A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew smiled. ‘It is a tempting offer, but we have both changed over the years. Although I shall always remember you with affection, my heart belongs to another.’

‘That is a shame,’ said Philippa, disappointed. ‘But I wish you happiness nonetheless. Do not spurn her because she is poor, and make the mistake I made.’

‘I will not,’ promised Bartholomew.

The huge drift of snow outside Bene’t College did not thaw as quickly as was hoped, but attacking it with shovels proved to be hard and futile work, so the citizens of Cambridge were obliged to let it melt in its own time. It did so gradually, and people commented on its slowly diminishing size when they passed it on the High Street. Children played on it, using its slick sides for sliding, while some enterprising souls caused a good deal of delight by carving faces into it. Morice’s was one that was prominently featured, and Agatha’s was another.

Weeks passed, until eventually it dwindled to the point where people barely noticed it was there. Then, one morning, only the very base remained. It was Kenyngham who discovered its grisly secret. He was walking from Michaelhouse to his friary when he saw the hand of the long-dead Josse protruding from it. He knelt, sketching a benediction and muttering prayers for the soul of a man who had lain unmissed and undiscovered for so long. There was a piece of parchment clutched in Josse’s hand. Kenyngham removed it from the dead, white fingers, and read the message.

It was from John Fiscurtune the younger to Ailred, and informed the friar of the imminent visit of his nephew and his ‘plan’ to relieve Turke of more money. Kenyngham recalled the events that had unfolded that Christmas with a shudder. He folded the parchment carefully, and put it in his scrip, intending to hand it to Michael later. But first, there was a man’s soul to pray for, and Kenyngham lost himself in the sacred words of a requiem for a man he had never met.

Sheriff Tulyet tried hard to discover the dead man’s identity, but Josse had carried nothing to give him any clues, and a week later he was buried in an unmarked grave in a quiet corner of St Botolph’s churchyard. Quenhyth, recently returned from delivering Turke’s body to Chepe, heaved a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that someone clever, like Michael or Bartholomew, would tie the time of Josse’s death to one of the days that Quenhyth had slipped out of Michaelhouse and had gone to the King’s Head. Gray had told Quenhyth on two occasions that someone there had a note from his father, but both times the summons had transpired to be a cruel joke that had seen Quenhyth fined by William for being in a tavern. In normal circumstances, Quenhyth would have ignored Gray’s message, but he had left home on bad terms with his family, and he had so desperately wanted them to write and tell him that all was forgiven.

Quenhyth recalled the day vividly. It had been after dusk, and the streets were deserted as he had struggled through the blizzard to the inn. When he had seen Josse, he had stopped dead in his tracks and stared in disbelief. It was the man who had stolen away his lovely Bess and broken his young heart: Josse was older and more handsome, and the fickle tavern wench had abandoned Quenhyth for the sturdy messenger without a backward glance. To soothe his hurt, Quenhyth had decided to give up his apprenticeship as a fishmonger and become a physician instead, wanting to change every aspect of his unhappy life.

When the snow had sloughed off Bene’t College’s roof to land on Josse, Quenhyth’s first reaction had been to rush across and begin digging him out. But he had stopped himself. If Quenhyth could not have Bess, then Josse should not have her, either. He had stood for a long time, staring at the pile of snow and thinking about what would be happening underneath. And then he had gone to the tavern.

When he attended Josse’s requiem – the only person to do so – Quenhyth felt a grim satisfaction. Life was definitely looking better: he was reconciled with his father, Gray had left Michaelhouse to take up a new appointment in Suffolk, and no one had discovered his connection with the messenger he could have saved. Yes, he thought; things were turning out very well indeed.

Two weeks later, Kenyngham met Bosel the beggar, who made his customary plea for spare coins. The elderly friar emptied his scrip in search of pennies, and did not notice Josse’s forgotten parchment flutter to the ground. Bosel noticed, however, and snatched it up as soon as Kenyngham had gone. He peered at it this way and that, but since he could not read, the obscure squiggles and lines meant nothing to him. He sold it to Robin of Grantchester for a penny.