A Killer in Winter

‘I have been evicted,’ said William peevishly. ‘The Waits insisted on being alone with Kenyngham in the conclave, while he taught them some prayers. Why do they not want me there? I know as many prayers as he does.’

Bartholomew did not stop to answer, but pushed past the friar and made for the conclave, racing up the stairs and across the hall. The door was locked, and he kicked at it in frustration.

‘They have him inside,’ he shouted to Langelee, who was behind him.

‘Calm down, Matt,’ said Langelee, pulling him away. ‘If the Waits have locked themselves in, then they have just sealed the door to their own prison. There is only one way in or out of the conclave, and that is through this door. We have them.’

‘That is not the point!’ said Bartholomew in agitation. ‘Kenyngham is in there. He may be in danger. And they do balancing acts for a living, so do not imagine they cannot escape through the windows. Send Quenhyth to stand in the courtyard and sound the alarm if they try to leave that way. And fetch an axe.’

‘An axe?’ asked Langelee in horror. ‘You are not taking an axe to one of my doors!’

‘Kenyngham is alone with men who have killed,’ hissed Bartholomew, grabbing the Master by the front of his gown. ‘We will smash down the walls, if we have to.’

‘There is no need to resort to that kind of measure,’ said Michael calmly. He studied the door for a moment, took several steps back, and then powered towards it with his shoulder held like a battering ram. Bartholomew winced, anticipating broken bones. But just as Michael reached it, the door was opened and Kenyngham peered out, curious to know what had caused the sudden commotion in the hall. Michael shot past him, and there was a loud crash.

Bartholomew darted forward. The floorboards inside the door had been removed, and in the resulting recess sat a handsome walnut chest. Dympna. Bartholomew spotted it too late, and suffered the same fate as Michael. He caught his foot in the gaping hole, and slid the entire length of the conclave on his stomach.

He joined Michael in a mass of colourful arms and legs – the monk had evidently entered the room with such force he had collided with Yna and Makejoy and had bowled them from their feet. While the physician tried to disentangle himself and work out what was happening, the door was slammed shut and a heavy bench dragged across it.

‘What are you doing, Frith?’ asked Kenyngham in dismay. ‘Now no one else can come in.’

‘You do not want people wandering in and out while your gold is sitting in full view,’ said Frith reasonably. ‘It is better we keep the door closed until it is hidden again.’

‘Very well,’ said Kenyngham tiredly. ‘Are you hurt, Michael? If not, you should stand up, because I think that poor lady underneath you is suffocating.’ He turned to Frith. ‘You said you would leave once you had the chest. There it is. Now take it and go.’

Michael gaped in astonishment, removing himself from Makejoy, who struggled to her knees and attempted to catch her breath. ‘What are you doing, Father? This money has been used for good deeds. Why are you prepared to give it away?’

Frith smiled unpleasantly. ‘Because I have just informed him that if he does not, I shall set light to his College and burn it to the ground with every Michaelhouse scholar inside it. The friar is an intelligent man, and knows when folk are speaking the truth.’

‘They were just leaving when you crashed in,’ said Kenyngham to Michael, sounding tearful. ‘They promised they would take the chest and be gone by nightfall. It is only money. Ten Dympnas would not be worth a single life.’

‘But lives may be lost once Dympna has gone,’ Michael pointed out, ignoring Frith and addressing Kenyngham. He took Bartholomew’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Makejoy and Yna stayed where they were, the former running tentative hands down her arms and legs as she tested for damage, while the other appeared to have been knocked all but insensible. ‘It is not just a chest of coins: it is something that has helped a lot of people.’

‘But, like all earthly wealth, it has become tainted,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘I am not overly distressed to see it go.’

‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew, watching him closely. ‘You are referring to Ailred.’

Kenyngham nodded, and his saintly face was grey with sorrow. ‘He was a good man, but the gold corrupted him. He started to make illegal loans from the chest, so I was obliged to demand custody of it three weeks ago. He was not pleased. He was even less pleased when I confronted him with the fact that a large amount was unaccounted for.’

‘Did you tell Tulyet?’ asked Bartholomew.

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘There was no need for that. I simply gave Ailred notice that the missing gold had to be returned by the end of the Twelve Days – in four days’ time now – because that is when we will lend a sizeable sum to Robert de Blaston to demolish the High Street hovels and replace them with decent dwellings. Ailred had almost a month to recover it all.’