A Killer in Winter (47 page)

‘What is wrong with him, exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if Ailred had thought warmth would heal Godric, then he
should have lit a fire. The hostel had been bitterly cold.

Ailred made an impatient gesture. ‘I am not a physician! All I know is he sometimes imagines things. There are other Ovyng
scholars besides Godric. Ask them whether I was out that night.’

‘There would be no point,’ said Michael. ‘They have been instructed to say you were in.’

Ailred regarded him with dislike. ‘You are accusing me of grave offences, and you are insulting my integrity. I will not stand
here and listen to this.’

‘Then tell the truth,’ said Michael harshly. ‘I know you are lying. Where did you go that night? Was it on Dympna’s business?
Or was it some errand of your own?’

‘This is outrageous!’ shouted Ailred, finally angry. ‘I shall complain to the Chancellor about you. I am the principal
of a University hostel, and I will not be questioned as though I were a common criminal or one of your secular students caught
in some minor mischief.’

‘We are not talking about minor mischief,’ said Michael coldly. ‘We are talking about murder and deceit on an enormous scale.’

Ailred glanced across the river, and bent down, as though to brush something from his gown. Then, before Bartholomew or Michael
could do anything to stop him, he had pushed off and was scooting down the river at a furious pace.

‘After him, Matt!’ ordered Michael in a shriek. ‘Do not just stand there!’

Bartholomew jumped on to the ice, but feet were no match for skates, and the physician’s awkward slithering was no match for
Ailred’s speed and power. The Franciscan rounded a bend on the river, and was gone from sight.

M
ICHAEL WAS STILL FURIOUS AT AILRED’S ESCAPE THE
following day, claiming he would have had the answers to many questions if the physician had
managed to seize the Franciscan before he could skate away. Bartholomew disagreed. He did not think Ailred had been in the
mood for throwing light on Michael’s mysteries, and believed the friar would simply have continued to lie. It came down to
Godric’s word against his principal’s, and Bartholomew sensed Godric might not keep to his story anyway – he would capitulate,
and declare that Ailred had been in after all. Loyalty was important in hostels and Colleges.

It was almost noon, and Bartholomew had spent the morning trailing around after Michael in a futile attempt to discover where
Ailred might have gone. They had visited Ovyng Hostel twice and the Franciscan Friary once, but no one had any idea where
a fleeing Grey Friar might go in an emergency. They all said much the same: Ailred was a quiet man, respected and liked by
his contemporaries, whose life had revolved completely around his hostel and his students.

‘Only another four days,’ growled Suttone irritably. The bell had just chimed to announce the midday meal, and he was walking
across the yard with Bartholomew and Michael, just back from their futile hunt. ‘Then this ridiculous charade will be over.’

‘You mean the season of misrule?’ asked Michael. ‘It has not been too bad this year. The cold weather spoiled some of the
wilder schemes, and the fun is wearing too thin now for there to be many more surprises in store for us. Some
students are already settling back to their studies.’

‘Quenhyth never stopped his,’ said the Carmelite in disgust. ‘Smug little beggar.’

‘I thought his obsession with learning would endear him to you,’ said Bartholomew, surprised the dour Carmelite so disliked
Quenhyth. The student was dull, pedantic and single-minded, which were traits Suttone usually approved in a scholar. ‘He has
not engaged in any of the antics surrounding the Lord of Misrule.’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Suttone. ‘His character makes people want to tease him. Indeed, his very presence in Michaelhouse has
been the cause of pranks that would not have taken place had he been gone. We must remember to send him away next year – especially
if Deynman is reelected.’

They walked into the hall and went to the servants’ screen, where large pots of food were waiting to be distributed. The Fellows
were still obliged to serve the others on occasion, and some students continued to occupy the high table, although many had
reclaimed their own seats in the body of the hall. The novelty of eating with Deynman had completely worn off for Agatha,
however, and she declined his invitations, claiming that she was bored with the prattle of silly boys. She had reverted to
dining in the kitchen, along with the rest of the servants.

‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded Michael crossly, snatching up a dish of something that was coloured a brilliant emerald. ‘It
will take us ages to serve everyone without him. And what in God’s name is this?’ His attention had been caught by the contents
of the bowl.

‘Deynman said all food served today should be green,’ said Bartholomew, laughing when he saw the mouldy bread that Agatha
had piled into a basket and the platter of rancid pork that had been prepared. ‘He should have chosen a different colour,
because if anyone willingly eats this stuff he deserves to die of poisoning.’

