A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows at his book-bearer.

Cynric was unabashed. ‘Turke might have lived if a physician had been on hand sooner. You said so yourself. Do not fret, boy. I will tie a rope around you and will not let you sink.’

‘This is very ironic,’ said Harold, squinting across the bright ice towards the trapped scholar. ‘Father Ailred was among the folk who rescued Turke from this very spot the day after Christmas.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Ailred was not here when I came to examine Turke.’

‘It was Ailred who ordered us to let Turke rest before summoning other help,’ said Harold. ‘Or was it his friend – that Chepe Wait? Anyway, they both agreed we should wait until the ice formed on Turke’s clothes.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.

‘Of course,’ said Harold scornfully. ‘Well, I am not certain exactly who said what, but I know they told us it is best to let a man freeze after a dip in cold water. They said it is something to do with slowing the blood and preventing the heart from exploding.’

‘Who else was here, besides Ailred and Frith – the Wait?’ asked Bartholomew, his own heart pounding as he considered the implications of the boy’s statements. It sounded as though Turke had been deliberately allowed to freeze to death, and a physician summoned only when it was certain that nothing could be done to save him.

‘Just us,’ said Harold, indicating himself and two other boys. ‘When Frith and Ailred eventually decided that Turke might benefit from your services, they sent us to fetch Cynric.’

‘And all this took time,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I arrived, Turke was beyond saving.’

Harold exchanged a frightened glance with his friends. ‘You mean they were wrong, and we should have fetched you immediately? But I thought they were trying to help Turke.’

‘They were not,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘Quite the reverse. By waiting until his wet clothes turned to ice, they ensured he died. He was murdered, after all.’

‘They forced him to skate,’ said Harold miserably. ‘He said he did not want to, because the ice was too thin. But they promised him that if he could reach the other side of the Mill Pool, then he would be free of them for ever. We thought they were playing games, like we do – you know, daring each other to do dangerous things. Except that Turke was crying, because he said he was afraid.’

‘Did Frith or Ailred see you watching them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Harold gave the ghost of a smile. ‘We were hiding under the bridge, because it is sheltered from the wind. They did not see us until we came to help – after Turke fell in.’

‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that the apprentices might well have been forced to do some skating on thin ice themselves had Ailred and Frith known their murderous fun had been observed. He stared at the floundering figure in the distance, and thought about what Ailred had forced Turke to do. ‘It looks as if he offered Turke a chance of life – saying that if he reached the other side, he would be free of their vengeance.’

‘Turke did not have a hope wearing those skates,’ determined Harold, the proud expert. ‘They were not even tied properly.’

Michael had said that, Bartholomew recalled. But it had been decided that the inexpert tying of thongs was not significant, whereas in reality it had been a vital clue to the cruel game Frith and Ailred had played with Turke. They had offered him a chance, but had actually ensured he would never reach safety. And then they had deliberately let him freeze to death.

‘Why did you not mention this before?’ he asked.

Harold looked aggrieved. ‘I tried! Twice! But no one would listen to me. I was sent off to warm myself by the fire like a small child. No one would even let me speak.’

That was true, Bartholomew remembered. Harold had tried to say something, but Stanmore had noticed the boy’s blue hands, and had dispatched him home; his protectiveness had resulted in valuable information going untold. Another mistake had been made: Turke’s murder had been deemed an accident, because there had been no marks of violence on the body. They had assumed – wrongly – that no coercion had taken place.

‘Philippa was not here, too, was she?’ he asked, wondering whether Stanmore’s suspicions had been justified all along.

‘No,’ said the boy, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm in a sudden, painful pinch and pointed across the water. ‘The friar is slipping! You had better see if you can save him, before it is too late.’