A Killer in Winter

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.’