Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

He did not want to jostle Turke by ferrying him up the narrow stairs that led to Stanmore’s solar, so they took him to the ground-floor room that Cynric and his wife shared, where the physician knew there would be a fire and space to work. Rachel was startled by the sudden and unannounced appearance of a ‘corpse’ in her home, but fetched blankets and bowls of hot water quickly and without needless questions. Everyone – Philippa, Abigny, Stanmore, Edith, Michael, the two soldiers, Cynric and Rachel – crammed into the chamber to watch, advise or help.

Bartholomew knew it was important to warm his victim as soon as possible, so that vital organs could begin their normal functions again. He also knew that heating a frozen person too quickly would place excessive strain on the heart, which would then stop beating. It was a fine line between one and the other, and he was not entirely sure of the limits of either. It was not uncommon for people to fall through rotten ice in the winter, and so it was an operation he had been called upon to perform on several occasions in the past. Sometimes he was successful, and sometimes he was not.

Watched intently by a distraught Philippa, he removed wet clothes and replaced them with heated strips of linen. He concentrated on the torso first; the limbs were less urgent. When he came to remove the unconscious man’s knee-high hose, Philippa stopped him, and, with an odd sense of decorum, she whisked them off under a sheet. It seemed a peculiar thing to do when the rest of him had been so brutally exposed to view, but the physician supposed she imagined she was doing her bit to preserve her husband’s dignity.

Some of the blueness faded from Turke’s face, and Bartholomew began to hope there might be a chance. Philippa insisted on touching her husband, stroking his brow and murmuring to him. She was often in the way, but Bartholomew hoped her voice might work its own magic and pull the man back from the brink of death. Meanwhile, Abigny watched from the door, an anxious expression on his face, although who the anxiety was for – Philippa, Turke or himself – was impossible to say.

After a while, Turke’s eyelids fluttered and he muttered something incomprehensible. Philippa seized his hand and her soft calls rose to a crescendo as she pleaded with him to speak to her. Turke’s eyes opened a second time, and he stared at the ceiling.

‘I am here, Walter,’ Philippa shouted. ‘Come back to me!’

Turke turned his head very slightly in her direction, and his eyes appeared to focus on her face. He swallowed, then spoke. He uttered two words in a low, hoarse voice that had everyone straining to hear him. And then he died.

Bartholomew spent a long time frantically pushing on Turke’s chest in a futile effort to make the heart beat again, but he knew the situation was hopeless. Eventually, he stopped, rubbing a hand across his face as he did so. It was hot in the room, and his attempts to revive his patient had been vigorous. Sweat stung his eyes and he could feel rivulets running down his back under his clothes.

‘Just like the Death,’ said Philippa softly. ‘Medicine could not help people then, either.’

Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. ‘I am sorry, Philippa. I did all I could.’

She touched him on the cheek as tears began to spill from her eyes. ‘It is not your fault. You did your best.’

‘We will have to tell Sheriff Morice what has happened,’ said one of the soldiers nervously. ‘But it should make no difference, should it, whether Turke died now or earlier?’ There was an almost desperate appeal in his eyes.

‘Are you asking whether Morice will be angry with you for sending him word that Turke was dead when he was still alive?’ asked Michael archly. ‘I would not want to be so grossly misled by any of my beadles, but then my approach to these matters is infinitely more professional.’

‘But Turke died anyway,’ insisted the soldier. ‘There was nothing Morice could have done had he been here himself. Was there?’

‘No,’ said Stanmore, evidently wanting the men gone from his house and deciding that telling them what they wanted to hear was the best way to do it. ‘You saw for yourselves he was barely conscious.’

‘We did,’ said the soldier, relieved. ‘We should go and make our report, then.’

‘Will you or Morice be investigating further?’ Edith asked, catching the soldier’s arm as he prepared to escape.

He was puzzled by her question. ‘We have investigated, lady. He was skating and the ice was thin. What else is there to say? It was an accident.’

‘I agree,’ agreed Abigny, a little too keenly for Bartholomew’s comfort. ‘All we can do now is take him home and give him a decent burial.’

‘Very well,’ said Stanmore, nodding to the soldiers to indicate they should be on their way. ‘But tell Morice I expect him to pay his respects to Mistress Turke today. I do not want her to return to London claiming Cambridge men have no manners.’

‘What did Turke’s dying words mean?’ asked Michael curiously after the soldiers had gone. ‘They made no sense to me.’

‘Nor to me,’ said Philippa, straightening her head-dress. This time her grief was controlled. She was the dignified fishmonger’s widow, bearing her lot with grace and stoicism. By contrast, Bartholomew felt drained physically and mentally, and all he wanted was to return to Michaelhouse and lie down. ‘I must buy some black cloth for mourning clothes,’ Philippa added as the physician moved towards the door.

‘I have plenty,’ offered Stanmore. ‘I always keep a good supply of black, because so many scholars and clerics need it and, combined with this new fashion for black clothes to symbolise grief, there is always a demand for it.’

‘I will arrange to have your husband taken to St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘That is what we agreed before …’ He trailed off, not liking to dwell on the fact that they had discussed Turke’s funeral arrangements while he had still lived.

Philippa nodded. ‘And Matt will ask his friends to say masses for Walter’s soul. I think I will bury him here. I should continue the pilgrimage at the soonest opportunity, and Walter’s corpse will slow us down.’

‘But you must return to London, so that we can inter him at Garlicke Hythe,’ said Abigny, horrified by her plans. ‘You know that is what he would have wanted.’

‘He would have wanted me to complete the pilgrimage for him,’ insisted Philippa stubbornly. ‘His immortal soul is more important than his mortal remains. We cannot go all the way to Walsingham and back to London with him. It would not be practical.’

‘Then we should settle for taking him home,’ argued Abigny.

‘I want to go to Walsingham,’ said Philippa, becoming tearful again. ‘I made promises to saints that I would go, and I do not want to break them, or I may never have a child.’

‘Would you like me to do anything?’ offered Michael kindly, not pointing out that with Turke dead she was free to take a man who might not need divine intervention to produce a baby. ‘It seems Morice’s men regard the matter as closed, but I could make some enquiries, since you had questions earlier about his death. Perhaps I can learn why he was near the river, or discover his state of mind. Sometimes having answers makes a loss easier to bear.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Philippa flatly. ‘Walter is dead, and that is the end of the matter. I do not want you or the Sheriff to look into his personal affairs. I want his memory respected.’

‘Michael would be respectful,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by her sudden change of attitude. ‘But it was you who told us that Walter would not have gone skating. Are you not curious to learn more about that?’