A Killer in Winter

Robin nodded. ‘And gold for the Carmelites’ new robes, or to help that potter through the inconvenience of a lost foot. I arranged for Bosel the beggar to borrow a cloak for the winter, and I did most of the organising when the Franciscans needed a new roof. It is me who tells folk they will only be lent money if they do not tell anyone how it came about.’

‘You did not ask Dunstan not to mention Dympna,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You left the food, fuel and Yolande de Blaston, then went home.’

‘That was different,’ replied Robin. ‘Dunstan was the town’s most active gossip when Athelbald was alive, but that changed the instant he died. I doubt Dunstan even knew I was there. There was no point mentioning the fact that the food and fuel came courtesy of Dympna.’

‘Dick Tulyet said the funds for Dunstan did not come from Dympna,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Of course they did,’ replied Robin waspishly. ‘I have no money to throw away on dying men, while Kenyngham and Ailred are friars, who have little in the way of worldly goods. Perhaps the two of them acted quickly and did not have time to consult Tulyet.’ His smile became malicious. ‘Now he will know what it is like to belong to a group that does not bother to solicit his opinion!’

‘Ailred was certainly aware of Dunstan’s case,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We mentioned it when we were at Ovyng, and he knew all about it.’

‘We have taken up enough of your time, Robin,’ said Michael. ‘Thank you for your help. And give our regards to Helena.’

Bartholomew and Michael continued towards Ovyng, where both scholars felt they would have better answers from Ailred than those they had squeezed from Robin. It was obvious that Robin was not involved in the more important decisions, and that Tulyet had been correct in saying he had been invited to join only as a way for the group to know which of the townsfolk had hired his services and so might be candidates for Dympna’s charity. Robin received payment for his membership, indicating that the others knew he was the kind of man whose help and silence needed to be bought.

Bartholomew’s feet were sodden by the time they reached Ovyng, and his toes ached from the icy water inside his boots. Michael’s face was flushed and sweaty, and he removed his winter cloak and tossed it carelessly over one shoulder; part of it trailed in the muck of St Michael’s Lane. He knocked loudly and officially on Ovyng’s door. It was eventually opened by Godric.

‘You took your time,’ said the monk accusingly. ‘We have come to speak to your principal.’ He pushed past the friar, and Bartholomew followed, surprised to find the main room of the hostel empty. The hearth was devoid of even the most meagre of fires, and the room felt colder than the air outside. It smelled stale, too – rancid fat mixed with boiled vegetables and dirty feet. Godric had been given the tedious task of rewaxing the writing tablets the students used for their exercises. The size of the pile on the table suggested that Godric would be labouring for some hours to come.

‘Father Ailred is not here,’ said Godric sullenly, stating the obvious. ‘He has gone out and taken the others with him. Except me. I am obliged to remain here.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘What have you done to displease him? Gambling? Taverns?’

‘Telling you he went out when he claims he stayed in,’ said Godric resentfully. ‘At least, I am sure that is the real reason. The official one is he thinks my humours are unbalanced, and that I should stay inside until they are restored.’

‘Do you feel unwell?’ asked Bartholomew. The friar looked healthy enough, despite his unshaven and pale cheeks. But most people in Cambridge had a seedy sort of appearance during winter, when days were short and chilly and shaving was an unpleasant experience involving icy water and hands made unsteady by shivering.

‘I am cold and hungry, because we have no money for fuel and not much for food. But other than that I am well. I think Ailred is angry with me for telling you the truth about his evening out. I should never have allowed you to bully me into talking about it in the first place. He was furious.’

‘Was he, indeed?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘And why would that be? What is he hiding?’

‘I do not know; I was not with him,’ replied Godric petulantly. ‘And anyway, he says he was in, and I am mistaken about his absence.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked Michael. ‘Or will he later say he was here all the time and you have been mistaken about that, too?’

This coaxed a rueful smile from Godric. ‘He is skating on the river. Ice skating.’

Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘You mean fooling around, like children? That does not sound like a suitable activity for the principal of a hostel.’

‘Ailred says ice is a gift from God,’ said Godric. ‘He does not like cold weather particularly, but he adores ice. He says it is Heaven’s playground, and has all our students out at the First Day of the Year games near the Great Bridge.’

‘I thought the ice there was breaking up,’ said Bartholomew.