Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘Was he wearing skates?’ asked Bartholomew.

Stanmore gazed at his brother-in-law as though he were insane. ‘Of course he was wearing skates, Matt! How do you think we know he went skating? They were tied to his feet with thongs.’

‘I would like to see,’ said Michael. ‘I might recognise who made them, and then perhaps whoever sold them to Turke might tell us more about–’

‘Hateful things!’ sobbed Philippa bitterly. ‘Take them from his poor body before I see it. Will you do that, Giles?’

‘Walter’s death does not come under your jurisdiction, Brother,’ said Abigny, ignoring her as he fixed the monk with a steady gaze. ‘Walter was not a member of the University, and he did not die on University property. This matter belongs to the Sheriff, and he is sure to want to make his own enquiries.’

‘Summon him, then,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I am not questioning anyone’s authority; I am merely trying to help.’

‘I have already sent Morice a message,’ said Stanmore, disapproval thick in his voice. ‘But he says he cannot come until later, so we shall have to wait before we remove Turke to St Botolph’s.’

‘St Michael’s, not St Botolph’s,’ said Philippa in a low voice. ‘The Michaelhouse priests I met yesterday – Kenyngham, Clippesby and Suttone – will give me their prayers. They are decent men, and I would rather have them than people I do not know.’

‘Kenyngham will arrange a vigil,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the officious, selfish fishmonger would need the prayers of a saintly friar like Kenyngham, if he was ever to escape Purgatory. He was surprised Turke’s body was still at the Mill Pool, but understood that Stanmore would not want to remove it before the Sheriff had given his permission. However, Michael pointed out that bodies should not be left lying around until the secular courts deigned to find time to examine them, and suggested they remove him to the church themselves.

‘Morice is a curious fellow,’ said Stanmore, marching down Milne Street towards the Small Bridges with Bartholomew and Michael at his heels. Abigny and Edith had been left to comfort Philippa. ‘He has been after Turke like a lovesick duck ever since he arrived in the town, but now the man is dead, Morice cannot even be bothered to inspect the body.’

‘Not so curious,’ said Bartholomew, who thought the Sheriff’s behaviour was painfully transparent. ‘Turke alive was able to dispense monetary favours; Turke dead is not a source of income, and so not worth the effort. Morice is interested only in events and people that might result in financial rewards for himself.’

‘There is always Philippa,’ said Stanmore. ‘A wealthy widow is easier prey than a miserly fishmonger who was used to sycophants and corrupt officials.’

‘Philippa will not be wealthy until the courts grant her Turke’s fortune,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You know what lawyers are like. It could take months, by which time Philippa will be back in London and Morice will not be in a position to benefit. And how do you know Turke left Philippa his wealth, anyway? She said he had sons from a previous marriage; they may inherit everything, and she may be destitute.’

‘You could be right,’ admitted Stanmore. ‘But I am unsettled by her claim that Turke was not a man for skating. What is she saying, do you think? That she believes someone killed him?’

‘I thought at first that grief was speaking,’ said Michael. ‘You know how people sometimes deny something terrible has happened by snatching at straws. But now I am not sure. She is right: Turke did not seem the kind of man to grab a pair of skates and go dancing on the river.’

‘And there is Gosslinge’s death,’ added Bartholomew.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said he died of the cold.’

‘I believe he did. But do you not think it odd that a servant and his master should die so soon after each other?’

‘It is a pity Philippa ordered you to stay away from Turke’s body,’ said Michael soberly. ‘I would like to know what you think of it.’

‘Giles would not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the reaction of his old room-mate when the physician had agreed to comply with Philippa’s wishes. He had been pleased, almost relieved, and had immediately initiated a discussion about how to transport the body away from Cambridge.

They reached the Mill Pool, where people had gathered to stare at the body. It was covered with a sheet, and a group of boys wearing the livery of Stanmore’s household formed a knot on one side of it, while two of Morice’s soldiers stood on the other. A row of heads peered from the bridge above, braving the cold winds to have a tale to tell over the fire that night. Christmas was a time for stories, after all.

When the boys saw Stanmore, one of them darted up to him. Bartholomew recalled that his name was Harold, a lad of about fourteen years with a freckled face and wide, guileless eyes. He looked angelic. Bartholomew knew he was not.

‘We thought we should wait here until you came back, sir,’ said the boy in a breathlessly childish voice. ‘The soldiers had a poke at him, but no one else has been near.’

‘Thank you, Harold,’ said Stanmore. ‘But go home now and take the others with you. This is no weather to be out loitering. Tell Cynric to hurry up with the stretcher, and we shall remove Turke to the church ourselves.’

‘But–’ began Harold, glancing around at his fellows.

‘Now,’ said Stanmore firmly.

‘I saw–’

‘Go!’ said Stanmore, giving the boy a gentle shove. ‘Your hands are blue, and you are not wearing your cloak. An apprentice with frost-eaten fingers will be no good to me, so home you go. That goes for all of you.’

Reluctantly, the boy walked away, casting resentful glances over his shoulder as he went. Bartholomew did not blame him for wanting to stay. It was not every day that a guest of his master’s died in odd circumstances, and Harold, like most lads of his age, had a ghoulish curiosity.

‘Poor Turke,’ said Stanmore. ‘He died without atoning for his sin – although he never seemed particularly sorry to have taken a knife to one of his colleagues, as far as I could tell.’

‘Dead as a nail,’ said one of the soldiers, approaching Stanmore with a confident swagger and indicating the body with a jerk of a grubby thumb. ‘It is a pity, since the Sheriff had hopes that he might donate a little something for the town. But these things happen. He should not have been skating anyway. The ice is thin, like parchment.’

Bartholomew looked to where he pointed and saw the jagged hole in the centre of the Mill Pool, made by Turke crashing through it. The surrounding ice was cracked and scratched, as though Turke had fought hard to escape, while the snow on the river bank was scuffed and churned where his would-be rescuers had milled around, unable to help him in time. A piece of rope lay nearby, and parallel lines on the ice indicated where Turke had finally been pulled free. The soldier was right: the ice in the middle of the pond was far too thin for safe skating.

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael, pulling the cloth away to reveal the blue features of the fishmonger underneath.

‘I think he is still alive,’ said Bartholomew in horror, noting the slight puff of the lips as the man breathed.

‘I was told he was dead!’ said Stanmore indignantly, struggling to lift one end of Turke’s stretcher, while Michael grabbed the other. Sheepishly, trying to make amends for their mistake, Sheriff Morice’s henchmen stepped forward to seize a corner each, leaving Bartholomew to take the middle. ‘He certainly looked dead – blue and chilled.’

‘That is because he was in cold water,’ said Bartholomew, noting that crystals of ice were forming in Turke’s sodden clothes. He wondered whether he would be able to snatch the man back from the brink of death or whether it was already too late. ‘Hurry!’