A Killer in Winter

‘Precisely!’ said Michael in triumph. ‘The murdered man’s name was John Fiscurtune, not James. I knew you would hear the correct name and not the one I spoke. You do know him.’

‘I do not,’ said Ailred stiffly, although his denial was unconvincing.

‘You lied to us,’ Michael went on relentlessly. ‘You claimed you were with your students the evening St Michael’s Church was invaded, but you were not. Why did you feel the need for dishonesty? What are you trying to hide from us?’

‘Who told you that?’ asked Ailred, sounding panicky. ‘If you are referring to Godric, then you should know he has not been well. I have ordered him not to join the winter games today, so the warmth of indoors will help him recover his damaged wits.’

‘What is wrong with him, exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if Ailred had thought warmth would heal Godric, then he should have lit a fire. The hostel had been bitterly cold.

Ailred made an impatient gesture. ‘I am not a physician! All I know is he sometimes imagines things. There are other Ovyng scholars besides Godric. Ask them whether I was out that night.’

‘There would be no point,’ said Michael. ‘They have been instructed to say you were in.’

Ailred regarded him with dislike. ‘You are accusing me of grave offences, and you are insulting my integrity. I will not stand here and listen to this.’

‘Then tell the truth,’ said Michael harshly. ‘I know you are lying. Where did you go that night? Was it on Dympna’s business? Or was it some errand of your own?’

‘This is outrageous!’ shouted Ailred, finally angry. ‘I shall complain to the Chancellor about you. I am the principal of a University hostel, and I will not be questioned as though I were a common criminal or one of your secular students caught in some minor mischief.’

‘We are not talking about minor mischief,’ said Michael coldly. ‘We are talking about murder and deceit on an enormous scale.’

Ailred glanced across the river, and bent down, as though to brush something from his gown. Then, before Bartholomew or Michael could do anything to stop him, he had pushed off and was scooting down the river at a furious pace.

‘After him, Matt!’ ordered Michael in a shriek. ‘Do not just stand there!’

Bartholomew jumped on to the ice, but feet were no match for skates, and the physician’s awkward slithering was no match for Ailred’s speed and power. The Franciscan rounded a bend on the river, and was gone from sight.

CHAPTER 11

Michael was still furious at Ailred’s escape the following day, claiming he would have had the answers to many questions if the physician had managed to seize the Franciscan before he could skate away. Bartholomew disagreed. He did not think Ailred had been in the mood for throwing light on Michael’s mysteries, and believed the friar would simply have continued to lie. It came down to Godric’s word against his principal’s, and Bartholomew sensed Godric might not keep to his story anyway – he would capitulate, and declare that Ailred had been in after all. Loyalty was important in hostels and Colleges.

It was almost noon, and Bartholomew had spent the morning trailing around after Michael in a futile attempt to discover where Ailred might have gone. They had visited Ovyng Hostel twice and the Franciscan Friary once, but no one had any idea where a fleeing Grey Friar might go in an emergency. They all said much the same: Ailred was a quiet man, respected and liked by his contemporaries, whose life had revolved completely around his hostel and his students.

‘Only another four days,’ growled Suttone irritably. The bell had just chimed to announce the midday meal, and he was walking across the yard with Bartholomew and Michael, just back from their futile hunt. ‘Then this ridiculous charade will be over.’

‘You mean the season of misrule?’ asked Michael. ‘It has not been too bad this year. The cold weather spoiled some of the wilder schemes, and the fun is wearing too thin now for there to be many more surprises in store for us. Some students are already settling back to their studies.’

‘Quenhyth never stopped his,’ said the Carmelite in disgust. ‘Smug little beggar.’

‘I thought his obsession with learning would endear him to you,’ said Bartholomew, surprised the dour Carmelite so disliked Quenhyth. The student was dull, pedantic and single-minded, which were traits Suttone usually approved in a scholar. ‘He has not engaged in any of the antics surrounding the Lord of Misrule.’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Suttone. ‘His character makes people want to tease him. Indeed, his very presence in Michaelhouse has been the cause of pranks that would not have taken place had he been gone. We must remember to send him away next year – especially if Deynman is reelected.’