A Killer in Winter

‘Not that I recall,’ replied Philippa. She shivered and edged closer to the fire. ‘I had forgotten how cold it can be in this little town. I am not surprised Gosslinge succumbed to the weather.’

‘When I was re-examining Gosslinge, I found something trapped in his throat,’ said Bartholomew, watching as Edith fussed around Philippa with a woollen blanket. ‘I think he choked, rather than died of the cold. Was he in the habit of putting things in his mouth?’

‘Yes,’ said Abigny immediately, nodding in surprise. ‘His mouth was never empty, now that you mention it. There was always something poking out – a blade of grass or a sliver of wood for picking his teeth. He had restless jaws that always liked to be working on something.’

‘He sounds like Brother Michael,’ said Edith with a giggle. She prodded Abigny with her foot and indicated he was to roll the dice again. The conversation was at an end. Philippa huddled closer to the fire, and continued to stare into the flames, while Stanmore went to fetch more wood. Bartholomew watched her while he sipped his wine, thinking that for someone who had just been relieved of a tiresome husband and presented with a fine house, she still seemed preoccupied. He was certain there was something she had still not told them, and recalled Matilde’s words – that there was something sad about Philippa. He wondered what it could be, and why she had not unburdened herself of that secret, too.

It was too late, too cold and too dark for Bartholomew to return to Michaelhouse once the evening was over – the traditional games of cross and pile, raffle, hasard and queek had been played, the seasonal food eaten and the spiced wine drunk – so he accepted a bed in Stanmore’s attic. Once again, his dreams teemed with confused images and conversations, most of them featuring Philippa. He lay, half awake and half asleep, watching patterns made by the firelight move across the ceiling, and tried to make sense of the information he had gathered.

For the first time in several days, no snow fell during the night. A thick blanket of cloud served to insulate the Earth from the frigid night sky, and the temperature crept up until it was actually above freezing point. Compared to the conditions of the past several days, the little town was positively balmy, and Bartholomew felt overdressed and hot as he donned his various layers of tunics and jerkins the following morning. The warmer air weakened the icy hold of winter, and everything dripped. For the second day in a row, the streets were full of hissing, sloughing and cracking sounds as melting snow parted company with roofs, trees, walls and eaves. The ground no longer comprised hard-packed ice, but a lumpy brown slush that was knee deep in places.

Bartholomew left Stanmore’s house before dawn, and prepared to wade through the thaw to St Michael’s Church. He thought he was the only one awake, and was surprised to discover Philippa waiting for him, dressed in her black clothes. She wanted someone to walk with her when she went to say morning prayers for her husband’s soul. She leaned heavily on Bartholomew’s arm, her hood shielding her face in the manner expected of a woman who had been recently widowed. He noticed her shoes were thin and dainty and did little to protect her feet from the icy muck of the High Street. The Philippa of his memories had been a practical woman, who would have worn boots. He wondered whether this Philippa had donned shoes because they looked better with her elegant fur cloak, or whether her mind was absorbed by other matters.

He stopped suddenly and turned to face her. They were near St Mary the Great, where hundreds of candles sent a flickering orange glow through the traceried windows to make intricate designs on the snow in its graveyard. People were gathering to celebrate the first Sunday after Christmas. She faced him with a wary expression, evidently anticipating what he was about to say.

‘Those scars on Walter’s legs,’ he said. ‘Why did you not want me to see them?’

Her face darkened. ‘I have already told you. I do not know how he came by those marks, but he disliked them being seen by others. Of course I did him the service of keeping them from curious eyes when he lay dying. Why do you want to know, anyway?’

‘Because there are questions about his death that remain unanswered,’ said Bartholomew, standing his ground. ‘You say he would not have gone skating on thin ice, and yet that is how he died. Why? And why did Gosslinge choke to death on a piece of vellum? Was he trying to eat it? Was he hiding it from someone? Was the vellum what the two intruders in our church were looking for?’