Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Walter argued against the expulsion,’ said Philippa in a low voice, so that she would not be overheard, ‘despite the fact that he and Fiscurtune had hated each other since Isabella died – Walter’s first wife was Fiscurtune’s sister, you see – but he was outvoted. Fiscurtune blamed Walter, which was unfair.’

  ‘This happened in November,’ Abigny went on. ‘Furious that his former brother-in-law had failed to help him, Fiscurtune stormed into a meeting of the guild and levelled all sorts of charges against Walter. Walter grabbed a knife, they fought and Fiscurtune was stabbed. Walter told the coroner that Fiscurtune armed himself first, and since the coroner is a friend of the Fishmongers’ Fraternity, it is no surprise that Walter was deemed innocent.’ His tone of voice suggested that he strongly disagreed with the outcome.

  ‘Giles,’ whispered Philippa, glancing at her husband again. ‘You should not drink wine, if you cannot hold your tongue. Do you want to lose your post at the law courts over this?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Abigny resentfully. ‘I should not criticise my brother-in-law when I owe him so much. After all, Fiscurtune dared to do just that, and look what happened to him.’

  ‘You mentioned earlier that Fiscurtune asked you to marry him,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa, fascinated by her brother’s drunken revelations. ‘You said you selected Walter because he had a better house.’

  ‘She should not have chosen either,’ stated Abigny harshly.

  ‘No?’ demanded Philippa, angry now. ‘You were lucky I picked Walter, Giles, because Fiscurtune would not have bought you your post.’

  ‘I sense you are bitter about Fiscurtune’s death,’ said Bartholomew to Abigny. ‘Was he a friend?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Abigny indignantly. ‘He was greedy, corrupt and sly: I would never have allowed Philippa to marry him. Comfort and riches have their price, but there is a limit to what one should pay – and Fiscurtune was well beyond it. However, if I sound bitter, it is not because Fiscurtune was murdered, but because Walter used his money and influence to evade justice.’

  ‘It is the way things are,’ said Philippa tiredly, although Bartholomew sensed she was not entirely comfortable with the situation, either. ‘The fraternities are powerful in London and no Crown official wants to make enemies of them. I hear Cambridge is no different: Sheriff Morice will also find in a man’s favour if his purse is sufficiently deep.’

  Abigny looked around him with a shudder of distaste. ‘You should have accepted Philippa’s offer all those years ago, Matt, and come to live with us in London. It is better than Cambridge in all respects.’

  ‘She never asked me to London,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I did,’ said Philippa indignantly. ‘But you never bothered to answer that particular message. Are you telling me it never arrived?’

  ‘It did not,’ said Bartholomew. He wondered what might have happened if it had. Would he have left Cambridge and gone to her? Or would he have elected to remain at Michaelhouse? He realised that he did not know, and was surprised to feel relief that the letter in question had apparently been lost in transit.

  Philippa regarded him with sombre eyes. ‘Pity. I assumed your silence meant you no longer cared for me. My life – and yours – might have turned out very differently had you replied.’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether that was good or bad. ‘This pilgrimage,’ he said, wanting to return to the subject that set questions clamouring in his mind – which were easier to address than the complex gamut of emotions that raged when he thought about his courtship of Philippa. ‘Whose idea was it to go?’

  ‘Fiscurtune’s kinsmen suggested it,’ said Philippa shortly. ‘But the details are Walter’s business and no one else’s. We should not be discussing it – especially here, in this public place. Anyway, the whole affair will be forgotten as soon as we return from Walsingham.’

  Abigny laughed unpleasantly. ‘There are rumours that Fiscurtune’s murder could prevent Walter from being elected Lord Mayor next year. Walter wants the matter dead and buried as soon as possible – which is why he embarked on this ridiculous pilgrimage. However, I feel it takes more than riding a few miles through the snow to atone for cold-blooded slaughter.’