‘That will teach Deynman to make life difficult for Agatha,
with his ridiculous demands and orders,’ said Wynewyk in delight. ‘Decaying meat, mouldy bread, cabbage and pea soup with
added colouring. It is all green, but Deynman did not specify it also had to be edible!’

‘I shall be glad when this is over,’ said Suttone vehemently, grabbing the bread and preparing to distribute it to hungry
students who would be in for a disappointment. ‘Because the servants are not allowed to work, the hall has not been cleaned
for days, and it stinks.’

The odour of stale rushes and spilt food was indeed becoming noticeable, and Bartholomew was aware that fewer students used
the hall for sleeping, preferring the fresher, if colder, air of their own rooms. The walls were splattered with wine and
fat, where the Fellows’ inexpert handling of heavy serving vessels had resulted in mishaps, and the floor was lumpy with discarded
scraps. It had almost reached the point where Bartholomew felt obliged to scrape his feet clean before he left.

He escaped from the hall as soon as Deynman said the final grace. It was an unusually short meal, because so little was actually
edible, and it was not long before the students were clamouring to leave, so they could find victuals elsewhere. Because his
room was still encased in a cocoon of snow – although it was melting quickly and it would not be long before it would be accessible
again – Bartholomew went to William’s chamber.

The friar had not been obliged to consume green food. He sat replete and contented, with the remains of fish-giblet stew,
and fine wheat-bread, which Bartholomew imagined had also been enjoyed by Agatha, lay in front of him. William informed Bartholomew
that his meal had been excellent and that he was considering ‘breaking’ his other leg in order to be cosseted and excused
from unpleasant duties.

‘Do not let Agatha know you are only pretending to be infirm,’ the physician advised. ‘If she discovers her charity has been
in vain your life will not be worth living.’

‘The weather is changing,’ said William ruefully. ‘And the
ground underfoot is not nearly as slick as it was. You can remove the splint in a day or two, but I may bribe you with books
again, if I feel the need for a period of respite.’

‘Bribe away,’ said Bartholomew, running his hand lovingly over the fine cover of his Bradwardine. ‘Did you know that Michael
spent all morning searching for one of your brethren? Ailred from Ovyng ran away when our questions became too uncomfortable.’

‘I heard,’ said William. ‘And I am astonished. Ailred is a kindly, God-fearing man. I cannot imagine him fleeing from anything.’

‘Has he ever spoken to you about kin from the village of Fiscurtune, near Lincoln? No one else seems to know much about his
family.’

‘He has kin,’ replied William. ‘Or should I say
had
kin, since we Franciscans often renounce family ties once we have taken our vows. I know a little about Ailred’s, though,
because we went on retreat to Chesterton together once. He talked about them then.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his excitement quicken.

‘Very little,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘He has a brother. Or was it a sister? I cannot recall now. And there is a nephew
he is fond of.’

‘Do you know anything else about them?’ asked Bartholomew.

William thought for a moment. ‘They used to go fishing together.’

Bartholomew told Michael about his conversation with William as they sat in the Brazen George, eating roasted sheep with a
sauce of beetroot and onions. There were parsnips and cabbage stems, too, baked slowly in butter in the bottom of the bread
oven, so that the flavour of yeast could be tasted in them. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to Bartholomew
that Ailred was indeed associated with the dead John Fiscurtune. And he wondered
whether there was some significance in the fact that Walter Turke had died while skating, when Ailred had shown himself to
be a veteran on ice.

‘Do you think Ailred did something to bring about Turke’s death?’ he asked.

‘Possibly,’ said Michael. ‘There are too many connections between them to be ignored. So, Turke murdered Fiscurtune, then
bribed the local Sheriff to ignore the crime. Fiscurtune’s family must have been outraged. Then Turke embarked on a pilgrimage
to “atone” for his sin, making it clear he was doing so only because he intended to be elected Lord Mayor and did not want
an inconvenient matter like murder to stand in his way.’

‘It would have added insult to injury,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And then this pilgrimage took him through Cambridge, where one
of the wronged kinsmen lives. When the snows isolated the town and trapped Turke here, it must have seemed as though fate
was screaming for vengeance.’

‘God was screaming for vengeance,’ corrected Michael. ‘Ailred is a friar, remember? What did he do, do you think? Force Turke
on to the ice somehow?’

‘There were no obvious injuries on Turke’s body, so I do not think violence was used.’

‘Ailred could have threatened him with a crossbow,’ suggested Michael.

