A Killer in Winter

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?’