pulled on his boots, still soggy from walking through the snow earlier that
day.

‘Are you going dressed like that?’ William asked eventually, after a long silence punctuated by disapproving huffs and sighs.

‘Why?’ Bartholomew looked down at himself. ‘What is wrong with me?’

William pulled a face indicating that while his lips uttered ‘nothing’, his mind was thinking something very different. ‘Your
woman will not be impressed,’ he added, when Bartholomew appeared to take him at his word and prepared to leave. ‘And she
is newly a widow, so will be looking for a
man. You will not ensnare her if you do not make yourself look attractive.’

‘She is not looking for a man,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I am not available, anyway.’

‘So, you intend to continue with Matilde,’ concluded William disapprovingly. ‘I am not sure that is a good idea, Matthew.
She may not want you, and it will be difficult to conduct a dalliance for long without it coming to the attention of the Chancellor.
Still, I suppose if you are discreet it may work for a while, and you will eventually tire of the whole business of females.’

‘I shall bear that in mind,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, wishing his colleagues would mind their own business when it came to
his love life. ‘How is your leg?’

‘This bad weather cannot last much longer, so I do not anticipate being an invalid for too many more days, which is just as
well – the undergraduates will run riot if I am gone too long. I am sure there is already vice and debauchery wherever you
look.’

‘Not wherever
I
look,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the season had been remarkably trouble free. The snow helped, keeping would-be revellers
indoors and reducing the number of large street fights between gangs of townsmen and scholars. He glanced across at the friar
and recognised the crude wooden covers of the book that lay open on his knees. ‘Are you still reading that thing? What is
taking you so long?’

‘I have read it several times,’ said William, the light of the fanatic gleaming in his eyes. ‘I am unable to help myself.
I have never encountered such bald heresy in all my days – and that includes among the Dominicans!’

‘It must be the work of Satan himself, then,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘But the bits I read were just the ramblings of a
misinformed and badly educated eccentric. I did not detect anything particularly heretical.’

‘Oh, no?’ hissed William, sensing a challenge as his large hands scrabbled roughly at the pages. He opened it to a section
that, judging by the state of it, had been perused
many times before. ‘Then listen to this: “Godd has no Forme – this We all Nowe. However, Sometyms it Has been Nessessary
for Him to Adopte a Shape in order to Appear to Man, and He has always Chose Attributes of a Fish to Manifeste Himselph.”
Do not tell me
that
is not heresy! If my leg were not broken, I would burn Harysone in the Market Square myself!’

‘But it goes on to explain,’ said Bartholomew, peering over William’s shoulder to read the text for himself. ‘It says those
attributes include a silvery sheen, like the skin of a fish, and an ability to dominate the mighty ocean. Harysone is just
using marine images to describe God’s mystery.’

‘He is saying God has scales and lives in the sea.’ William hurled the book from him in revulsion, so it crashed into the
wall and left a dent in the plaster.

‘So it will not be going in the Michaelhouse library, then?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

‘You had better go,’ said William, not deigning to answer. ‘Give my regards to Edith, and tell Abigny that the answer to his
question is “no”. I had forgotten him in all the fuss over my leg, but I can tell him what he wants to know now.’

‘What was the question?’ asked Bartholomew, flinging his cloak around his shoulders and trying to make his feet comfortable
inside his damp boots.

‘He asked me whether Pechem – the head of my Order here in Cambridge – had heard from Dympna recently,’ said William. ‘I told
him I would ask, but Pechem said Dympna has been quiet, and has only acted once since the summer.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Dympna?’

‘Dympna,’ said William impatiently. ‘You know.’

‘I do not know. Who is she?’

William seemed confused and a little embarrassed. ‘It seems I have already said too much. I thought you would know Dympna,
being a friend of Abigny’s. I see I was mistaken. Damn it all! I should have been more discreet. It is this wretched ice all
around me. I cannot think straight with it lurking in every corner.’

In the interests of finding out what he wanted to know, Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that thinking and speaking
had nothing to do with the fact that it was cold outside, and that the friar’s apparent indiscretion had more to do with his
gruff and loquacious personality.

The physician leaned against the windowsill. ‘I think you had better tell me about Dympna, Father. Norbert received letters
from her, asking him to meetings in St Michael’s Church; Walter Turke muttered something that sounded like Dympna before he
died; and even Harysone has some association with this mysterious woman. Believe me, Michael will not take kindly to his Junior
Proctor withholding information that may help him solve this case.’

‘But I cannot tell,’ protested William in alarm. ‘It is supposed to be a secret. I should not have assumed that Abigny had
taken you into his confidence.’

‘It is too late now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if you do not tell me what I want to know, I shall inform Langelee that your
leg is not broken, and—’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said William hastily. ‘But you cannot reveal to anyone it was I who told you about Dympna, or
I shall have that Bradwardine book back. Dympna is not a woman. It is not a man, either. It is a group of people. A guild.’

‘What kind of guild?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Here was something he had not anticipated. ‘A trade association? A religious
group?’

‘Neither, although a religious fraternity would be the closer description. It is just a collection of folk who have sworn
to do good works. It always works anonymously, and only it knows the identities of its members. It also—’

This was not the answer Bartholomew was expecting at all. He stared at the friar in astonishment. ‘Good works? But this group
is associated with at least two people who are dead – Norbert and Turke – not to mention sinister visitors like Harysone.’

William shrugged. ‘Wicked and dead folk have breathed
the name of God, but that does not make Him responsible for their lives or their evil deeds. But to continue what I was saying,
no one knows how to contact Dympna, so no one can solicit its help. However, Dympna often knows when folk are in trouble,
and sometimes offers financial aid. It is not a gift – the money must be repaid in full at some point in the future – but
there is no interest involved.’