A Killer in Winter

‘Apparently, the King’s Head victim declined to take the matter further,’ said Michael, helping himself to a thick slice of pork before flinging a considerably smaller one on to Cynric’s trencher. ‘Did you want that, Cynric? If not, throw it across to Quenhyth; he needs a bit of flesh on his bones. So, the Waits were released without being charged. I cannot help but wonder whether they bribed Morice to drop the investigation.’

‘Frith outwitted Deynman shamelessly this morning,’ said Suttone, doling out leeks into the bowls that were shared by two people on the high table, and four people in the body of the hall. ‘He threatened to leave Michaelhouse immediately unless Deynman signed a statement promising to hire the troupe for the entire Misrule season. The boy was dismayed at the prospect of being unable to supply entertainment for his “court”, and quickly agreed to Frith’s terms.’

‘That was a low trick,’ said Bartholomew, angered partly by Deynman’s gullibility, but mostly because the Wait had used Deynman’s dull mind to get what he wanted. He had not been impressed by the entertainers’ talents or their manners, and he had intended to advise Deynman to dismiss them. Now it seemed he was too late.

The Waits, assured of employment for the foreseeable future, were complacent. Their tumbling was less energetic, and they dropped their balls and sticks with greater frequency than before. They looked dirty, too, and neither of the ‘women’ had shaved. One had dispensed with the annoyance of his yellow wig, and the resulting combination of large bosom, balding head and bewhiskered face was not attractive. They did not bother with a lengthy performance, either, and it was not long before Frith announced they were going to rest. They retreated behind the servants’ screen, and Bartholomew arrived in time to catch Jestyn drinking from one of the wine jugs.

‘That is not for you,’ he said coolly, taking the receptacle from the entertainer’s hands. ‘And it is rude to drink from the jug, anyway.’

‘I was thirsty,’ said Jestyn, unrepentant. ‘I am I hungry, too. What is there to eat?’

‘They have already had their meal,’ said Michael, coming to refill his meat tray. ‘They cannot be hungry again already.’

‘How would you know what we feel?’ demanded Frith insolently.

‘You had better keep a civil tongue, or I shall see you throw no more balls and coloured sticks in Michaelhouse,’ said Michael sharply.

‘We have been hired for the whole festive period,’ said Frith gloatingly. ‘We have an agreement with Deynman, and we will only leave if he dismisses us. What you think is irrelevant.’

‘Do not be so sure about that,’ said Michael with cold menace. Frith regarded him silently for a moment, and apparently realised it would not be wise to antagonise a man like Michael. He recanted, forcing a grin on to his unwholesome face.

‘Take no notice of us, Brother. We have been in rough company for so long that we have forgotten our manners. I am sorry if I offended you. We mean no harm.’

‘We do not,’ agreed one of the women. She had dispensed with false beard and moustache in the interests of comfort, although her hair was still gathered under her cap in the manner of a young man. She was a robust lady, with a prominent nose and a pair of shrewd green eyes. She wiggled her hips and effected a mischievous grin ‘My name is Matilda, but my friends call me Makejoy. Would you like me to show you why, Brother?’

‘He is busy,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to do all the work while Michael frolicked behind the screens with the likes of Makejoy. He could tell from the expression on the monk’s face that he was interested. ‘Come on, Brother. There are people waiting for their food.’

‘In a moment,’ said Michael, perching a large rump on one of the trestle tables and folding his arms. He was clearly in no hurry to resume his labours. ‘I have questions for these good people.’

‘What kind of questions?’ demanded Frith, instantly wary. ‘If you are referring to that theft at the King’s Head, then yes, we were in the tavern that night, and no, we did not take the gold. The Sheriff agreed there was not enough evidence to make a case against us, so do not think you will succeed where he failed.’

‘Gold?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘Would this be the gold Cynric saw you counting?’

The Waits exchanged uneasy glances. ‘No one saw us count anything,’ said Jestyn unconvincingly.

‘Really?’ asked Michael sweetly. ‘You sleep in the room above the stables. Were you aware that it adjoins the servants’ quarters, and that a previous master drilled a series of spy-holes in the walls to allow a watchful eye to be kept on visiting strangers such as yourselves?’

‘We must have been counting the coins Deynman gave us,’ said Jestyn quickly. ‘He threw us a handful after our performance last night.’

‘He gave you silver, not gold, and I can assure you Cynric knows the difference. Now, I shall say nothing of this to Morice, but there is a price: I want some information.’