A Killer in Winter

‘Apparently not,’ said Godric. He jerked a thumb at the window. ‘Although it will not be long if this thaw continues.’

‘Do you know where he was born?’ asked Michael.

Godric seemed startled by the abrupt change of subject, but answered anyway. ‘Lincoln. Surely you must have heard him waxing lyrical about the place?’

‘He comes from a village near Lincoln,’ corrected Michael. ‘Not Lincoln itself, although our records say he had his education from the school in the city.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Godric, frowning as he remembered. ‘I think his home was called Fisheby or Fiscurtone or some such thing. Why do you ask?’

‘Does he have family?’ asked Michael. ‘A brother or cousins? Male relatives of any kind?’

Godric shook his head. ‘Not that I know. But we Franciscans are supposed to renounce earthly ties once we take final vows, so it is possible he has put his kinsmen behind him.’

‘Damn,’ swore Michael softly. ‘I was hoping you would know whether he was related to a man named John Fiscurtune, who was murdered in London last year.’

‘If he was, then he never mentioned it,’ said Godric.

‘Do you know whether he has any association with fishermen or fishmongers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I recall him gutting fish very expertly when we were here once.’

‘Other than the name of his home manor?’ asked Godric. ‘He always catches more trout from the river than anyone else, and he prefers fish to meat. But that is all.’

‘It may be enough,’ said Michael, nudging Bartholomew in the ribs. ‘But we should have this discussion with Ailred himself. Come, Matt. Let us see this Franciscan on his skates.’

Bartholomew and Michael took their leave of Godric, and struggled back through the melting drifts in the direction of the Great Bridge. At last they reached the river, which curved around the western side of the town and looked like another road, with its frozen surface and recent dusting of snow. However, all manner of filth lay strewn across its surface – sewage, animal manure, inedible items from the butchers’ stalls, fish entrails, rotting vegetables, and some items Bartholomew dared not identify, although he suspected they had once belonged to a dog.

Because it was a winter Sunday, and a day when many folk enjoyed a day of rest, there was a large gathering of people near the Great Bridge and on the water meadows that lay to either side of it. The fields were prone to flooding in spring, and so were mostly devoid of houses – although a few desperate folk had erected shacks along the edges. The meadows were used for grazing cattle in the summer, but now they were blanketed in snow and were the venue for the town’s traditional First Day of the Year games.

Sheriff Morice had seized control of the event, and was sitting astride his handsome grey stallion, watching the proceedings from the vantage point of the bridge itself. He was surrounded by his lieutenants, a gaudy and frivolous group who, like Morice, were more interested in making money than in promoting law and order. The townsfolk seemed to be enjoying the games, although there was none of the excited anticipation associated with the annual campball.

A number of activities were in progress. Butts had been set up, and townsmen were showing off their skills with bows and arrows. Dangerously close to their line of fire was a game of ice bandy-ball, where strong men smacked a small wooden sphere with terrific force, so that anyone in its path could expect serious injury. Meanwhile, an impromptu session of ice-camping had started, using the same leather bag that Agatha had powered into the gargoyle’s maw a few days earlier. It was more a case of ‘snow-camping’ than ice-camping, because the soft surface was slowing the speed of the game. Bartholomew thought this would mean fewer injuries for the participants, although he could not but help notice that it, too, ranged perilously close to the butts.

Nearby St Giles’s was supplying church ale to the spectators, and women stood behind trestle tables, selling slices of the sausage-like hackin. A shrid pie was on display, too, decorated with its traditional pastry baby-in-a-basket. Bartholomew noticed that the women had cut their wedges carefully around the crib, with the result that the baby was left teetering atop a pastry precipice.

A crowd had gathered around a stall where hot spiced wine was being sold for wassailing. Some folk had already toasted the health of too many friends, and had passed out in the snow. Bartholomew hoped they would not be left to freeze to death after the games had finished, but was reassured by the watchful presence of the Austin Canons from the nearby Hospital of St John. He felt a tug on his cloak, and turned to see Sergeant Orwelle, a grizzled veteran who usually manned the town’s gates.