A Killer in Winter (41 page)

‘You mean it is a group of benevolent bankers? It offers loans to people in desperate situations, but it expects to be repaid?’

‘Essentially, although there is no limit on the time, and Dympna asks for its money back only when the crisis is over. No
threats are issued. It lent the Franciscan Friary twenty pounds to pay for a new roof three years ago, and was very understanding
when the sum was returned only in small amounts. We still owe two pounds. It lent Mayor Horwood money when the Great Bridge
threatened to collapse, a potter was helped when he lost his foot to an accident, and wood and food were sent to Dunstan when
his brother died. That was unusual.’

‘Beadle Meadowman mentioned the potter,’ said Bartholomew, recalling being told about the man who had refused to give details
about Dympna. ‘But why was helping Dunstan unusual?’

‘Because there was no expectation of repayment. Dunstan was ill and old, and the benefaction was a gift, not a loan. Dympna
knew it would not be getting its money back there.’

‘Dympna,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Kenyngham said she is a saint associated with the insane.’

‘And the desperate,’ added William. ‘She was famous for charitable acts, especially to lunatics and people without hope. It
is a clever name for the guild, is it not?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, who thought it was rather obscure. ‘But why should Norbert receive letters from a charity?’

‘I imagine because he had been lent money and Dympna wanted it back, so it could be passed to more deserving
cases. Dympna is generous, but it will not be abused.’

‘So, the messages were demands for repayment,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘That makes sense. Would Dympna kill him, do you think,
if he refused to give the money back?’

‘Dympna is a benevolent institution. It is understanding about the time needed to repay loans, and does not issue unpleasant
threats, like moneylenders do. I cannot see it harming Norbert.’

‘What about Turke? Why would he die uttering that name? And why was Philippa so relieved once he had spoken?’

‘You will have to ask her that,’ said William, not liking the fact that Bartholomew was raising questions to which he had
no answers, because it made him feel incompetent. ‘Perhaps Turke was a member of Dympna, although he did not seem the benevolent
type to me, and I was under the impression Dympna was a local charity. But I may be wrong.’

‘Do you know the identities of anyone who definitely belongs to this guild?’

‘I am aware of one, but, as I said, it is a secret organisation, and only they know all its members. I believe Giles Abigny
is involved.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful as he struggled through the drifts between Michaelhouse and Milne Street. It was already night,
and the darkness was made blacker and more intense by the great snow-filled clouds that slouched overhead. Bartholomew could
barely see where he was putting his feet, and was grateful Stanmore had left an apprentice outside his gates with a lamp to
guide him.

His conversation with William, and the fact that it had taken longer than he had anticipated to travel the snow-smothered
streets, meant that he was late. Stanmore, Edith, Abigny and Philippa were already seated in the solar when he arrived. It
was a comfortable room to be in on a cold winter night. The window shutters were barred against the wind, a huge fire flickered
and roared in the hearth, and lamps with coloured glass sent pretty shadows up the walls.

Someone had added pine cones to the fire and the scent of them filled the room, along with the spiced wine that sat warming
in a pot and the chestnuts that were roasting in a tray.

A cosy, happy scene greeted Bartholomew as he entered. Abigny, dressed in dark blue tunic and hose, was playing raffle with
Edith. This involved three dice, and the objective was to throw an equal or higher number than a rival. Edith was laughing
as she won a pile of sugar comfits, and Abigny was teasing her about her good fortune. For an instant, Bartholomew glimpsed
the long-haired, foppish young man with whom he had shared a room, and Abigny seemed almost carefree. Then he happened to
glance up at Philippa, and his expression became sombre again. Bartholomew wondered whether it was because laughing was something
one did not do in the presence of a recent widow, or whether the sight of her reminded him of matters in which amusement had
no place.

Philippa was sitting near the fire with some darning lying unheeded in her lap. She was watching the raffle with a fixed smile
on her lips, as though she realised she had to make at least some pretence at good humour. Bartholomew sensed that her thoughts
were a long way from the game and from Stanmore’s solar. Stanmore himself sat apart from the others, a goblet of wine in his
hand as he watched Philippa as intently as a hawk that was about to seize a rabbit. He rose to greet his brother-in-law, and
Bartholomew could tell by the tense way he held his shoulders that the merchant was not happy.

