A Killer in Winter

Abigny rubbed his hands over his face, then gave a rueful smile. ‘I thought I had deceived you successfully about that. You seemed to believe me at the time.’

‘We did not,’ said Michael. ‘It takes a far more accomplished liar than you to fool the University’s Senior Proctor.’

‘You were not there – it was a discussion between Matt and me,’ Abigny pointed out coolly. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘You were right to assume I knew more about Dympna than I revealed. However, my knowledge dates from the Death, when the charity was established. I was a founding member, but resigned when I left Cambridge and have heard nothing from it since. That was why I pestered William for information. It really was “idle curiosity”, as you put it.’

‘Why him?’ asked Michael.

‘I heard in the King’s Head that Dympna had financed some repairs to the Franciscan Friary. I thought William might be able to tell me more about it. Of course, he could not, and neither could Pechem. It was never an open charity, but it has become much more secret since I left. I suppose it is to safeguard itself against too many claims for its funds.’

‘Tell us what you do know,’ ordered Michael. ‘It may help.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Abigny. ‘Dympna started during the Death, when men were healthy one moment and dead the next. Wealthy folk gave friars gold for the poor, hoping their charity would save them from infection. Dympna was founded using these benefactions, so the money could be fairly and properly distributed. You see, once or twice, mistakes were made, and unscrupulous folk made off with funds they should not have had. Including Michaelhouse, I might add.’

‘Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael, astonished. ‘We never made a claim from Dympna.’

‘Thomas Wilson did, though,’ replied Abigny. ‘You will recall he was Master during the Death and was greedy and corrupt. He inveigled funds from Dympna that he should not have been given, and they went directly into his own coffers. You must have heard the stories about how rich he was when he died.’

Bartholomew knew all about Wilson’s ill-gotten wealth. He and Michael had recovered some of it a couple of years ago, but not before men had died over it.

‘Is that all Dympna is?’ pressed Michael. ‘A charity?’

Abigny raised his hands, palms upward. ‘It was a charity five years ago, but who knows what it is now? That was why I asked William about it, and why I have made several journeys around the town, even though my feet pain me. I am curious to know what it has become.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

Abigny smiled. ‘Because I feel honoured to be one of its original members. It is a worthy cause, and I hope it thrives for many years. But standing in the cold is agony for me. You must come to Milne Street, if you wish to talk further. Good morning.’

‘Is he telling the truth now, do you think?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, as the clerk hobbled away.

‘He is telling the truth about his sore feet. And as for the rest – I have no idea.’

Dick Tulyet was pleased to see Bartholomew and Michael, and invited them into the warm chaos of his house on Bridge Street. His energetic son was racing here and there with a wooden sword, an item that Bartholomew thought was far too dangerous a thing to place in the destructive hands of the youngest Tulyet. The child was in constant trouble, much to the consternation of his sober and law-abiding parents.

Tulyet led Bartholomew and Michael to the room he used as an office, where he slipped a bar across the door, explaining that young Dickon would dash in and disturb them if it were left unlocked. The ear-splitting sounds of the boy’s battle calls echoed from the solar, where his mother and a couple of servants tried to keep him quiet until his father’s visitors left. The Tulyets would never have another child, and both treated the boy far more tenderly than was warranted for such a brutish little ruffian. Dickon was rapidly becoming a tyrant, and Bartholomew’s heart always sank when he was summoned to tend the brat’s various minor injuries – cuts and bruises usually acquired by doing something he had been told not to do.

‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pouring himself a cup of wine from the jug that stood on the windowsill before settling comfortably on a cushioned bench. ‘What does that mean to you, Dick? Mayor Horwood intimated you know something about it.’

‘Is this relevant to Norbert’s death?’ asked Tulyet warily. ‘Only I would rather not discuss it, if there is a choice.’

‘Dympna sent a number of notes to Norbert, summoning him to meetings in St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘You already know this, because I told you. Then a note from Dympna was discovered inside the corpse of a man called Gosslinge. So, I think information about this strange group could well be relevant – if not to Norbert’s murder, then to Gosslinge’s death.’