A Killer in Winter

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael wearily. ‘You and I are not having good fortune, Matt. First, you misdiagnose a death and lose a murder weapon in the river, and then I set a clue alight. Now it seems that neither of us is perfect, whereas yesterday I thought it was just you.’

‘What do you think it meant?’ asked Bartholomew, gazing at the blackened mess on the ground. ‘Is it a reference to a book, do you think?’

‘Or numbers in some court roll or legal document. You know – “37, Ed II” means the thirty-seventh section in the Court Rolls of Edward the Second.’

‘That does not work, either. There are too many numbers.’ Bartholomew shook his head in frustration. ‘It could mean anything – from orders of cloth in ells, to astrological computations. We are no further along now than we were before.’

‘It must have been important, though. Why else would it have figured so prominently in Gosslinge’s death?’

‘Who knows?’ asked Bartholomew, dispirited. ‘I certainly do not.’

The winds had raged so hard the previous night they seemed to have blown the cold away, and the weather had grown milder. This brought its own dangers, for it weakened the snow’s grip on roofs and trees, and huge loads were constantly being precipitated downward. There were rumours that a potter’s neck had been broken as he walked down Henney Lane, and people were vying for space in the very centre of the High Street, away from eaves and overhangs. The narrower lanes and alleyways were conspicuously empty of people.

A group of singers stood in the Market Square, performing secular and religious songs. Their faces were red from the cold, and all had their hands under their arms in an attempt to keep them warm. Their discomfort did not improve their performance, and what should have been cheerful, celebratory tunes sounded like dirges. Bartholomew felt sorry for them, and tossed them some coins as he passed. One detached himself from the group and followed them.

‘Now look what you have done,’ grumbled Michael disapprovingly. ‘We will never be rid of the fellow now that he believes you have funds to spare.’

‘We sing for private houses and institutions,’ said the musician hopefully. ‘All we ask is a little bread for our supper and a cup of warmed ale.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We have the misfortune of owning our own band of entertainers this season.’

‘You mean the Chepe Waits?’ asked the singer, his face displaying a good deal of disgust. ‘You are from Michaelhouse? Frith said he had secured a good arrangement with Michaelhouse.’

‘He certainly did,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Food, beds and, because they are not very good, they are not even obliged to perform that often.’

‘Why keep them, then?’ demanded the singer eagerly. ‘Why not hire us instead?’

‘Because we are loath to throw folk into the streets while the weather is bad.’ Michael did not sound at all compassionate.

The singer sneered. ‘You should keep your sympathy for those who need it. The Chepe Waits will never spend a night in the open. They will always inveigle themselves a bed somewhere, and if that fails, they can use their personal fortunes to hire a room in a tavern.’

‘Their funds do not run to those sorts of expenses,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that the singer needed to be told this. ‘They are itinerants, like you.’

‘No,’ said the singer bitterly. ‘They are not at all like me. If I had their money, I would not be standing here, losing my fingers and toes to the weather. I would be in a warm inn with a pot of spiced ale at my elbow and a hot wench on my knee.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That they are wealthy?’

‘I know the Chepe Waits from when we perform in London. They have friends in high places, who arrange for them to play in the best houses. Then they steal small items – not jewellery or gold, you understand, but little things no one will miss immediately. These they deposit with a friend, so that when accusations are levied, nothing is ever found.’

‘Quenhyth told me that,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘He did not mention that stolen goods were deposited with a third party, but he said a chalice had disappeared from his father’s home. He thought the Waits were responsible.’

‘Well, your Quenhyth was mistaken, then,’ said the singer. ‘The Chepe Waits would never take something as valuable as a chalice. That would cause a stir, and would tell other households they should not be hired. They are cleverer than that and only take objects that can be sold with no questions asked.’

‘Like glass salt dishes, knives, brass skewers and inkpots?’ asked Michael, naming four of several items that had been reported ‘lost’ at Michaelhouse.

‘Exactly!’ said the singer. ‘Everything they steal is small, unimportant, difficult to identify and can be sold openly. Not chalices.’

‘But these paltry objects will not buy them warm beds and decent meals in taverns,’ Bartholomew pointed out.