A Killer in Winter (34 page)

‘Let us remain with Gosslinge for a moment,’ said Michael, shooting a brief but meaningful glance at Bartholomew to suggest
that Abigny’s statements had raised all sorts of questions that would later need to be discussed. ‘Was he of sound mind when
you last saw him?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Philippa warily. ‘He was not insane, if that is what you are asking. Not like your Clippesby. Gosslinge
complained a lot – about the cold, his clothes, the food we ate, his pay. Especially his pay. Is that what you wanted to know?’

‘He was very feeble,’ added Giles. ‘I was surprised when Walter chose him to come with us when he had better men at his disposal.
But Walter did make odd decisions on occasion.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Philippa, voicing the question that was also on Bartholomew’s lips. ‘Everything Walter did was
careful and prudent.’

‘Careful, yes,’ said Giles. ‘But not always prudent, and they are not the same thing. You cannot say that killing Fiscurtune
was prudent – and neither was going skating on thin ice.’

‘He was prudent in business matters,’ she said defensively. ‘It made him rich. And he owned two relics – St Zeno’s finger
and the snail from Jesus’s tomb. That made him special, too.’

‘But he gave them both away,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The finger is at Michaelhouse and Sheriff Morice has the snail.’

‘He planned to buy more relics at Walsingham,’ said Abigny. ‘He had his heart set on purchasing something really impressive,
like a piece of the True Cross or a lock of the Virgin’s hair – some very holy item to flaunt at his colleagues in the Fraternity
of Fishmongers.’

‘That does not explain why he parted so readily with the old ones,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is more impressive to
own three relics than one?’

‘I do not think he ever felt comfortable with that finger, despite the fact that he usually carried it with him,’ said Abigny.
‘And he, like me, thought the snail was fraudulent. It was a clever ploy to give it to Morice.’

‘He did not care for the finger,’ agreed Philippa. ‘I think he was afraid of St Zeno. But the snail
was
a real relic. He bought it from a Knight Hospitaller for two gold nobles. It must have been genuine to be that expensive.’

‘Gosslinge,’ prompted Michael, to bring the discussion back to the dead servant and declining to comment on the fact that
price had little to do with authenticity in the world of relics. ‘Was he upset about anything? Lonely? Worried about the journey
that lay ahead? And in what way was he weak? Easily bullied?’

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed both Philippa and Abigny at once. Philippa continued. ‘Despite his size, Gosslinge was very
confident. Walter was the only man he ever heeded; he ignored everyone else.’

‘He was rude and lazy,’ murmured Abigny.

Philippa did not hear him. ‘But he was not strong physically. I do not mean he was sickly, just that he seemed unable to lift
even fairly light loads.’

‘That was because he did so little work,’ muttered Abigny. ‘His muscles were wasted.’

‘But he was not upset about anything,’ said Philippa, ignoring her brother’s aside. ‘On the contrary, he was looking forward
to the journey we were about to make.’

‘He saw opportunities,’ said Abigny darkly. ‘Him and his dice. I think he had done something to the balance, so they would
fall more often in his favour. While I have no idea what led him to die in a church wearing someone else’s clothes, I would
not be surprised to learn that he did it for reasons that would benefit him financially.’

‘Giles!’ admonished Philippa tiredly. ‘It is not kind to tell tales now the poor man cannot defend himself.’ She turned to
Michael and made a helpless gesture, raising her hands palms upward. ‘Gosslinge was not the best servant we had, but he was
loyal, and Walter valued loyalty.’

‘I never understood that,’ said Abigny. He looked at Philippa. ‘Even you cannot pretend Walter treated his servants well –
he was demanding, mean and critical of their efforts. Yet Gosslinge stayed for years, when we were lucky if others managed
more than a few months.’

‘They liked each other,’ said Philippa stubbornly. ‘Walter was kinder to Gosslinge than to the others, and Gosslinge repaid
him with devotion.’

‘No,’ said Abigny, shaking his head. ‘It was more than that. I always felt there was some bond that went deeper than a master
– servant relationship.’

‘But Walter did not seem particularly distressed when he learned that Gosslinge was dead,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Rather, he
was irritated, because it meant he had to find a replacement.’

