A Killer in Winter

‘I want to die,’ he said quietly. ‘That was my intention when I began to skate on ice that I knew was too thin. I have spent the past few days meditating on all that has happened, and it seems fitting that I should die in the same way as Turke and my sister. I have gone too far along a dark road, and all I want to do is atone for my mistakes. I was confused when I came to the surface again and allowed my fear to deter me from the course I had chosen. Go back. You have done all you can.’

‘I can save you,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Although I hate to admit it there is very little solid evidence against you, if you recant your confession to Turke’s murder.’

The friar gave a grim smile. ‘I know. And that is why you will allow my nephew and his friends to go free. But I do not want to live. I was a good man, but I do not like what I have become. So, go away, and leave me in peace.’

‘But I can almost reach you,’ objected Bartholomew, starting to move forward again.

The friar gave a smile that was unreadable, before lifting his arms above his head. The current immediately snatched him and his head disappeared from view. Bartholomew glimpsed his face, distorted with anguish, as it passed under the transparent ice below, and thumped the surface hard with his fists, trying to smash it and grab the man. But the current was too strong, and Ailred was gone.

Within moments, Bartholomew realised that striking the ice with such force had not been a wise thing to do. It started to crack, tiny zigzags spreading around him in all directions with a noise like close thunder. The planks on which he lay were suddenly on the move, and Bartholomew saw the black water of Ailred’s hole rushing towards him. He was certain he was about to suffer the same fate as the friar, but the shocking cold never came. He felt hands hauling him to safety, and realised Cynric and Michael had tugged the wood free, with him on it. For a long time, he stared at the opaque surface of the Mill Pool, hoping that Ailred was not still struggling underneath it.

* * *

‘You and Ailred had a lot to say to each other,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands vigorously as he watched people disperse from the Mill Pool now that the excitement was over. The physician supposed he should feel satisfied – he finally had answers to the questions that had plagued him since Norbert had been murdered – but instead he felt tainted, as though he had uncovered secrets that should have been left undisturbed.

He gave Michael a terse summary of the friar’s confession, adding that Turke had probably stabbed Norbert in a fit of outraged indignation. It was not the first time the fishmonger had vented his temper by using a knife on a man who had offended him. It also made sense that he had braved the ice he so feared in order to hunt for the weapon that would link his household to the crime – it was a desperate act of self-preservation.

‘Why did he choose that particular day to conduct his search?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Why not sooner? Or later?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Think about what transpired when he identified Gosslinge’s body. The matter of the missing knife was raised. Giles told us that Gosslinge had a dagger that was too large for him. We made the assumption that it was stolen with Gosslinge’s clothes. Then Turke gave us the relic to pay for a requiem, and we discussed St Zeno and fishermen.’

‘Giles said the relic would do Michaelhouse no good as long as the river was frozen,’ recalled Michael, ‘because anglers would not be able to break through the ice to reach the fish. Turke then mentioned a dislike of ice.’

‘Exactly. Giles also said he had thrown a stone on the river, and it had skittered across the surface. I think Turke realised then that the knife he had used on Norbert might have suffered a similar fate – it was not in the water, but on it. He searched for it that very day, perhaps obliged to wait until the Mill Pool was suitably deserted, but knowing it would only be a matter of time before someone recovered the murder weapon. And, if you recall, he said we should not bother to look for Gosslinge’s knife – only his valuable clothes.’

‘Because he did not want us to find the thing at all,’ concluded Michael, nodding. ‘A cold killer indeed. Poor Ailred! How hard it must have been to meet the man who had murdered both his siblings, and see he felt no remorse. Turke’s pilgrimage was not to atone for their deaths, but to make sure he was eligible to be elected Lord Mayor of London.’

‘There is no evidence to convict Frith of killing Turke. Morice cannot charge him with the murder, because we only have Ailred’s confession to go on, and Ailred is dead.’

‘True, but Frith was about to incinerate Michaelhouse,’ said Michael grimly. ‘He and his accomplices will not go free.’

‘They might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much do you think Morice demands from would-be arsonists for an early release?’