A Killer in Winter

‘Matthew wants to know how deep is our latrine pit,’ said Philippa to her husband in a voice loud enough to silence the buzz of conversation around her.

‘Could you not think of anything more pleasant to discuss?’ hissed Clippesby disapprovingly behind her back. ‘Why can you not talk about music or art?’

‘The depth is about the height of a man,’ said Turke proudly. ‘And we have it cleaned once a month! I will not have it said that Walter Turke has smelly latrines. I always say that a man who does not pay attention to his latrines is a man who cannot be trusted.’

He shot Stanmore a look that indicated he thought his host’s sanitary arrangements left something to be desired. Stanmore bristled angrily, and was only stopped from making a rude retort by Edith’s warning hand on his arm. Turke ignored the furious cloth merchant and turned to Langelee.

‘How often do you have Michaelhouse’s emptied?’

‘Fairly regularly,’ said Langelee vaguely, not meeting Bartholomew’s eye. He had recently elected to go from twice a year to once, overriding the physician’s objections that it was unhygienic. ‘But I would not recommend lingering in them.’

‘Edith tells me you are on a pilgrimage,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa, deciding that he had better prove Michaelhouse men were capable of discussing subjects nobler than sewage disposal.

‘It is Walter’s pilgrimage,’ said Giles Abigny in a low, angry voice, speaking for the first time since the meal had started.

The physician saw that this topic would be no less contentious than latrines, and sensed that the winter journey was a source of dissent among the three travellers. Fortunately, Langelee was regaling Turke, Edith and Stanmore with a tedious account of how many hazelnuts the orchard had produced that year, and Bartholomew had only Abigny and Philippa to worry about. Nevertheless, he decided that yet another subject was probably necessary in the interests of harmony.

‘It is cold for the time of year,’ he ventured hopefully.

‘It is cold,’ agreed Abigny bitterly. ‘And no time to go traipsing across the country. But Philippa wanted to be the dutiful wife, and I insisted on accompanying her. So, here we all are.’

‘Could Walter’s journey not have waited until spring?’ asked Bartholomew, giving up on diplomacy and deciding to yield to whatever topics his guests wanted to discuss.

‘He needs to atone for a sin,’ said Philippa, clearly reluctant to elaborate. ‘Since it is a serious sin, it was decided he should leave immediately. The saints are more likely to grant him forgiveness if we travel in terrible weather, anyway, and then perhaps they will bless us with a baby.’

‘The fact that Walter has failed you in that area has nothing to do with sin,’ said Abigny nastily. ‘Fiscurtune was murdered in November, and Walter was limp long before that.’

‘Walter’s sin is murder?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, looking over at the merchant, who was helping himself to blancmange, apparently engrossed in Langelee’s hazelnut discourse.

‘It was self-defence,’ said Philippa, casting an uneasy glance at her husband. She seemed relieved that he was listening to Langelee.

‘His victim was a fishmonger called John Fiscurtune,’ said Abigny. ‘Fiscurtune was a loathsome man, but even loathsome men are entitled to keep possession of their lives, and not have them snatched away during gatherings of the Worshipful Fraternity of Fishmongers.’

Bartholomew tried to make sense of Abigny’s claims. ‘Turke killed a colleague at a guild meeting?’

Abigny drained his cup, waving it at Cynric to indicate he wanted it refilled. ‘Fiscurtune was caught engaging in dishonest practices, which brought the Fraternity into disrepute. Well, perhaps “dishonest” is unfair: what happened is that he decided to ignore the Fraternity’s regulations when it came to salting. He made several folk ill by experimenting with new – cheaper – techniques of preservation, and the Fraternity wanted him expelled.’

‘Walter argued against the expulsion,’ said Philippa in a low voice, so that she would not be overheard, ‘despite the fact that he and Fiscurtune had hated each other since Isabella died – Walter’s first wife was Fiscurtune’s sister, you see – but he was outvoted. Fiscurtune blamed Walter, which was unfair.’

‘This happened in November,’ Abigny went on. ‘Furious that his former brother-in-law had failed to help him, Fiscurtune stormed into a meeting of the guild and levelled all sorts of charges against Walter. Walter grabbed a knife, they fought and Fiscurtune was stabbed. Walter told the coroner that Fiscurtune armed himself first, and since the coroner is a friend of the Fishmongers’ Fraternity, it is no surprise that Walter was deemed innocent.’ His tone of voice suggested that he strongly disagreed with the outcome.

‘Giles,’ whispered Philippa, glancing at her husband again. ‘You should not drink wine, if you cannot hold your tongue. Do you want to lose your post at the law courts over this?’