‘You did not know Walter,’ said Philippa, angered by the comment. ‘He was upset; he just did not show it with tears and lamentations.
He would have missed Gosslinge very much.’

‘Can you think of any reason why they should both die in Cambridge?’ asked Michael, unruffled by her ire. ‘Is it possible
that Walter was so distressed by Gosslinge’s death that he skated on the Mill Pool, knowing that it might crack under him
and bring about his death?’

‘Suicide?’ asked Abigny with a startled laugh. ‘Walter? I do not think so!’

‘No,’ said Philippa firmly. ‘It is winter, and men do die of cold or falling through ice. You are trying to read something
into these deaths, when there is nothing. Now, the best thing you can do is leave my husband and his servant in peace, and
let me grieve for them.’

She took her brother’s arm and marched away towards Milne Street, so Abigny was obliged to hobble and stumble to keep up with
her. Bartholomew could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was agitated, and he was curious. Was it because she did
not like Michael probing into secrets she would rather keep concealed? Did she know Gosslinge’s death had not been natural,
as had first been assumed, and was determined the truth should not come out? What was the nature of the odd relationship between
Turke and his servant? It did not sound as though either was a man who inspired or gave loyalty for no reason. Bartholomew
wondered what that reason might be.

Deynman decreed that all Michaelhouse scholars and servants should take part in a game of camp-ball that had been organised
for the town that afternoon. It was not good weather for such an activity, and Bartholomew anticipated he would be busy later
with patients who had cuts and broken bones. Camp-ball was a vicious event anyway, but it would be worse with ice on the roads
and piles of hard snow everywhere.

The game had been Sheriff Morice’s idea, and had been planned for weeks. People were looking forward to it, although Bartholomew
could not imagine why. To him, camp-ball was another word for ‘riot’, and it was not unknown for folk to be killed while taking
part. The game was played with two sides, and the aim was to put an inflated leather bag between twin posts that marked the
‘goal’ of the opposing team. There was no limit to the number of people who could play, and the teams were sometimes hundreds
strong. The ball could be kicked, but it was mostly thrown. This year, Morice had set one goal at the Barnwell Gate, and the
other at the Castle. People complained these were too close together – in the past, the goals had been as far apart as the
Castle and the village of Trumpington, some two miles distant – but the Sheriff pointed out that most roads were closed by
snow, and if folk wanted to play, then the event had to take place in the town, where at least some of the streets were navigable.

Knowing the game could turn into a competition between townsmen and scholars – and then into something that had nothing to
do with sportsmanship – Michael petitioned Morice to ensure both sides contained a mixture of town and gown. Michaelhouse
scholars were to play for the side called ‘Castle’, who were supposed to drive the ball to their opponents’ goal at the Barnwell
Gate. Meanwhile, ‘Gate’ were supposed to stop them, and carry the ball to Castle’s goal. Any method to achieve this was acceptable,
although use of weapons was not permitted. There were no other rules.

The teams massed in the Market Square, where there was some reasonably good-natured shouting and bantering, and much quaffing
of the powerful church ale that was for sale in the graveyards of St Mary the Great and Holy Trinity. The apprentices were
out in force, and so were scholars, all wearing their warmest clothes in anticipation of a long afternoon in the cold. Morice
sat on his horse, and addressed the crowd, informing them it was illegal to use anything
other than fists while attempting to gain possession of the ball – and anyone aiming a crossbow or drawing a sword could
expect to be arrested on sight – and everyone should take care not to trample small children. The prize to the winning team
was a groat for every man, half a groat for every woman, and a penny for boys. Girls, Bartholomew assumed, should expect to
be disappointed or should lie about their age or sex.

There was a cheer of delight as the Sheriff raised the camp-ball over his head. Michael glanced around warily, watching the
vintner’s apprentices fix the scholars of Valence Marie with meaningful intent that had nothing to do with a leather bag.
He nodded to Meadowman, and several beadles appeared, jostling the scholars until they were obliged to move away. The vintners
were deprived, at least temporarily, of their prey.