‘Have you learned anything new about Turke?’ he asked in a low voice, pretending to help Bartholomew unfasten the clasp on
his cloak so the others would not hear him. ‘Edith will not allow me to tell Philippa and Giles to leave my house. She says
it would be rude. But with each passing day, I grow more certain that Philippa had a hand in her husband’s demise. I have
encountered several murderers in my time – one of which was my own brother – but I have
never met one as calm and collected as Philippa.’

‘Oswald,’ said Bartholomew, half laughing as he pulled away from the merchant. ‘We know Turke died from falling in the river.
She may be involved in some plan involving the inheritance of his estate, but she did not kill him.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Stanmore uneasily. ‘Once, she told Edith she needed to rest and went to bed. Giles was bathing his
feet, on your instructions. Later, Edith went to Philippa’s room to make sure all was well and found it empty: she had gone
out.’ He regarded Bartholomew with pursed lips, as though that alone was sufficient to indict her of the most heinous of crimes.

‘But slipping out does not mean she murdered her husband,’ the physician pointed out.

‘But when she goes out openly, even if it is only to St Michael’s, she insists on having an escort. She says it would be improper
for a recent widow to be seen on the streets alone. So what was she doing escaping my house all by herself? Answer me that!’

Bartholomew knew about Philippa’s obsession with appearances, and agreed with Stanmore that it was odd that she insisted on
an escort sometimes, but conveniently dispensed with one on other occasions. ‘Do you know where she goes?’ he asked.

Stanmore shook his head. ‘Giles is worse – he disappears most days. These snows could isolate the town for months, and I may
have this sinister pair in my house until February or March! It does not bear thinking about.’

‘You are over-reacting,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Even if Philippa or Giles did play some role in Turke’s sudden desire for
skating – and I doubt they did – there is no reason for either to set murderous eyes on anyone here. You have done them no
wrong and, perhaps more importantly, they are not about to inherit your estates.’

He went to join Edith and Abigny at the fire. His sister glanced up at him, her dark eyes bright with laughter and happiness,
and Bartholomew experienced a peculiar protective
feeling. He hoped Stanmore’s fears were unjustified, and the guests did not bring trouble to her house.

‘I have just been told about a certain charity – a guild – that operates in the town,’ he said, sitting opposite Abigny and
watching him. Abigny did not glance up, but, like Edith, fixed his attention on the cup that held the small pieces of wood.
He made his throw.

‘A three, a five and a one,’ he said. ‘I am sure there are a good many guilds in Cambridge, Matt. Oswald is a member of two.’

‘St Mary’s and the Worshipful Guild of Drapers,’ said Stanmore proudly. ‘But which one are you talking about, Matt? Giles
is right: there are dozens in Cambridge.’

‘Dympna,’ said Bartholomew, trying to watch Philippa and Abigny at the same time. ‘It is a benevolent society that makes loans
to desperate people.’

Neither Philippa nor Abigny responded in any way the physician could detect. Philippa still wore her fixed smile, and her
eyes were full of distant thoughts. Bartholomew was not even sure she had noticed his arrival. Meanwhile, Abigny handed the
dice to Edith and sat with his hands dangling between his knees to see what she would throw.

‘I have never heard of it,’ said Stanmore, the only person who seemed to be listening to the physician. ‘What is it? A religious
guild?’

‘Two sixes and a four!’ exclaimed Edith, clapping her hands in delight. ‘I win! All three of my numbers are higher than yours.’

All three numbers, thought Bartholomew to himself. Was that the meaning of the triplet of figures he and Michael had seen
on the vellum in Gosslinge’s throat? But it could not be: most dice only went to four or six, and one of the numbers on the
vellum had been eight.

‘I know very little about Dympna,’ he said, in reply to Stanmore’s question. ‘Other than the identity of one of its members.’