  Bartholomew glanced at Turke and saw he was wearing a dagger, attached to a belt at his waist. He hoped Michael, Stanmore or Langelee would not say anything that might prove fatally offensive. He appraised Turke anew, seeing that the man possessed considerable physical strength under all his glitter, and that his hands were strong and calloused, not soft and unused to work, like those of many wealthy men. He sensed that Turke would be a formidable enemy to anyone rash enough to cross him – as the unfortunate Fiscurtune had evidently discovered.

  CHAPTER 4

  IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE BARTHOLOMEW RAN OUT OF conversation with Philippa, while Abigny grew even more morose. The physician pondered the death of Fiscurtune, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be in Abigny’s position. He decided that living in poverty was preferable, and thought Abigny should leave the Turke household, as it was obviously making him unhappy. But Abigny seemed devoted to Philippa, even to the extent of accompanying her on the pilgrimage, and Bartholomew supposed the situation was more complex than he understood.

  With no one to talk to, he was obliged to watch the antics of the Chepe Waits in order to pass the time. After a while, they finished their act and approached the high table. Abigny immediately excused himself and left, promising to return later, while Philippa devoted her entire attention to eating wet suckets – dried fruits soaked in a sugary syrup. Turke was deep in conversation with Wynewyk, who was regaling him with a complex analysis of the College accounts, and Bartholomew supposed the merchant had decided that even a dull subject like institutional finances was preferable to watching the Waits. Langelee tossed the jugglers some silver pennies and told them to go behind the servants’ screen, where food had been set aside.

  ‘It is not there,’ replied the larger of the two women, whose head of golden plaits formed a tight, artificial-looking helmet around her head.

  Her voice was deep, and Bartholomew was startled to note that she needed a shave. With amusement, he realised she was a man. He glanced quickly at the others, and saw that the other woman was also male, with a shadowy chin and a pair of hirsute legs. He could now see that the two ‘boys’ were women, and the moustaches and beards that clung to their perspiring faces were made from horse hair. He recalled thinking there was something odd about them when they had appeared in Langelee’s chamber earlier, and was surprised he had not guessed then. Cross-dressing was a common practice in Christmas entertainment, and he should have expected it.

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Langelee impatiently. He had been talking to Stanmore, and was clearly annoyed to interrupt what might prove to be a lucrative discussion to speak to jugglers. ‘I asked Agatha to leave bean stew, bread and a platter of meat for you.’

  Agatha, who was serving the wet suckets, overheard him. ‘Michaelhouse does not provide vagabonds with two meals when the rest of us make do with one,’ she said sternly. ‘They have already eaten their fill of the food intended for you and your guests, Master.’

  Langelee turned enquiring eyes on the Wait. ‘Well, madam?’

  Langelee was not an observant man, and was infamous for his undiscerning taste in women, so Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised by the fact that the Master failed to notice anything amiss in hairy legs and an advanced beard in the ‘lady’ he addressed.

  ‘It is a lie!’ said the Wait angrily. ‘We have taken nothing we were not owed.’

  Agatha drew herself up to her full height, clearly intending to tell the Waits exactly what she thought of them. Fearing the exchange would offend his guests, Langelee placated her quickly by launching into an effusive monologue that praised her efforts with the feast. Suitably flattered, she moved away to ensure the wet suckets were properly shared out, and that the servants did not leave trails of sticky d
roplets across the guests’ shoulders.

  ‘What is your name?’ Langelee asked, turning back to the Wait.

  ‘Frith of Lincoln.’ The man indicated his associates. ‘These are Jestyn, Makejoy and Yna.’

  Langelee raised puzzled eyebrows. ‘Frith is a strange name for a lady, but I suppose it is none of my affair. You have been hired for the Twelve Days, but you can consider our contract broken if you steal again. Do I make myself clear?’

  Frith nodded sullenly. Bartholomew was unsettled by the expression of dislike that darkened his face, and hoped the man would not drop dead animals down the well or set the College alight as the scholars slept. His comrades seemed more amenable, however, and led him away before he could say anything else. Agatha leaned over Bartholomew’s shoulder.

