A Killer in Winter

Jestyn nodded. ‘Father Ailred arranged it all. He said the money the old men earned from working for us would help them survive the winter. They were very good, too, because they knew so many people. It is a pity they both died so suddenly. Father Ailred was very upset.’

‘Enough chatter,’ said Frith sharply. ‘We need to take the chest, set the fire and be gone.’ He advanced on Agatha, but changed his mind when he saw her fists clench, and turned on Bartholomew instead. The physician felt a sharp jab as the tip of quarrel went through his clothes. ‘What will it be, Michaelhouse man? Stabbing or choking?’

‘Frith? Is that you?’ Harysone’s muffled voice came from the floor, and Bartholomew saw him ease himself up. Agatha’s blow had knocked the false teeth from his mouth, and he had already pulled off his beard. He looked very different without his disguise – older, fatter-faced and more sinister.

Frith gasped in surprise when he recognised his cousin, and Bartholomew considered making a grab for the Wait’s weapon while his attention was distracted, but Frith recovered himself quickly and moved out of reach.

‘John? What are you doing here?’

‘Turke,’ said Harysone, clinging to his cousin as he clambered to his feet, wincing and holding his head. ‘I was going to kill him myself, but you were there first.’

‘Liar!’ cried Philippa. ‘You were-’

‘Thrust these meddling souls into the cellar,’ interrupted Harysone before she could reveal that killing Turke had played no part in his plans. ‘Then set the fire and let us be gone. Hurry, Jestyn.’

‘No,’ said Jestyn again, exchanging a glance with the two women. ‘We will lock no one in the cellar, and we want none of that tainted gold. We are leaving – alone.’

Frith’s face was a mask of fury. ‘You will do as we say, or you will join this motley crowd choking in the ground.’

Harysone ignored the quarrelling Waits and calmly reached for the chest. Then, before anyone could stop him, he had snatched it up and darted away. Frith abandoned his squabble with Jestyn and followed with a bellow of rage, leaving the others gazing after them in astonishment.

‘I thought he was dazed,’ said Makejoy stupidly. ‘He could barely stand.’

‘That is what he wanted you to think,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘After him!’

The Waits had brought four horses when they had stopped at the friary stables, and Frith and Harysone were already mounted on two of them. They pushed and pulled at each other, as Frith tried to grab the chest from his cousin and Harysone fought to keep possession of it. They galloped across the main road, then down a lane that ran along the side of Peterhouse and towards the river. It was not the direction Bartholomew would have chosen to make a successful getaway, and he saw their attention was wholly focused on each other and Dympna. The people they had been threatening to kill were entirely forgotten.

Bartholomew raced after them, but had no idea what he would do if he caught them. Both were armed and dangerous, and he did not have so much as a surgical blade with him. But he ran, nevertheless, hearing the others pounding after him – the lighter footsteps of Abigny and Philippa, and the heavier ones of Agatha and Michael. The remaining Waits did not follow. They took the opportunity to escape, Jestyn on one pony and the two women on the other.

Bartholomew reached the river, and saw the two men still fighting and shoving each other as they fought to gain possession of the box. Their jerky movements were frightening the horses, which pranced and lurched, uncertain which direction they were supposed to take. In the end, Harysone’s turned right, and started cantering towards the Small Bridges and the Mill Pool. Frith followed hard on its heels, and Bartholomew ran after them, doggedly trying to catch up.

The cousins reached the larger of the Small Bridges, where Frith managed to spur his mount ahead, so he and Harysone were riding neck and neck as they thundered forward. Fortunately, no one else was using the bridge at that point, or he would have been trampled.

Frith finally managed to secure a grip on Dympna, and ripped it from Harysone’s hands. With a scream of fury, Harysone lunged after it, both hands reaching for the box. His flying leap knocked Frith from his saddle, and both men went tumbling over the side of the bridge. There was a thump, followed by a series of cracking and popping sounds.

Bartholomew reached the bridge, gasping for breath, and peered over the edge just in time to see the two men sprawled on the ice, still struggling over the box. Then the ice opened into a great black hole, and men and chest disappeared from view. The water frothed for a moment, then became calm, until all that was left was a dark, jagged hole, a short distance from the one that had claimed Ailred. Bartholomew saw a hand break the surface, before slowly sinking out of sight amid a circle of gentle ripples.

EPILOGUE