Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Morice’s dark features broke into a sneer. ‘I guessed this would happen. You know the identity of Norbert’s killer, but you are protecting him by having a townsman convicted of the crime instead. Very well, then. I shall initiate my own enquiries. I will expose the culprit – be he one of the beggars in tabards who claim to be students or the Chancellor himself.’ He turned on his heel and stalked across the yard.

‘No wonder Tulyet was so keen for you to investigate,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Sheriff shove the porter out of the way when the man fumbled with the door. ‘He knows any enquiries Morice makes will not reveal the true killer.’

‘But they may result in a scapegoat,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And you can be sure that Morice will demand full punishment according to the law. If I do not want to see innocent scholars hang, there is no time to waste.’

‘Do you need help?’ asked Bartholomew reluctantly. He was loath to leave the College now he knew that Philippa was in the town.

Michael smiled. ‘I plan to spend the day learning exactly what Norbert did on his last night, which will mean time in the King’s Head, and I do not need you for that. But I may need you tomorrow, if my enquiries lead me nowhere.’

Bartholomew had a bad feeling that Michael would be unsuccessful and that the Twelve Days of Christmas were going to be spent tracking down a killer.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and familiar odour comprised polished wood, smoke from the fire and faint overtones of the evening meal that had been served in the hall.

It was already well past eight o’clock, and Bartholomew, William and Michael were the only ones who had not gone to their rooms. William was there because there was still wine to drink and, despite his outward advocacy of abstinence and self-denial, the friar was a man who liked his creature comforts, particularly the liquid kind. Michael was there because he was obliged to be at the church at midnight to perform Angel Mass, and did not want to go to bed for only a few hours. Bartholomew had remained because he was unsettled by Philippa’s presence in the town.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed William, walking to the table, where the wine stood in a large pewter jug. He stumbled near the door, where the floorboards had worked loose within the last three weeks and needed to be fastened down. Reluctant to hire a carpenter to solve the problem so near the expensive season of Christmas, Langelee had placed a rug over the offending section, but it tended to ‘walk’ and was not always where it needed to be. William refilled his goblet, then carried the jug to Michael, who had been hastily draining his cup to ensure he did not miss out. Bartholomew followed suit, feeling that plenty of wine was the only way he would sleep that night.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ said Michael again, setting his cup near the hearth so that the flames would warm it, then leaning back in his chair.

‘Are you two going to spend all night just saying her name over and over?’ snapped Bartholomew testily. ‘I have said I would rather talk about something else – like Norbert’s murder. What did you learn today, Brother?’

Michael’s expression became sombre. ‘After Norbert left Ovyng the night he died there is an hour unaccounted for until he arrived at the King’s Head. He met a woman there, but of course no one will tell me who she was.’

‘Was he drunk and free with his insults?’ asked William. ‘If so, then the case is solved: one of the patrons in the King’s Head is the guilty party.’

‘He was drunk, but apparently no more insulting than normal. I understand some kind of gambling was in progress, but, again, no one will tell me who Norbert played. However, the innkeeper hinted that Norbert lost more than he won, so there is no reason to think he was killed by a disenfranchised gaming partner. He apparently left in reasonable humour.’

‘That can change fast,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Even a small insult is sometimes enough to turn tipsy bonhomie into enraged fury. Men soaked in wine are not rational people.’

‘True, but there is nothing to suggest that happened to Norbert. He left the King’s Head at midnight, and no one who lives between the tavern and Ovyng admits to hearing any affray.’

‘So, now what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Where will you go from here?’

Michael sighed. ‘I do not know. Morice’s men followed me today, so I decided to concentrate on the taverns. I was afraid they would conclude that the killer was at Ovyng if I spent too much time there. Damn Morice! He will make my work much more difficult.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said William meaningfully.

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean? I want no help from him or his men – I could not trust anything they told me.’

‘But his soldiers would be more than happy to spend an afternoon in a tavern with free beer,’ said William. ‘And Morice would agree that his mother killed Norbert, if the price were right.’

‘You mean Michael should bribe the Sheriff?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

William shrugged. ‘It would not be the first time, and the fines I have imposed on rule-breakers means that the proctors’ chest is nicely full at the moment. We can afford it, and I would like to see Norbert’s death properly investigated by men like me, who know what they are doing, without the “help” of Morice and his men.’

Bartholomew turned to Michael, horrified. ‘You have bribed Morice before? You should be careful, Brother! Corrupting a King’s official is a criminal offence, and you may find that Morice is the kind of man to accept money, then make a complaint about you.’

‘Believe me, I know,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But the man is impossible to reason with, so we may have to resort to desperate measures if no answer to this crime is forthcoming. He is making no serious effort to investigate himself, but is concentrating on thwarting me. He does not care about avenging Norbert, only about seeing whether he can turn the situation to his advantage. We have not had a corrupt Sheriff for so long that I barely recall how to deal with them.’

They were silent for a while, each thinking his own thoughts. Michael and William considered the problem of an awkward Sheriff and a difficult murder, while Bartholomew found his mind returning to Philippa’s pretty face, flowing golden curls and slender figure. He was disconcerted to find he could not remember certain details – what her hands looked like, for example – although other things were etched deeply in his memory. He knew how she laughed, that there was a freckle on the lobe of her left ear, that she liked cats but not dogs, and that she hated the smell of lavender.

The hour candle dipped lower. A little less than three hours remained before Angel Mass marked the beginning of Christmas Day, and there was an air of expectation and excitement in the College. Bartholomew opened a shutter and gazed through the window. Lights burned in almost every room, as scholars elected to remain awake, rather than rise early. Snow was in the air again, and came down in spiteful little flurries that did not settle. It had snowed when the Death had come, too, he recalled, and the bitter weather had added to the miseries of both patients and the physicians who tended them. Philippa had disliked the cold. She preferred summer, when the crops grew golden and the land baked slowly under a silver-white sun.