Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘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 droplets 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.