He fixed Abigny with a stare that was so intense that his
old room-mate was eventually obliged to look up. He appeared to be astonished. ‘Do you mean me?’ he exclaimed, with an expression
of bemusement. ‘You think
I
am a member of this institution with the odd name! Why?’

‘Someone told me you asked for information about Dympna. His message to you is “no”.’

‘Father William!’ said Abigny, with a smile. ‘He approached me at the Christmas Day feast and started chattering about some
mysterious society or other. You know how he is – subtle as a mallet in the groin. He was tapping his nose and winking and
making all kinds of gestures that indicated he thought he and I shared a secret. Naturally, I was intrigued, so I let him
believe I knew what he was talking about in the hope he would reveal more.’

‘And did he?’

‘Not enough to make sense. He seemed to think I was responsible for the loan of funds to the Franciscan Friary,
and wanted me to know it was appreciated. I asked whether he had been offered any more money, to see whether the question
would loosen his tongue further, but he merely offered to speak to Prior Pechem, and that was the end of the matter. I did
not know what he was talking about then, and I do not now.’

‘I ask because this society is becoming more aggressive about the return of its loans,’ said Bartholomew, persisting with
the discussion, even though he could see Abigny considered it over. ‘Norbert received letters from Dympna and then was stabbed.
I cannot help but wonder whether the two are connected.’

‘Perhaps they are,’ said Abigny with a shrug. ‘But I do not know anything about it. What do you think, Philippa? Are you aware
of this particular charity?’

Philippa dragged her thoughts to the present with obvious effort. ‘The guild that paid for the repair of the Great Bridge
when it started to collapse?’ she asked, evidently struggling to recall what they had been talking about. ‘Mayor Horwood talked
of it at the feast – in tedious detail.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Just that this charity had helped him with a problem, and that it is good there are
still folk prepared to donate their wealth to help others.’

‘Its name is Dympna,’ said Bartholomew, watching her closely. When she did not react, he decided to adopt a more direct approach.
‘That was the word your husband breathed with his dying breath.’

She stared at him, and some of the colour drained from her face. ‘No one heard what he said,’ she whispered at last. ‘He spoke
too softly.’

‘I heard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said “Dympna”.’

Stanmore disagreed. ‘Actually, Matt, he said “temper”. I told you: he was
warning Philippa to be of a polite and gentle disposition.’

Philippa regarded him with as much disbelief as she had Bartholomew. ‘Why would he do that? I do not warrant that kind of
advice from a dying man.’

‘Brother Michael believed the word was “Templar”,’ added Edith, looking from her husband to her brother. ‘He thought you two
had heard wrongly.’

Philippa gave a tired smile. ‘And you have been speculating about the meaning of poor Walter’s final words ever since? If
it is so important to you, why did you not ask me? I would have told you.’

‘You would?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

Philippa rubbed her eyes. ‘You have all been kind since Walter died, and playing the role of a grieving widow has not been
easy. Walter was a difficult man – rude, aggressive and demanding – and I cannot deny that life holds a certain charm without
him in my future. But I did not want you to think me heartless; I wanted you to believe my grief was real.’

‘Are you telling us it is not?’ asked Edith in surprise.

‘I married a man far older than me because I wanted a life of comfort
and security. I sacrificed a good deal for it – my freedom and my spirit, not to mention a handsome lover
who would have been a friend as well as a husband. Walter has sons who will inherit his fortune, and I saw that his premature
death would end the life I had built at such cost. I will be a fat, middle-aged widow with nothing to offer any suitor.’

‘You are not fat,’ said Bartholomew gallantly. ‘But there are dietary regimes that promote good health as well as a thinner
figure. If you like, I can draw up—’

‘Matt!’ said Edith sharply. ‘This is not the time.’

‘I would have helped,’ said Abigny, regarding his sister with gentle affection.
‘I admit I have not amounted to much, with my token post at the law courts and my squandered fortune, but I would have looked
after you.’

She gazed at him bleakly. ‘You will wed this year. Do you think your salary can support me
and
your new wife? Will Janyne want her husband’s sister living in her house? And you have missed my point: I do not want to
struggle along on pennies. I would have married Matt if I had been content with that.’