A Killer in Winter

The noise in the hall gradually rose, partly because it was necessary to shout over the choir, and partly because the freely flowing wine loosened tongues and vocal cords. Bartholomew’s senses were reeling, and he felt the need to step outside for some fresh air. It was stuffy. The fire was blasting out heat like a furnace and people were crammed into a room that usually accommodated only half that number. He started to stand, but Turke reached out and grabbed his arm. The physician was startled by the strength of the grip that held him.

‘I hope you are not thinking of taking my wife with you,’ said the fishmonger with unmistakable menace.

Bartholomew removed the offending hand politely but firmly. ‘I am going alone,’ he replied, although a number of more colourful responses came into his mind.

‘She is no longer yours,’ said Turke. ‘So do not expect to take up where you left off.’

‘I would not dream of it,’ said Bartholomew icily, thinking Turke need have no worries on that score. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, his Philippa had gone to London and never returned. He did not know the woman who had chosen a husband because he had a roofed latrine.

‘My sister is an honourable woman, Walter,’ said Abigny sharply. He had returned from his sojourn outside and had resumed his efforts to drink himself insensible. ‘And Matt is a man of integrity – unlike most merchants I know.’

Abigny’s words were obviously intended to be insulting, and Turke’s face obligingly flushed with anger as his hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. Bartholomew backed away, seeing the Turke household had some serious problems and he would do well not to be caught in the middle of them.

‘I am leaving now,’ he said. ‘The noise is making my head buzz. If Mistress Turke wants some air, I am sure her husband will escort her.’

‘Normally, I would ask my manservant Gosslinge to do it,’ said Turke. He removed his hand from his dagger and rested it on the table, a wide, strong fist that looked capable of killing. ‘But he disappeared on business of his own five days ago. I know it has been impossible to hire decent servants since the plague, but I expected more of Gosslinge. He has been with me for many years.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Gosslinge was probably justified in fleeing from a man like Turke. There were kinder, more considerate men in Cambridge, who would pay a fair wage for a loyal retainer.

‘We have been in this miserable town for ten days now,’ Turke grumbled on. ‘Philippa’s horse went lame, so we have been obliged to rest it. I could hunt the alehouses for Gosslinge, I suppose, but I have better things to do. Perhaps I should pay some of these good-for-nothing students to look for him. I want him back tonight, because I intend to leave tomorrow.’

‘You will be going nowhere, if this snow continues,’ said Langelee, politely ignoring the insult to his scholars. ‘I hear the London road is already impassable, and the route north is likely to be the same. You may have to remain in Cambridge until milder weather brings about a thaw.’

‘We shall see,’ said Turke importantly, as though snow would not dare fall if it inconvenienced him. ‘But I shall be angry with Gosslinge when he deigns to show his face. I want to complete my business at Walsingham and go home. I do not want to be away longer than necessary.’

‘What does Gosslinge look like?’ asked Michael helpfully. ‘I can ask my beadles to look for him.’

‘That would be acceptable,’ said Turke ungraciously. ‘He is a beggarly-looking man, with thin hair and a mean, pinched face. And he is missing a thumb.’

The following day, just after dawn, a number of people gathered in St Michael’s Church. Walter Turke and Philippa were there to make an official identification of their servant’s corpse. Giles Abigny, nursing a fragile head and looking distinctly unwell, had apparently been pressed into service as Turke’s clerk, lest the procedure require official certification. Langelee was also present, still aiming to secure a benefaction for his College, and keen to let Turke know that Gosslinge’s mortal remains had been respectfully treated at Michaelhouse’s expense.

Langelee was not the only one hopeful of reward: Sheriff Morice had arrived in a flurry of flapping sleeves, clanking spurs and crafty eyes, determined to make Turke aware that Cambridge’s secular authority also took an interest in the corpses of visiting merchants’ servants, and that his men were available to provide coffins, dig graves and erect head-stones – for a price, of course. Michael led them to the south aisle and drew back the sheet that covered the corpse.

‘That is Gosslinge,’ announced Turke grimly. ‘Damn the man! Now what am I supposed to do? Where can I hire another good servant?’

‘Poor Gosslinge,’ said Philippa softly, reaching out a gloved hand to touch the body. ‘I am sorry he came to this.’

‘It is his own fault,’ said Turke harshly. ‘I told him to stay close, and he disobeyed. Look where it has led him.’