A Killer in Winter

Quenhyth shrugged. ‘The messenger was vague about the name: it was something like Harpoon or Hairspoon.’

‘Harysone?’

Quenhyth shrugged again. ‘It could have been. But I must get back to my post. Gray may let robbers into the College, just to blame their presence on me. Of course, Deynman has given four thieves permission to stay here, anyway. I know the Chepe Waits from of old, and they are not honest folk.’

‘How do you know them?’ asked Bartholomew, walking with him across the yard to fetch his cloak and bag. The morning was icy again, and winter lay cold and heavy on the town. A rich, metallic scent in the air indicated they were in for yet more snow soon.

‘My father hired them once. They spend most of their time in London, hawking their skills to merchants, and my father asked them to perform at my sister’s marriage last year. I sensed it was a mistake, given they are so obviously vagabonds, but he persisted anyway. I was proved right, of course.’

‘How?’

‘They stole a silver chalice. Well, they claimed they did not, and the thing was not among their possessions when they were searched, but they were the culprits, nevertheless.’

‘How do you know those Waits and ours are the same people?’

Quenhyth gave him a weary look. ‘I remember their names: Frith, Makejoy, Yna and Jestyn. They wear each other’s clothes, so the men are women and the women men. They say it is to make people laugh, but I think it is because they encourage men to seduce the “ladies”, then demand payment for their silence. You know how severely lewd acts are punished these days.’

‘How do you know they stole your father’s chalice?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it would have to be a desperate man who would try to seduce one of the stubble-chinned ‘ladies’ of the Chepe Waits. Still, he recalled, Langelee had been fooled, and there was no accounting for taste.

‘The Waits were the only strangers to enter the house that day, and the chalice was found to be missing after they left. I tried to tell Langelee about it, but he would not listen. I confess I am surprised to see them in Cambridge – I thought they confined their activities to London.’

‘If they steal from every household they visit, they will not stay in business for long,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Quenhyth was mistaken. ‘Even in a large city.’

‘I followed them for a while, hoping to reclaim our property. They do a lot of business in Chepe, with fishmongers, cordwainers and other wealthy merchants. Later, they went to Kent, presumably to help with the harvest.’

‘Fishmongers,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking about the Waits’ claim that they had been hired by Turke. Philippa had mentioned that she lived on Friday Street, and he wondered whether her house was anywhere near the Waits’ territory. ‘Is Friday Street close to Chepe?’

‘Yes,’ said Quenhyth, looking disdainfully down his long nose at Bartholomew. ‘Friday Street is part of Chepe. Do you know nothing about London?’

‘Not much,’ said Bartholomew, who had found it dirty, dangerous, noisy and crowded on his few brief visits.

‘Friday Street is dominated by the fishmongers’ homes. It is near Fishmonger Row and Thames Street. Chepe, obviously, is on the river and convenient for bringing supplies of fish to the city. It is near Quenhyth, where my family live. My father is a fishmonger, too, although he is not as rich and powerful as Master Turke was. Turke did not remember me when we met at the feast, but his wife did, and she asked after my family. She is a good woman.’

Bartholomew regarded his student thoughtfully. Did the fact that Philippa lived in Chepe mean the Waits had indeed been telling the truth when they claimed they had performed for her? Or were they lying, because they were dishonest folk who regularly stole from the people who hired them? Impatiently, he pushed the questions from his mind. All of this was irrelevant. Philippa’s choice of entertainers – and her willingness, or otherwise, to acknowledge them – was none of his affair. But he had a patient to attend, and that was his business.

‘Chepe is a place of contrasts,’ Quenhyth chattered, while the physician collected his bag. ‘The merchants’ houses – like the ones on Friday Street – are among the finest in the city, while some of the alleys are a foretaste of Hell in their filth and debauchery. Of course, violence is not always confined to alleys. Only a few weeks ago, Walter Turke himself stabbed a man in Fishmongers’ Hall.’

‘So I heard. But how do you know about it?’