A Killer in Winter

‘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.