A Killer in Winter

Turke scowled. ‘I am offering you a good bargain. The cost of the clothes will more than pay for a mass and a grave. But if you would rather return the livery to me when I pass through Cambridge on my return journey, then I shall pay you in another way.’

‘Coins are best,’ said Langelee hopefully.

‘I have something better,’ said Turke. ‘He handed Langelee a small leather pouch. ‘That will cover the expense – and more besides.’

Langelee investigated the pouch’s contents gingerly. ‘I am not sure this is sufficient – there is not much of a market for dried slugs in our town.’

Turke gave a gusty sigh that echoed all around the church. ‘It is a relic. It may not look like much, but used properly will bring you great wealth. Never let it be said that Walter Turke is niggardly with his payments.’

Abigny swallowed a snort of disgust.

Langelee tried to hand it back. ‘Coins are better, if it is all the same to you, Master Turke. And if you add a little extra, we will say prayers for your soul, too.’

‘I shall expect those regardless,’ countered Turke. He nodded at the pouch. ‘And that is all the payment I am prepared to give, so you had better make the most of it. It is St Zeno’s finger.’

‘St Zeno?’ asked Langelee resentfully. ‘I have never heard of him.’

‘Then your education is lacking,’ retorted Turke rudely. ‘Zeno is a friend to fishermen, and his finger will allow any who touch it to be successful anglers. It could bring you a fortune.’

‘Not at the moment,’ said Abigny wryly. ‘The river is frozen solid. I tossed a rock on to it this morning, and it skidded clear across the surface like a toy.’

Turke raised his eyebrows, and turned to his brother-inlaw. ‘I had not noticed. But I dislike ice, as you know, and I have better things to do than throw stones on frozen rivers.’

‘St Zeno is associated with fishermen,’ said Michael, addressing Langelee. ‘He was an Italian bishop.’

‘He did not like loud wailing during his masses for the dead,’ added Bartholomew, irrelevantly repeating the only scrap of information he could remember about the obscure cleric.

‘It seems this is a valuable relic,’ said Morice with interest, reaching out to take it. ‘It might be a suitable payment for keeping two dangerous mercenaries out of action while you continue your journey.’

‘No,’ snapped Turke, snatching it from him and thrusting it back into Langelee’s reluctant hands. ‘It should stay here, in a church, where it belongs. I have something else in mind for you – a snail from the Holy Land. It, too, has magical powers.’

‘So do I,’ muttered Michael facetiously to Bartholomew. ‘And they are telling me that Langelee and Morice have just been most brazenly cheated. Incidentally, did you notice that Harysone was decked out in a set of black clothes the day we found Gosslinge dead? He might have been revisiting the scene of his crime, to ensure the corpse was still hidden.’

‘Too risky,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially this week, when the churches are full of people with their holly wreaths and armfuls of greenery.’

‘You are wrong, Matt. Harysone was up to no good when we watched him. I shall find out if he stole Gosslinge’s clothes.’

It had snowed heavily during the night, and all the roads that led to and from Cambridge were closed by deep drifts. Oswald and Edith Stanmore could not return to their estates in Trumpington, and were obliged to remain in Cambridge at their business premises on Milne Street. This pleased Turke, who claimed he did not want to go to some rustic hall, preferring the pleasures of a town to those of the country. Bartholomew saw Stanmore struggling not to make some rude retort, while Edith smiled politely. Philippa closed her eyes, mortified by her husband’s manners, and Abigny stepped forward to give her hand an encouraging squeeze when Turke was not looking. They began to walk to Milne Street together, Turke strutting ahead, and the others following behind.

It was still early. Only a few people had trodden in the snow, and it was still white and powdery as Bartholomew and Michael made their way to the King’s Head to interview Harysone about Gosslinge and the stolen livery. It hid the filth and muck of the Cambridge streets, clung to roofs in thick white blankets, and piled itself in dense clots in the branches of trees. When the wind blew, they fell, scattering on the ground below. The frozen river formed a thin seal across the water, and prevented its unsavoury aromas from permeating the town. For the first time in years, the town air smelled fresh and clean.

‘Look!’ said Michael, gripping Bartholomew’s arm, as he pointed across the street. ‘It is Harysone! He has saved us a walk.’

‘So it is,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the man’s black cloak and broad-brimmed hat. ‘He seems to be emerging from morning mass at St Botolph’s. How very suspicious.’