A Killer in Winter

‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and familiar odour comprised polished wood, smoke from the fire and faint overtones of the evening meal that had been served in the hall.

It was already well past eight o’clock, and Bartholomew, William and Michael were the only ones who had not gone to their rooms. William was there because there was still wine to drink and, despite his outward advocacy of abstinence and self-denial, the friar was a man who liked his creature comforts, particularly the liquid kind. Michael was there because he was obliged to be at the church at midnight to perform Angel Mass, and did not want to go to bed for only a few hours. Bartholomew had remained because he was unsettled by Philippa’s presence in the town.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed William, walking to the table, where the wine stood in a large pewter jug. He stumbled near the door, where the floorboards had worked loose within the last three weeks and needed to be fastened down. Reluctant to hire a carpenter to solve the problem so near the expensive season of Christmas, Langelee had placed a rug over the offending section, but it tended to ‘walk’ and was not always where it needed to be. William refilled his goblet, then carried the jug to Michael, who had been hastily draining his cup to ensure he did not miss out. Bartholomew followed suit, feeling that plenty of wine was the only way he would sleep that night.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ said Michael again, setting his cup near the hearth so that the flames would warm it, then leaning back in his chair.

‘Are you two going to spend all night just saying her name over and over?’ snapped Bartholomew testily. ‘I have said I would rather talk about something else – like Norbert’s murder. What did you learn today, Brother?’

Michael’s expression became sombre. ‘After Norbert left Ovyng the night he died there is an hour unaccounted for until he arrived at the King’s Head. He met a woman there, but of course no one will tell me who she was.’

‘Was he drunk and free with his insults?’ asked William. ‘If so, then the case is solved: one of the patrons in the King’s Head is the guilty party.’

‘He was drunk, but apparently no more insulting than normal. I understand some kind of gambling was in progress, but, again, no one will tell me who Norbert played. However, the innkeeper hinted that Norbert lost more than he won, so there is no reason to think he was killed by a disenfranchised gaming partner. He apparently left in reasonable humour.’

‘That can change fast,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Even a small insult is sometimes enough to turn tipsy bonhomie into enraged fury. Men soaked in wine are not rational people.’

‘True, but there is nothing to suggest that happened to Norbert. He left the King’s Head at midnight, and no one who lives between the tavern and Ovyng admits to hearing any affray.’

‘So, now what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Where will you go from here?’

Michael sighed. ‘I do not know. Morice’s men followed me today, so I decided to concentrate on the taverns. I was afraid they would conclude that the killer was at Ovyng if I spent too much time there. Damn Morice! He will make my work much more difficult.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said William meaningfully.

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean? I want no help from him or his men – I could not trust anything they told me.’

‘But his soldiers would be more than happy to spend an afternoon in a tavern with free beer,’ said William. ‘And Morice would agree that his mother killed Norbert, if the price were right.’

‘You mean Michael should bribe the Sheriff?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

William shrugged. ‘It would not be the first time, and the fines I have imposed on rule-breakers means that the proctors’ chest is nicely full at the moment. We can afford it, and I would like to see Norbert’s death properly investigated by men like me, who know what they are doing, without the “help” of Morice and his men.’

Bartholomew turned to Michael, horrified. ‘You have bribed Morice before? You should be careful, Brother! Corrupting a King’s official is a criminal offence, and you may find that Morice is the kind of man to accept money, then make a complaint about you.’