Bartholomew saw the Michaelhouse contingent instinctively move closer together. Everyone was there: every student, all the
Fellows (except William) and the servants. Cynric had dispensed with the Welsh hunting knife he always carried – it was not
unknown for folk to be stabbed by scabbarded weapons when there was a scrum for the ball – and had replaced it with something
smaller and less menacing. Agatha clutched a heavy stick, pretending to use it for walking through the snow, although it was
obvious that the ‘Gates’ had better watch themselves when she was near.

‘I think I must be the oldest player here,’ said Kenyngham, glancing around in dismay. ‘Spending a whole afternoon chasing
a ball is not a good use of my time. I would rather pray.’

‘So would I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘So, why are you here, Father? This is too rough for you.’

‘Deynman ordered everyone at Michaelhouse to take part,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Even the Waits. He wants us to be on the winning
team, and thinks numbers may make a difference.’

‘This was not what we had in mind when we agreed to work for Deynman,’ said Frith the musician resentfully. ‘I do not like
games of violence.’

‘I do,’ said Agatha, brazenly confrontational. ‘They sort the men from the boys.’

‘Oh?’ Frith’s eyes travelled insolently over Agatha’s formidable bulk. ‘And which are you?’

Agatha’s eyes narrowed, and powerful fingers tightened around her cudgel. ‘I am more man than you will ever hope to be.
I
do not skulk around the College, looking for things to steal.’

Frith’s lips compressed into a hard, straight line. ‘Neither do I. Michaelhouse folk keep accusing us of stealing, but then
the objects turn up a few days later, and it transpires they were just misplaced. You should watch what you say, woman. Defaming
the character of innocent people is an offence that I am sure Sheriff Morice will prosecute.’

‘I am quite sure it is,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, so Frith would not hear. ‘Morice knows Colleges will pay to drop
any charges that might bring them into disrepute.’

Bartholomew suspected the monk was right. However, the Waits were not stupid, and they had already weathered one encounter
with the greedy Sheriff that had probably left them the poorer. They would know that levelling accusations against Michaelhouse
would cost them money – especially since they had already demonstrated a fondness for other folks’ gold, so their honesty
was compromised.

‘Morice will throw you in his gaol for thieving,’ declared Agatha hotly, glowering at Frith in a way that should have made
any sane man back down. ‘And you and your friends will hang.’

‘Prove us thieves, then,’ challenged Frith, his voice dripping with disdain. ‘Search our possessions. You will find nothing
amiss.’

‘I have already done that and he is right,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘The salt dish, Wynewyk’s inkpot and Ulfrid’s
missing knife were not there. I do not
understand: it is obvious they are the culprits, yet I cannot discover where they have hidden what they stole.’

‘Are you sure they are dishonest?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was under the impression that valuable things have been left lying
around, but have been ignored. Why take a salt dish when they could have William’s gold nobles or the College silver?’

Cynric shook his head. ‘As I said, I do not understand them at all.’

‘You should leave Michaelhouse,’ said Agatha imperiously to Frith. ‘You are no longer welcome. I shall speak to Deynman, and
have him dismiss you.’

Frith sneered. ‘Deynman cannot dismiss us. He signed a document that promised us food, shelter and employment for the whole
Twelve Days. We will take it to Morice if you renege.’

‘That document was clever planning on their part,’ remarked Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Previous employers must have found them
lacking, so they learned to draw up legal contracts outlining their terms in advance. Langelee would never have signed it,
so they are lucky Deynman was elected Lord of Misrule: he is the only one stupid enough to put his mark to such a thing.’

‘Evicting them in this weather would be wicked, anyway,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘We shall have to keep them until it breaks.’

‘We shall have to do no such thing,’ declared Agatha, overhearing him. ‘I do not care what happens to thieves. If they kept
their hands to themselves and put on decent performances, we would not be having this discussion in the first place.’

‘Our performances are good,’ objected Makejoy, offended. ‘We are professionals!’

‘
You
are all right,’ acknowledged Agatha. ‘And Yna and Jestyn are adequate. But Frith is wholly without talent. You should dispense
with him – you would do better without the racket he dares to call music.’

Makejoy regarded Frith unhappily, and Bartholomew was under the impression she thought the aggressive laundress was right.
Frith did not, however, and he moved up to Agatha until his face was only inches from hers. His voice was low and hoarse with
menace.