A Killer in Winter

‘I doubt it,’ said Abigny. ‘I go to the law courts every day and file records no one will ever want again. Then I go home to Turke’s house for my bed and my meat, and spend my evenings watching him turn my sister into a bore.’

‘Is she happy?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing to where Philippa was listening to Clippesby’s ramblings with an expression that combined disbelief and unease. He supposed someone should rescue her, for he knew that conversations with Clippesby could be daunting to those unused to them.

‘In general. Walter is not a dashing physician with black curls and a merry laugh, but he is enormously wealthy, and well placed to wrangle token employment for indolent brothers.’

Bartholomew felt Abigny should either earn himself the kind of high-paying post that he obviously thought he needed or marry his fiancée before she saw what she was letting herself in for. Seeing a man wallow in such self-pity was not pleasant, and he was half inclined to suggest Abigny should pull himself together.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked instead, good manners prevailing. ‘If you dislike being with Walter and Philippa in their home, their absence should have given you some freedom.’

‘It was tempting, believe me. But Philippa represents much that is good in my life, and if she wants to make a pilgrimage to Walsingham in the depths of winter, then it is my duty to travel with her and ensure she comes to no harm.’ He gave a sudden grin, and for a moment Bartholomew glimpsed the rakish scholar he had once known. ‘Remember my skill with the sword, Matt? I was in the thick of many a brawl with the town’s apprentices.’

Bartholomew smiled back. ‘Do not chance your arm now. Since Michael has become Senior Proctor fines for fighting are quickly imposed and zealously enforced.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Abigny, laughing softly. ‘Who would have thought that fat, sly monk would have inveigled himself into such a position of power? He has done well for himself.’

‘I give up!’ Edith came up to them, her face dark with anger. ‘I have been trying to keep the peace between them since the first evening they met, when Walter was condescending about Oswald’s trade. But if they want to squabble in front of Master Langelee, then I can do no more to keep them apart.’

Abigny vacated the stool, and gave her hand a squeeze as he helped her to sit on it. ‘You have managed admirably so far. Walter is an argumentative man, and that you have kept him and Oswald from each other’s throats for four days is nothing short of a miracle.’

‘If Oswald does not like Walter, why did you invite him to stay in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew practically.

Edith sighed impatiently at her brother’s inability to see that there were complex social waters to be navigated when invitations were issued. ‘Because we knew Philippa – and Giles – from your betrothal. When we met by chance on the High Street and Walter asked us to recommend a decent tavern, I had no choice but to offer him the use of my own home.’

‘I tried to save you,’ said Abigny. ‘I suggested you would have no room because of various relatives who were staying. It would have been easy to agree, and to direct us to the Brazen George.’

Edith smiled. ‘It was good of you to try to get us off the hook. But manners dictate that Walter, Philippa and you should stay with us. However, I wish I had known then that Oswald and Walter would argue constantly. Walter is a difficult man.’

‘We will be on our way tomorrow,’ said Abigny comfortingly. ‘And I will make sure it is at first light – before Walter is awake enough for squabbling.’

‘Thank you,’ said Edith sincerely. She looked up, as more people began to force their way into the already crowded room.

‘Jugglers,’ said Abigny in surprise, as he saw the newcomers. He began to back away. ‘You must excuse me. I dislike this kind of thing.’ He left the chamber with an abruptness that verged on the rude.

Edith watched him go with raised eyebrows. ‘How odd! I thought he enjoyed professional entertainers. He was always a young man ready for singing and dancing.’

‘He is no longer a young man,’ Bartholomew pointed out, leaning against the wall as he watched the entertainers Langelee had hired elbow their way through the throng. Agatha apparently needed more time for the boar to cook, and was searching for ways to keep minds off growling stomachs. The jugglers’ progress towards the Master was unmannerly, and Turke’s face turned an angry red when one jostled him hard enough to make him spill his wine. The juggler regarded Turke challengingly, as though daring him to make a scene, then sneered disdainfully when the fishmonger looked away and began mopping at the stain on his gipon.