A Killer in Winter

Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But perhaps not. Who knows? You may have dithered too long, even for her. However, I can offer you one piece of advice: if you do become betrothed, do not allow another fiancée to disappear to London without you.’

Bartholomew was deep in thought as he walked with Michael towards Tulyet’s house near the Great Bridge. When he happened to glance up from watching where he was placing his feet in the treacherous muck, he spotted a familiar figure making its way towards them. For a brief moment he thought it was Philippa, but it was Abigny.

Philippa and her brother were of a similar height, and both had abandoned the flowing locks of youth for the more conventional styles of middle age – Abigny’s cropped short and Philippa’s coiled in plaits. Both possessed cloaks with hoods, like most winter travellers, and neither was in the habit of walking fast. However, Abigny’s plumed hat made him distinctive, whereas Philippa favoured a goffered veil – yellow when she had arrived, but dyed black since Turke’s death. The goffered style comprised a half-circle of linen draped over the head with a broad frill along the straight edge framing the face. Philippa and Abigny wearing their preferred headgear could not be mistaken for each other, but Philippa and Abigny with their cloaks’ hoods raised or their hats exchanged might.

The physician thought back to the time of the plague. Philippa and her brother had changed places then, too, fooling folk for several days. Could they be doing the same thing a second time? He recalled Stanmore commenting on the amount of time Abigny spent outside. Was it actually Philippa in disguise? No one would look too closely, because it was common knowledge that she declined to leave the house on Milne Street without an escort. Bartholomew saw that was probably just a ruse, designed to ensure no one would suspect her of going out at all.

All at once Bartholomew knew Clippesby was right: it was not Abigny who ran the errands around the town, but Philippa. He knew perfectly well Abigny was not exaggerating when he complained about the pain in his feet, and the physician realised with disgust that he should have guessed days ago that the clerk had not been traipsing endlessly around in the cold and the wet. His feet simply would not have allowed him to do it.

‘Giles,’ he called, attracting his old room-mate’s attention. ‘Where is Philippa?’

‘In the church with Walter,’ replied Abigny, wincing. ‘These feet are no better, Matt. Do you have no stronger cure to offer me?’

‘Only the recommendation that you stay in and keep them warm and dry.’

‘I have been staying in,’ snapped Abigny, pain making him irritable. He glanced at the physician furtively, realising he had just said something he should not have done.

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘It is not you who has been seen all over the town. What has Philippa been doing?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ Abigny tried to push his way past.

Bartholomew grabbed his arm. ‘Who has Philippa been meeting? Why does she feel the need to sneak around in disguise, rather than going openly to meet her friend?’

Abigny sighed heavily, while Michael listened to the exchange in astonishment. ‘I am no good at this kind of thing,’ said the clerk tiredly. ‘It is a pity, because I might be offered a better post at the law courts if I were more expert at lying and subterfuge. The King likes men with those skills.’

‘So?’ demanded Bartholomew, not to be side-tracked. ‘What do you say to my questions?’

‘I say you should ask Philippa. They are not my secrets to reveal. I have my failings, but breaking confidences is not among them.’

‘Then you can reveal some secrets of your own,’ said Michael. ‘You met a man called Harysone in the King’s Head. Why?’

Abigny gazed at him in astonishment. ‘That is none of your business! What did you do? Follow me there, after I met you near the Trumpington Gate?’

‘Yes,’ replied Michael bluntly. ‘And Harysone is a suspect in a murder enquiry, so it is not casual inquisitiveness that makes me ask you about him: my questions are official.’

‘I went to buy his book,’ replied Abigny, evidently alarmed by Michael’s veiled threats. ‘It is about fish, and I thought it would make a suitable gift for the Fraternity of Fishmongers in Walter’s memory. It is packed in my saddle-bag at Edith’s house. I can show you, if you like.’

‘You bought Harysone’s scribblings?’ asked Michael in disgust. ‘To commemorate Turke?’

‘Why not?’ flashed Abigny. ‘There is a certain justice in purchasing a volume of dubious scholarship as a tribute to a dubious man. Walter would have hated the errors in it, and it will give me no small satisfaction to see the thing forever bearing his name in the Fishmongers’ Hall.’

‘What about Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject. ‘I do not believe you know nothing about that. Pechem and William would not have answered your questions if they thought you were asking out of idle curiosity.’