  ‘I saw them steal most of a suckling pig and some comfits. They have no right to be sullen and resentful when Michaelhouse has given them employment. They would have been sleeping in the streets if the Master had not offered them beds, food and a few pennies.’

  ‘I do not like such people,’ said Philippa, gazing distrustfully at the Waits when Agatha had gone. ‘I would never employ them myself, because I would not want them in my house.’

  ‘Nor I,’ declared Turke, finally losing interest in Wynewyk’s monologue. ‘Never let it be said that Walter Turke hires inferior jugglers.’

  Abigny had had much the same reaction earlier, Bartholomew recalled, although at least he had not been rude enough to imply that his hosts were lacking in taste. They all watched Frith arguing with Cynric at the other end of the hall, until the book-bearer shoved him behind the servants’ screen, presumably to prevent anyone from witnessing the squabble any further. Meanwhile, Bartholomew saw Deynman leering adoringly at the man called Jestyn, and realised the students were already well on the way to becoming drunk. He sincerely hoped the lad would pass out before he discovered the hard way that Jestyn’s tempting bosom was nothing more than artfully packed straw.

  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.’

  ‘Servants always think they know best,’ agreed Morice with a grimace of sycophantic sympathy. ‘And their deaths are nothing but an inconvenience.’

  ‘Gosslinge’s clothes are very shabby for a retainer,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled by the man’s rags. Even if Turke was mean with his wages – which seemed likely – he would not want his retinue dressed poorly, because that would reflect badly on him. The servants of wealthy merchants tended to be a good deal better dressed than Bartholomew was ever likely to be.

  ‘He sold his livery, I imagine,’ said Turke with tight-lipped anger. ‘Was a purse found on his body? If so, then its contents belong to me. I did not give him permission to dispense with clothes that were purchased at my expense.’

  Philippa was obviously embarrassed by her husband’s outburst. ‘Gosslinge wore a black tunic and hose, with a yellow belt,’ she said, addressing Bartholomew as though Turke had not spoken. ‘I suppose someone must have found his corpse and stripped it. These rags certainly did not belong to him.’

  ‘Were his clothes worth stealing?’ asked Bartholomew, aware, even as he spoke, that it was
a stupid question. After the plague, when everyday goods were expensive, virtually anything was worth stealing by those who owned nothing.

  Philippa nodded. ‘They were of good quality and very warm. Walter says it is better to buy one good garment than several cheap ones.’

  ‘I am right,’ asserted Turke. ‘Never let it be said that Walter Turke’s servants are badly dressed.’

  ‘How many people did you bring with you?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Just Gosslinge,’ replied Philippa. ‘It would not be right to go on a pilgrimage with a large retinue, though we did hire a pair of soldiers before we left London – to repel robbers.’

  ‘Where are they?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did they argue with Gosslinge at all?’

  ‘They barely acknowledged each other,’ said Abigny. ‘The soldiers are rough mercenaries, and Gosslinge was a man who could barely slice his meat without fainting at the sight of the blade.’

  ‘Blade,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Did Gosslinge own a knife? Could it have been stolen with the rest of his clothes?’

  ‘He had a dagger,’ replied Abigny. ‘It was too large for a man of his size, and he was clumsy with it.’

  ‘I do not recall,’ said Turke carelessly. ‘But I doubt it is worth retrieving. I am more interested in his clothes. They were expensive.’

  ‘We shall look for everything,’ promised Michael. ‘Now, where are these soldiers? It is possible that they stole Gosslinge’s belongings and hid his body. Mercenaries are experienced corpse looters, after all.’

  ‘I can answer that,’ interjected Morice smoothly. ‘They are in the Castle prison, where they have been residing for the last eleven days. Within hours of Master Turke’s arrival here, they visited a tavern and were involved in a brawl. I shall release them when he leaves, so they can accompany him, but until then they can stay where they are.’