Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘But, like all earthly wealth, it has become tainted,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘I am not overly distressed to see it go.’

‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew, watching him closely. ‘You are referring to Ailred.’

Kenyngham nodded, and his saintly face was grey with sorrow. ‘He was a good man, but the gold corrupted him. He started to make illegal loans from the chest, so I was obliged to demand custody of it three weeks ago. He was not pleased. He was even less pleased when I confronted him with the fact that a large amount was unaccounted for.’

‘Did you tell Tulyet?’ asked Bartholomew.

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘There was no need for that. I simply gave Ailred notice that the missing gold had to be returned by the end of the Twelve Days – in four days’ time now – because that is when we will lend a sizeable sum to Robert de Blaston to demolish the High Street hovels and replace them with decent dwellings. Ailred had almost a month to recover it all.’

‘Ailred needed funds quickly, so he started calling in the loans he should never have granted,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The first note from Dympna to Norbert was about three weeks ago. We were right: Ailred did demand money from Norbert in Dympna’s name.’

‘Ailred gave funds to Norbert?’ asked Kenyngham in horror. ‘That young man made an official application, but it was refused on the grounds that he wanted it to squander on earthly pleasures. That is not the purpose of Dympna.’

‘This is beginning to make sense,’ said Michael, brushing himself down. ‘The question that remains, however, is how did Ailred come to use the Waits as his accomplices? Did they travel to Cambridge for that purpose? Or was it just incidental to avenging the murdered Fiscurtune?’

He turned questioningly to the jugglers. Makejoy was flexing an arm in a way that suggested it was damaged, while Yna held her head, still dazed. Frith had listened carefully to the exchange between the scholars, while Jestyn stood guard at the door, picking at a skinned elbow. Bartholomew understood exactly why Frith was prepared to let the scholars talk among themselves without interruption: he was giving the women time to recover, and then they were going to make their escape – with the chest.

‘Langelee!’ he shouted urgently, wondering whether the Master had gone for an axe, or whether he had decided to wait and see what happened before damaging his precious College. Considering the conclave door had been slammed in his face, Bartholomew sincerely hoped Langelee had the sense to do something practical.

‘Quiet!’ hissed Jestyn menacingly. ‘Or I will silence you once and for all.’

Suddenly, both he and Frith had knives in their hands. Jestyn seemed uncertain and nervous, and Bartholomew saw that he was the kind of man who would use his weapon just because he could think of no other way out of the predicament in which he found himself. Bartholomew drew breath to shout again, to warn the Master the Waits were armed, but Jestyn was on him in an instant, and the physician found himself pressed hard against the wall with the blade of a knife held at his throat by a desperate and frightened man.

‘I think Jestyn is suggesting we shall have no more shouting,’ said Frith, when he saw his friend was fully prepared to slit the physician’s throat if another sound was uttered. ‘He is right: we do not want everyone in a frenzy over nothing. People might get hurt.’

Michael took a step forward, to go to Bartholomew’s aid, but stopped dead when Frith grabbed Kenyngham’s arm and waved his own weapon menacingly near the old man’s face.

‘Sit on the bench by the wall.’ Makejoy’s stern voice came from the other side of the room. She was kneeling next to Yna, who had apparently suffered the most from the monk’s onslaught. ‘All of you. And put your hands on your knees, where we can see them. If you do as you are told no one will be harmed.’

There was no option but to obey. Bartholomew eased past the agitated Jestyn and went to the bench, relieved to be away from the unsteady blade. Michael perched next to him, while Kenyngham sat on the monk’s other side. They placed their hands on their knees and waited, watching while Frith had low and urgent words with Jestyn, obviously attempting to calm him. Bartholomew suspected he was lucky that Jestyn had not silenced him with a stab wound there and then; the fellow looked unsettled enough to commit a rash act.

He looked around, assessing his chances of reaching the door and removing the heavy bench before Jestyn could catch him. He decided they were slim. And what would happen to Michael and Kenyngham if he escaped, anyway? The Waits would still have hostages, and therefore the means to force Langelee to do what they wanted.

Frith hefted the box of coins from the hole in the floor and set it on the bench next to Bartholomew. The physician glanced at it, and saw it was about half full of gold nobles, along with some jewellery with precious stones. There were silver coins, too, and a neatly bound stack of parchments listing various transactions that had been made. Bartholomew looked at the top page, and saw Ailred had kept a careful list of his loans, despite the fact that they had been made without his colleagues’ consent. Near the end was Norbert’s name, with the numbers one, thirteen and four next to it. They were the same digits as on the note Quenhyth had found in the Waits’ belongings. He wondered whether the parchment had been retrieved from Norbert when he had gone to meet ‘Dympna’ in the church, or if it had been written but never sent. Regardless, it was a strong indication that the Waits were Ailred’s accomplices.

‘When did you become involved in this?’ asked Michael of Frith. ‘And how?’

Frith smiled. ‘Have you not worked that out yet? You scholars think you are so clever, and yet you know nothing.’

‘I know enough,’ said Michael, unruffled by the jibe. ‘I know you probably hail from a village called Fiscurtune, which is also Ailred’s home. And I know you were keen to avenge the death of one John Fiscurtune, who was murdered by Walter Turke. It is no coincidence that you and Turke’s household arrived in Cambridge on the same day.’

‘Good,’ said Frith, clapping his hands together in mocking congratulations. ‘And how did you guess all this?’

‘Because we know you helped Ailred regain his bad loans. Since he would not have told just anyone about them, it is reasonable to assume he told someone he trusted. A kinsman. You have been here since the fifteenth of December, which is about when Norbert had his first letter.’

‘Ailred and John of Fiscurtune are my uncles,’ said Frith. ‘They were brothers to Isabella – my mother – who was Turke’s first wife, God rest her poor soul.’

‘Do you mean that you are Turke’s son?’ asked Kenyngham, bewildered.

Frith looked angry. ‘Of course not! Turke was my mother’s second husband, and my stepfather. He married her because she was a wealthy widow. When I learned he planned to embark on the pilgrimage he imagined would absolve him of Uncle John’s murder, I decided a journey of my own was in order. Someone needed to prevent a killer from becoming Lord Mayor.’

‘You make it sound altruistic,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Be honest. You wanted to kill Turke because Fiscurtune’s death meant there was no one to recommend you to wealthy merchants.’

‘But Frith did not kill Turke,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘Turke fell through the ice while skating. The whole town knows his death was an accident.’

‘Uncle John’s son – my cousin – is not interested in avenging his father,’ said Frith bitterly, ignoring the friar. ‘He will spare a few pennies for a requiem mass, but that will be all.’