A Killer in Winter

‘You do not need to be able to swim to skate,’ Michael pointed out gently. ‘Most people do not anticipate that they will fall through the ice, or they would not do it in the first place. Walter must have imagined it was sufficiently strong to bear his weight.’

‘But he never skates,’ wept Philippa. She gazed at each one in turn with reddened eyes. ‘You met him. Did he seem to you like the kind of man who would go skating?’

‘She has a point,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He seemed a cheerless, pompous sort of fellow, and I cannot imagine what would induce him to don a set of bones and chance his luck on the river.’

‘A few of my apprentices were out there this morning,’ said Stanmore soberly. ‘But they are small and light, and it was obvious the ice was not strong enough to support an adult. I do not understand what Turke was thinking of.’

‘But he would not do it!’ Philippa shouted. ‘Why will none of you listen to me? He was not a skating man! He was a fishmonger – a respectable and honoured Prime Warden in the city of London. He would never have gone to play on a river!’

‘Where is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the corpse might yield clues that would explain Turke’s aberrant behaviour. ‘Perhaps he was not skating, but walking along the river bank when he fell.’

‘I do not want you touching him,’ cried Philippa, standing to confront her former fiancé. ‘I have seen how you treat corpses, and it is not respectful. I will not have you mauling Walter!’

Bartholomew stepped away from her, his hands raised in apology. ‘I am sorry; I did not mean to cause you distress. Of course I will not touch him, if you do not want me to.’

‘Good,’ said Abigny, speaking for the first time. ‘Walter’s corpse has been through enough indignities. We shall take him back to London and have him buried in St James’s Church on Garlicke Hythe. That is where all the important fishmongers are interred. Perhaps you can suggest someone who will embalm him for us?’

Philippa gave a shriek of grief, and Edith glowered at Abigny, warning him to watch what he said. Abigny grimaced, and his expression became unreadable again. Bartholomew frowned. Why had Abigny seemed pleased Turke’s body was not to be examined? Was it because he knew an examination might reveal some clue as to why the pompous fishmonger had decided to skate on dangerous ice – perhaps something concealed in his clothing or in his scrip? Or was he afraid the evidence might suggest Turke had not skated at all – that someone had coaxed him on to unsafe ice to bring about his death?

‘Turke died at the Mill Pool, near the Small Bridges,’ said Stanmore in the silence that followed Abigny’s remarks. ‘The current is more slack there than in the rest of the river, so it is usually the first part to freeze.’

‘Was he wearing skates?’ asked Bartholomew.

Stanmore gazed at his brother-in-law as though he were insane. ‘Of course he was wearing skates, Matt! How do you think we know he went skating? They were tied to his feet with thongs.’

‘I would like to see,’ said Michael. ‘I might recognise who made them, and then perhaps whoever sold them to Turke might tell us more about-’

‘Hateful things!’ sobbed Philippa bitterly. ‘Take them from his poor body before I see it. Will you do that, Giles?’

‘Walter’s death does not come under your jurisdiction, Brother,’ said Abigny, ignoring her as he fixed the monk with a steady gaze. ‘Walter was not a member of the University, and he did not die on University property. This matter belongs to the Sheriff, and he is sure to want to make his own enquiries.’

‘Summon him, then,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I am not questioning anyone’s authority; I am merely trying to help.’

‘I have already sent Morice a message,’ said Stanmore, disapproval thick in his voice. ‘But he says he cannot come until later, so we shall have to wait before we remove Turke to St Botolph’s.’

‘St Michael’s, not St Botolph’s,’ said Philippa in a low voice. ‘The Michaelhouse priests I met yesterday – Kenyngham, Clippesby and Suttone – will give me their prayers. They are decent men, and I would rather have them than people I do not know.’

‘Kenyngham will arrange a vigil,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the officious, selfish fishmonger would need the prayers of a saintly friar like Kenyngham, if he was ever to escape Purgatory. He was surprised Turke’s body was still at the Mill Pool, but understood that Stanmore would not want to remove it before the Sheriff had given his permission. However, Michael pointed out that bodies should not be left lying around until the secular courts deigned to find time to examine them, and suggested they remove him to the church themselves.