A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew told Michael about his conversation with William as they sat in the Brazen George, eating roasted sheep with a sauce of beetroot and onions. There were parsnips and cabbage stems, too, baked slowly in butter in the bottom of the bread oven, so that the flavour of yeast could be tasted in them. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to Bartholomew that Ailred was indeed associated with the dead John Fiscurtune. And he wondered whether there was some significance in the fact that Walter Turke had died while skating, when Ailred had shown himself to be a veteran on ice.

‘Do you think Ailred did something to bring about Turke’s death?’ he asked.

‘Possibly,’ said Michael. ‘There are too many connections between them to be ignored. So, Turke murdered Fiscurtune, then bribed the local Sheriff to ignore the crime. Fiscurtune’s family must have been outraged. Then Turke embarked on a pilgrimage to “atone” for his sin, making it clear he was doing so only because he intended to be elected Lord Mayor and did not want an inconvenient matter like murder to stand in his way.’

‘It would have added insult to injury,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And then this pilgrimage took him through Cambridge, where one of the wronged kinsmen lives. When the snows isolated the town and trapped Turke here, it must have seemed as though fate was screaming for vengeance.’

‘God was screaming for vengeance,’ corrected Michael. ‘Ailred is a friar, remember? What did he do, do you think? Force Turke on to the ice somehow?’

‘There were no obvious injuries on Turke’s body, so I do not think violence was used.’

‘Ailred could have threatened him with a crossbow,’ suggested Michael.

‘In broad daylight on the Mill Pool? Someone would have seen them.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, and asked the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since he had first learned about the possible connection between Ailred and Turke. ‘Do you think Philippa suspects her husband’s death was not an accident, and she knows or has guessed that Ailred is involved?’

‘I do not see how, unless she was there.’ Michael studied his friend with sombre green eyes. ‘And I do not think she was there, despite the fact that we know Giles regularly locked himself in her room, leaving her free to wander.’

‘Then why do I feel as though she is not telling us the truth? Even Matilde can see there is something strange about Philippa, and they do not even know each other.’

Michael patted his arm. ‘Eat your parsnips, Matt. Then we shall search again for the elusive Ailred. He cannot be far – the roads are still closed, and he has nowhere else to go.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the Brazen George, and were about to turn down St Michael’s Lane when they encountered Langelee striding towards them, gripping Quenhyth by the scruff of his neck. Langelee’s face was impassive, but the student’s expression revealed exactly how he felt: angry, maligned and humiliated. He was trying to explain something to Langelee, but Langelee was refusing to listen.

‘I was on my way to your prison,’ Langelee said, thrusting Quenhyth at Michael, so hard that the lad bounced into Michael’s substantial girth and almost lost his balance. ‘I want you to take charge of this miserable specimen.’

‘What has he done this time?’ asked Michael, fixing the hapless student with a stern eye. ‘Another whore in his bed? Or has he hidden Father William’s crutches again?’

Quenhyth bristled. ‘I did neither of those things, and you know it. They were pranks designed specifically to land me in trouble.’

‘I caught him searching the servants’ belongings,’ said Langelee to Michael with considerable anger. ‘The steward came to me in a panic, saying there was a burglar in the stable loft, and when I investigated I found Quenhyth. I cannot imagine what he was thinking of.’

‘I was not among the servants’ possessions,’ said Quenhyth. ‘I was looking through baggage belonging to the Chepe Waits. Brother Michael himself gave me permission to search them, so I could prove they stole my scrip. I would have gone sooner, but I had to wait until they were out.’

‘Your obsession with the Waits verges on the fanatical,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘Such an attitude will land you in hot water one day.’

‘It has landed him in hot water today,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘I cannot condone students rifling through our servants’ belongings. They will leave us, and then where will we be? Good retainers do not grow on trees, unlike bothersome students.’

‘I was only doing what you told me to do,’ cried Quenhyth, appealing to Michael. ‘And I discovered something important, so it was worth my efforts.’

‘You found your scrip?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Something much more important than that,’ said Quenhyth, a note of triumph entering his voice when he saw he had Michael’s attention. ‘I can prove the Waits knew Dympna – the woman who sent notes to Norbert and lured him to his death.’