Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew was not the only one uncomfortable with the notion of Kenyngham in company with a rough group of people like the Chepe Waits; Michael and Langelee were worried, too. Langelee led the way down the slippery lane at a cracking pace, dragging Quenhyth with him. Quenhyth looked pleased with himself, as though he imagined he had finally proved some point and was going to avoid a sojourn in the proctors’ cells after all.

‘It was something about prayers,’ he said breathlessly, trying to be helpful. ‘You know how Kenyngham is always praying? Well, Frith asked if he knew any prayers for musicians, or some such nonsense, and Kenyngham offered to teach him some. He said he knows one by St Cecilia.’

Michael stopped dead in his tracks, grateful for a respite from running through the sludgy snow. ‘Kenyngham is praying with the Waits in the conclave? That sounds innocent enough. I thought they were doing something else.’

‘The Waits do not pray!’ said Quenhyth in a sneering voice. ‘They would not know how.’

‘Perhaps that is why they asked Kenyngham to teach them,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘We may be doing Frith an injustice here.’

‘Then they will have no complaint when we burst into the conclave to see what is happening,’ panted Langelee.

‘Actually, I imagine the reason for escorting Kenyngham to the conclave is more closely related to the presence of the chest of gold under the floorboards than to devotions,’ said Bartholomew quietly, taking Michael’s arm and pulling him on.

‘Chest of gold?’ demanded Langelee. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It is Kenyngham’s turn to keep Dympna,’ explained Michael. ‘Matt thinks it is under the floorboards in the conclave, which is why they have been loose for the past three weeks. But there is a flaw in his reasoning: how could the Waits know where the chest is hidden? Its whereabouts is a closely guarded secret. Even Tulyet does not know where Kenyngham has put it, and Kenyngham is a man who is stubborn about such things. He would never reveal where Dympna was kept, especially to a band of entertainers with a reputation for light fingers.’

‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew heavily, as another piece of the mystery fell into place. ‘Ailred knew where it was. Tulyet said the keepers tell one other person where they have hidden the chest, in case there is an accident. Kenyngham would not have told Robin, and we know it was not Tulyet, so he must have informed Ailred. And we believe the Waits are Ailred’s accomplices!’

Michael skidded and almost fell in a particularly slick patch of snow. He slowed down, to try to think clearly. ‘The Waits have been the common factor all along – just as you said. They associated with Gosslinge, Turke, Giles and Philippa in London; they were seen with Norbert on the night of his death; and they spoke to Harysone in the King’s Head. It is obvious now we have the whole picture: Frith was the shadowy “Dympna” who met Norbert in St Michael’s, and who was able to escape without being seen by Godric and his classmates.’

‘The Waits probably killed Gosslinge, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he went to repay a loan, and they thrust the note into his throat when he told them he did not have their money. That may have been why he wore beggarly clothes – to pretend he was poor.’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘But we should catch these vagabonds before they make off with the gold and harm Kenyngham into the bargain.’

‘Hurry, then,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run again. He reached Michaelhouse and struggled with the gate, while the others fidgeted impatiently. As soon as it was open, he tore across the yard, heading for the hall. He almost collided with William, out in the milder weather for some much-needed exercise.

‘I have been evicted,’ said William peevishly. ‘The Waits insisted on being alone with Kenyngham in the conclave, while he taught them some prayers. Why do they not want me there? I know as many prayers as he does.’

Bartholomew did not stop to answer, but pushed past the friar and made for the conclave, racing up the stairs and across the hall. The door was locked, and he kicked at it in frustration.

‘They have him inside,’ he shouted to Langelee, who was behind him.

‘Calm down, Matt,’ said Langelee, pulling him away. ‘If the Waits have locked themselves in, then they have just sealed the door to their own prison. There is only one way in or out of the conclave, and that is through this door. We have them.’

‘That is not the point!’ said Bartholomew in agitation. ‘Kenyngham is in there. He may be in danger. And they do balancing acts for a living, so do not imagine they cannot escape through the windows. Send Quenhyth to stand in the courtyard and sound the alarm if they try to leave that way. And fetch an axe.’

‘An axe?’ asked Langelee in horror. ‘You are not taking an axe to one of my doors!’

‘Kenyngham is alone with men who have killed,’ hissed Bartholomew, grabbing the Master by the front of his gown. ‘We will smash down the walls, if we have to.’

‘There is no need to resort to that kind of measure,’ said Michael calmly. He studied the door for a moment, took several steps back, and then powered towards it with his shoulder held like a battering ram. Bartholomew winced, anticipating broken bones. But just as Michael reached it, the door was opened and Kenyngham peered out, curious to know what had caused the sudden commotion in the hall. Michael shot past him, and there was a loud crash.

Bartholomew darted forward. The floorboards inside the door had been removed, and in the resulting recess sat a handsome walnut chest. Dympna. Bartholomew spotted it too late, and suffered the same fate as Michael. He caught his foot in the gaping hole, and slid the entire length of the conclave on his stomach.

He joined Michael in a mass of colourful arms and legs – the monk had evidently entered the room with such force he had collided with Yna and Makejoy and had bowled them from their feet. While the physician tried to disentangle himself and work out what was happening, the door was slammed shut and a heavy bench dragged across it.

‘What are you doing, Frith?’ asked Kenyngham in dismay. ‘Now no one else can come in.’

‘You do not want people wandering in and out while your gold is sitting in full view,’ said Frith reasonably. ‘It is better we keep the door closed until it is hidden again.’

‘Very well,’ said Kenyngham tiredly. ‘Are you hurt, Michael? If not, you should stand up, because I think that poor lady underneath you is suffocating.’ He turned to Frith. ‘You said you would leave once you had the chest. There it is. Now take it and go.’

Michael gaped in astonishment, removing himself from Makejoy, who struggled to her knees and attempted to catch her breath. ‘What are you doing, Father? This money has been used for good deeds. Why are you prepared to give it away?’

Frith smiled unpleasantly. ‘Because I have just informed him that if he does not, I shall set light to his College and burn it to the ground with every Michaelhouse scholar inside it. The friar is an intelligent man, and knows when folk are speaking the truth.’

‘They were just leaving when you crashed in,’ said Kenyngham to Michael, sounding tearful. ‘They promised they would take the chest and be gone by nightfall. It is only money. Ten Dympnas would not be worth a single life.’

‘But lives may be lost once Dympna has gone,’ Michael pointed out, ignoring Frith and addressing Kenyngham. He took Bartholomew’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Makejoy and Yna stayed where they were, the former running tentative hands down her arms and legs as she tested for damage, while the other appeared to have been knocked all but insensible. ‘It is not just a chest of coins: it is something that has helped a lot of people.’