‘In broad daylight on the Mill Pool? Someone would have seen them.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, and asked
the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since he had first learned about the possible connection between
Ailred and Turke. ‘Do you think Philippa suspects her husband’s death was not an accident, and she knows or has guessed that
Ailred is involved?’

‘I do not see how, unless she was there.’ Michael studied his friend with sombre green eyes. ‘And I do not think she was there,
despite the fact that we know Giles regularly locked himself in her room, leaving her free to wander.’

‘Then why do I feel as though she is not telling us the
truth? Even Matilde can see there is something strange about Philippa, and they do not even know each other.’

Michael patted his arm. ‘Eat your parsnips, Matt. Then we shall search again for the elusive Ailred. He cannot be far – the
roads are still closed, and he has nowhere else to go.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the Brazen George, and were about to turn down St Michael’s Lane when they encountered Langelee
striding towards them, gripping Quenhyth by the scruff of his neck. Langelee’s face was impassive, but the student’s expression
revealed exactly how he felt: angry, maligned and humiliated. He was trying to explain something to Langelee, but Langelee
was refusing to listen.

‘I was on my way to your prison,’ Langelee said, thrusting Quenhyth at Michael, so hard that the lad bounced into Michael’s
substantial girth and almost lost his balance. ‘I want you to take charge of this miserable specimen.’

‘What has he done this time?’ asked Michael, fixing the hapless student with a stern eye. ‘Another whore in his bed? Or has
he hidden Father William’s crutches again?’

Quenhyth bristled. ‘I did neither of those things, and you know it. They were pranks designed specifically to land me in trouble.’

‘I caught him searching the servants’ belongings,’ said Langelee to Michael with considerable anger. ‘The steward came to
me in a panic, saying there was a burglar in the stable loft, and when I investigated I found Quenhyth. I cannot imagine what
he was thinking of.’

‘I was not among the
servants
’ possessions,’ said Quenhyth. ‘I was looking through baggage belonging to the Chepe Waits. Brother Michael himself gave me
permission to search them, so I could prove they stole my scrip. I would have gone sooner, but I had to wait until they were
out.’

‘Your obsession with the Waits verges on the fanatical,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘Such an attitude will land you in
hot water one day.’

‘It has landed him in hot water today,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘I cannot condone students rifling through our servants’ belongings.
They will leave us, and then where will we be? Good retainers do not grow on trees, unlike bothersome students.’

‘I was only doing what you told me to do,’ cried Quenhyth, appealing to Michael. ‘And I discovered something important, so
it was worth my efforts.’

‘You found your scrip?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Something much more important than that,’ said Quenhyth, a note of triumph entering
his voice when he saw he had Michael’s attention. ‘I can prove the Waits knew Dympna – the woman who sent notes to Norbert
and lured him to his death.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘And how can you do that?’

‘Because I have a message written by her,’ said Quenhyth smugly. He
produced a piece of parchment with a flourish. ‘I decided to take it, because Frith would have rid himself of it by the time
I had alerted you. The message was in plain view, between two floorboards.’

Michael snatched the note from him, read it quickly, then handed it to Bartholomew. It contained nothing other than the name
Dympna and a series of numbers, just like the ones they had seen on the parchment in Gosslinge’s throat. These were one, thirteen
and four, and the ink was pale enough to be all but invisible. The message still made no sense to the physician, although
Quenhyth was right in that it indicated an association between the Waits and the benevolent moneylenders. Or perhaps they
had gained possession of one of the messages sent to Norbert.

‘Being between the floorboards is not in plain view,’ said Bartholomew, passing it to Langelee.

‘It was in plain view to anyone conducting a thorough and meticulous search,’ said Quenhyth pedantically. ‘Well, what do you
think? It is damning evidence, is it not?’

Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him away, so they could speak without being overheard by Quenhyth.
Langelee followed, raising an imperious finger at the student to tell him to stay where he was.

‘It is possible that the Waits applied for a loan from Dympna, and this message is Dympna’s response,’ said Michael. ‘It is
obviously in some kind of code.’

‘The one we found inside Gosslinge was written with onion ink or some such thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It only became visible
when warmed. I wonder why this is not the same.’

‘I was once fooled by that, too,’ said Langelee, who knew a lot about codes and secret messages from his days as a spy for
the Archbishop of York. ‘I believed a message had been written invisibly, but it transpired some cheap inks just fade with
extremes of temperature – as this has started to do. The recent weather has been very cold.’

‘So Gosslinge’s note was not written in secret ink?’ asked Michael, shooting Bartholomew a look that indicated he felt the
physician had misled him.