A Killer in Winter

Since it was the last day of Deynman’s rule, the student had gone to some pains to ensure it was pleasantly memorable. There was undiluted wine to drink, and several fine hams had been purchased, all glazed with honey and flavoured with winter herbs. The bread was made from expensive white flour, and there were pats of creamy butter to go with it. Bartholomew knew Michael would be chagrined to learn that spying on a lusty widow had deprived him of such a fine, if simple, meal.

After Deynman had struggled through what he considered to be an accurate rendition of the final grace and had dismissed his ‘court’, Bartholomew found Cynric waiting with a summons. Harold, Stanmore’s apprentice, had been hit with a snowball that contained something sharp, and had a bleeding scalp wound. Bartholomew grabbed his bag and set off at a trot to Milne Street.

When he arrived, he saw that Edith had been overly hasty in demanding that her brother come at once. Harold’s cut had clotted of its own accord, and the lad’s initial fright at the sight of his own blood was being assuaged by piles of comfits and candied fruits. Bartholomew cleaned the gash, although it was obvious that Harold just wanted the physician to go away, so he could concentrate on the array of treats that were laid out in front of him on the kitchen table.

‘They were throwing snowballs in the Market Square,’ said Edith, smiling fondly as she left the boy to his feast and led Bartholomew to the solar. ‘But the snow is not what it was yesterday, and it was apparently difficult to find a clean handful. In the excitement, missiles were thrown that contained more than snow.’

‘Harold has had quite an eventful day,’ said Bartholomew, following his sister up the stairs. ‘First he helped with Ailred’s rescue, and now he has himself a sliced head.’

‘Oswald was proud of him for acting so promptly, and wanted to reward him. The best of the snow will be gone tomorrow, and he decided to give him a last chance to enjoy it. Who knows when we will see its like again?’

‘Not too soon, I hope; I have only just retrieved my room. But this warmer weather must mean Philippa and Giles will be leaving soon?’

Edith nodded. ‘Tomorrow morning, assuming there is not another blizzard tonight. I like company, as you know, but I confess I shall be glad to bid them farewell.’

‘They have not been easy guests. Giles is no longer the carefree, amiable man he was before the Death, while Philippa is …’ He gestured expansively, not quite sure how to put his thoughts into words.

‘She is not the Philippa you were set to marry,’ supplied Edith. ‘Having a wealthy husband brought her luxury, but also disappointments. My heart broke when I saw what she had become.’

‘Rumour has it that she fashioned her own remedy to Walter’s inadequacies,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting his sister to waste sympathies where they were not needed. ‘Michael followed her this morning, when she went to meet a lover behind the Gilbertine Friary.’

Edith was startled. ‘Philippa did not go to meet a lover this morning. She has been in her chamber, folding clothes and deciding which of her husband’s possessions to donate to the poor. Did I mention that one of his sleeves was covered in blood? I suppose it must have happened when he murdered Fiscurtune in London, although the stain looks more recent to me.’

‘She must have slipped past you,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in Philippa than in the fact that the stained sleeve was evidence that Ailred had been right about Turke killing Norbert. ‘I saw her myself, and we know she uses Giles’s cloak and hat to go about business of her own. It was not him who wandered freely around the town – he is restricted by his chilblains – but her.’

‘That may have been so in the past, but not today,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She is upstairs. Listen – you can hear her walking in the chamber above us. She has not left the house.’

‘It must be Giles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is him you can hear.’

Edith cocked her head as footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘Here she comes. You can ask her.’

Philippa seemed tired and careworn. She smiled at Bartholomew as she entered the solar, although her expression was more wary than friendly. She was already wearing clothes for travelling, the others presumably packed away. Attached to the belt around her waist was a knife and a pomander for warding off the foul smells she was likely to encounter on her journey.

‘Matt thinks he saw you out today,’ said Edith bluntly. ‘I have been telling him you have not left the house.’

‘Edith is right,’ replied Philippa, regarding Bartholomew with a face that was curiously devoid of expression. ‘There is much to do if we are to go tomorrow. Giles has gone to check the horses, and I am obliged to pack our belongings, since Gosslinge is not here to do it.’