Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘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.’

‘I do not want them back, thank you very much,’ said Turke stiffly. ‘I shall hire new ones – ones that can behave themselves. Your prisoners can find their own way back to London.’

‘Pay them what they are owed first,’ advised Abigny practically. ‘We do not want a pair of cheated killers on our trail as we make our way into the wilds of Norfolk.’

‘I suppose not,’ admitted Turke reluctantly. ‘Very well. See they are paid, then dismiss them. Perhaps Morice will keep them locked up until we are safely away.’

‘I might,’ said Morice, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘We can negotiate the cost of their stay later, when we have a little privacy.’

‘Why do you want to know about the soldiers, Brother?’ said Philippa curiously. ‘You said last night that Gosslinge died of the cold. Are you now suggesting he did not, and they might have harmed him in order to snatch his possessions?’

Michael shook his head. ‘There is nothing to suggest that happened. Matt believes he froze to death, then someone found his body and took the opportunity to strip it.’

Turke sniffed. ‘The thief will be easy to catch, Brother. All you need to do is look for Gosslinge’s clothes.’

‘A thief will not be stupid enough to wear stolen apparel in a small town like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘And given that he hid the body among the albs to cover his tracks, I predict he is not totally witless.’

‘I am sorry Gosslinge was treated so disrespectfully,’ said Philippa, staring down at the corpse. ‘But desperate folk are driven to desperate measures, and it would be wrong to judge a man with hungry children by our own principles. I, for one, do not want to persecute such a person. We shall bury Gosslinge, and there will be an end to the matter.’

‘I want my livery back,’ said Turke. A cunning expression crossed his face. ‘Or, better yet, Michaelhouse can keep the clothes when they are found as payment for Gosslinge’s burial.’

‘I do not know about that,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘Suppose they never appear?’

Turke scowled. ‘I am offering you a good bargain. The cost of the clothes will more than pay for a mass and a grave. But if you would rather return the livery to me when I pass through Cambridge on my return journey, then I shall pay you in another way.’

‘Coins are best,’ said Langelee hopefully.

‘I have something better,’ said Turke. ‘He handed Langelee a small leather pouch. ‘That will cover the expense – and more besides.’

Langelee investigated the pouch’s contents gingerly. ‘I am not sure this is sufficient – there is not much of a market for dried slugs in our town.’

Turke gave a gusty sigh that echoed all around the church. ‘It is a relic. It may not look like much, but used properly will bring you great wealth. Never let it be said that Walter Turke is niggardly with his payments.’

Abigny swallowed a snort of disgust.

Langelee tried to hand it back. ‘Coins are better, if it is all the same to you, Master Turke. And if you add a little extra, we will say prayers for your soul, too.’

‘I shall expect those regardless,’ countered Turke. He nodded at the pouch. ‘And that is all the payment I am prepared to give, so you had better make the most of it. It is St Zeno’s finger.’

‘St Zeno?’ asked Langelee resentfully. ‘I have never heard of him.’

‘Then your education is lacking,’ retorted Turke rudely. ‘Zeno is a friend to fishermen, and his finger will allow any who touch it to be successful anglers. It could bring you a fortune.’

‘Not at the moment,’ said Abigny wryly. ‘The river is frozen solid. I tossed a rock on to it this morning, and it skidded clear across the surface like a toy.’

Turke raised his eyebrows, and turned to his brother-inlaw. ‘I had not noticed. But I dislike ice, as you know, and I have better things to do than throw stones on frozen rivers.’

‘St Zeno is associated with fishermen,’ said Michael, addressing Langelee. ‘He was an Italian bishop.’

‘He did not like loud wailing during his masses for the dead,’ added Bartholomew, irrelevantly repeating the only scrap of information he could remember about the obscure cleric.

‘It seems this is a valuable relic,’ said Morice with interest, reaching out to take it. ‘It might be a suitable payment for keeping two dangerous mercenaries out of action while you continue your journey.’