A Killer in Winter (45 page)

‘We should see Ailred, Matt, and ask him about Fiscurtune. I think he has met the fangless fishmonger far more recently than
Dick has done.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘Fiscurtune had no association with Cambridge as far as I know. He has certainly
not been here recently, because I assure you I would have noticed him.’

‘I came across the information last night, when Matt was visiting Edith,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘I trawled through
some University documents and discovered that Ailred hails from near Lincoln – not Lincoln itself, but a small village just
outside it.’

‘We know that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is no secret: he is very proud of the fact that he is a Lincolnshire man.’

‘The name of his manor is Fiscurtune,’ announced Michael momentously.

‘It is a common name,’ warned Tulyet. ‘I imagine any village with some kind of fishing industry may have taken the Saxon word
“fisc” for fish, and added “tun” for village or manor. You cannot connect Ailred with your dead fishmonger on that evidence
alone.’

‘I do not believe in coincidences,’ said Michael pompously and untruthfully. ‘Anyway, when I learned where Ailred spent his
early years, I visited Sheriff Morice, who gave me permission – for a price – to refer to the taxation lists compiled in the
days of the Conqueror. They are a good source of information about places in obscure parts of the kingdom.’

‘Lincolnshire is not obscure,’ said Bartholomew, amused by Michael’s description.

‘Morice asked for money before he let you see Domesday?’ asked Tulyet, horrified. ‘It is just as well he is not investigating
Norbert’s death, because I do not want to be presented with a bill for his labours, as well as with a killer!’

‘It is your fault for resigning,’ retorted Michael unsympathetically. ‘But I learned from Domesday that Fiscurtune boasts
three and a half fisheries.’

‘Fisheries,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Fiscurtune was a
fishmonger, and so was Turke. Now we learn that Ailred hails from a village with fisheries. Perhaps there
is
a connection here.’

‘Fiscurtune village is small,’ Michael went on. ‘So, assuming I am right, and the murdered John Fiscurtune and Ailred hail
from the same settlement, then it follows that they must have known each other. Indeed, I feel they knew each other rather
well. Was there any physical resemblance between Fiscurtune and Ailred, Dick?’

‘Fiscurtune had no teeth,’ said Tulyet apologetically. ‘It changed his face so much it is impossible to say.’ His expression
became thoughtful. ‘However, now that I think about it, I do vaguely recall Fiscurtune mentioning a kinsman who was the head
of a Cambridge hostel.’

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Michael with immense satisfaction.

Bartholomew walked briskly towards Ovyng Hostel, urging Michael to hurry. He sensed that Ailred had the answers to many questions,
and wanted to speak to him as soon as possible. Michael puffed along behind him, growing more breathless and red-faced with
every step. The thaw was continuing apace, and the town was a morass of sticky slush and sloppy, ice-spangled puddles. Snow
was dropping from roofs in clots, and Bartholomew paused for a few moments to excavate a cat that was buried by a sudden fall.
It clawed him when it was freed, and raced down one of the darker runnels, as if mortified by its sodden fur and bedraggled
appearance.

‘There is Robin of Grantchester,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a hunched figure that was making its way uncertainly down
the High Street. ‘Robin!’

The surgeon leapt in alarm and started to run. It was an instinctive reaction, and something he often did when someone hailed
him. It usually meant he had lost a patient and was afraid the deceased’s family were out for revenge.

‘Oh, it is you,’ said Robin, relieved when he saw it was Bartholomew who had caught his arm and arrested his
desperate flight. ‘I thought it was a relative of Dunstan and Athelbald.’

‘Why would they chase you? You did not treat them – I did.’

‘They are both dead, and people tend to associate me with deaths, even though I am not usually there when they happen.’ Bartholomew
knew that was true: Robin’s patients died of fright, pain or poisoned blood days or hours after he had finished his grisly
business with his rusty knives. ‘Fifteen years ago I extracted a nail from Dunstan’s hand. I thought his kinsmen might believe
that brought about his demise.’

‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pronouncing the name with relish. ‘Tell me about Dympna.’

Robin’s small eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about? I know no one of that name.’

‘It is a money-lending charity,’ said Bartholomew, watching Robin shift and turn uneasily, like a cornered rat. ‘And you are
one of its four members.’

‘Clippesby,’ said Robin in disgust. ‘I had a feeling he was eavesdropping when I confided in Helena. She is my only true friend,
and I often talk to her when I am lonely or have enjoyed a little wine and wish for a companion who will listen without interrupting.’

‘She sounds like a saint,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not know her.’

‘My pig,’ said Robin. ‘A man needs friendship, and there is none better than that offered by an animal. They are loyal and
do not judge you. Clippesby feels the same way, and likes to spend time with the horses in the stables of the Gilbertine Friary,
near my house. Doubtless he heard me confiding in Helena then.’

‘And he assumed the disembodied voice came from the horses,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘I wondered why information from his
animal friends is so often accurate. It is not because the animals speak to him, but because he overhears other people’s conversations.’

‘It is almost impossible to know he is there,’ said Robin disapprovingly. ‘He sits still and quiet for so long you think you
are alone, and then he hears your innermost secrets.’ A horrified expression twisted his face. ‘He did not mention Mayor Horwood’s
goat, did he? I would not like
that
bandied about the town!’

‘Fortunately not,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘But what can you tell us about Dympna? Did it ever make a loan to Norbert?’

‘Of course not,’ said Robin scornfully. ‘The money is used for pious and deserving cases, not for folk who will spend it on
themselves. I have my own ideas about recipients, of course, but the other members seldom listen to me. They never lend money
to the cases I bring before them.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

Robin effected a careless shrug. ‘I suppose they think the causes I support might benefit me personally, although I am an
honest and compassionate man, and would never do such a thing.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, in a way that indicated he held his own views on the matter of Robin’s honesty and compassion. ‘Why
have you never mentioned your involvement with this worthy charity before? You must realise that helping the sick and desperate
is a thing to be proud of?’

‘I would love people to know that I have been working for years to alleviate pain and suffering,’ said Robin resentfully.
‘But the others pay me a retainer on the understanding that I will lose it if I mention Dympna to anyone. Money is money,
and not to be refused. So, I obey their rules, and the only person I tell is Helena. I suppose I will be deprived of that
income now you know about Dympna.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘We can be discreet.’ Bartholomew noticed he did not say he
would
be discreet.

Robin went on, in full flow now the secret he had kept so well was out. ‘I am a member, but I do not know how much money Dympna
owns. The other three tend to exclude me from the financial discussions, and I am only involved when
they ask for a list of my current patients or when they want me to deliver something for them.’

‘Like food and fuel to Dunstan?’ asked Bartholomew.

Robin nodded. ‘And gold for the Carmelites’ new robes, or to help that
potter through the inconvenience of a lost foot. I arranged for Bosel the beggar to borrow a cloak for the winter, and I did
most of the organising when the Franciscans needed a new roof. It is me who tells folk they will only be lent money if they
do not tell anyone how it came about.’

‘You did not ask Dunstan not to mention Dympna,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You left the food, fuel and Yolande de Blaston,
then went home.’

‘That was different,’ replied Robin. ‘Dunstan was the town’s most active gossip when Athelbald was alive, but that changed
the instant he died. I doubt Dunstan even knew I was there. There was no point mentioning the fact that the food and fuel
came courtesy of Dympna.’

‘Dick Tulyet said the funds for Dunstan did not come from Dympna,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Of course they did,’ replied Robin waspishly. ‘I have no money to throw away on dying men, while Kenyngham and Ailred are
friars, who have little in the way of worldly goods. Perhaps the two of them acted quickly and did not have time to consult
Tulyet.’ His smile became malicious. ‘Now
he
will know what it is like to belong to a group that does not bother to solicit his opinion!’

‘Ailred was certainly aware of Dunstan’s case,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We mentioned it when we were at Ovyng, and
he knew all about it.’

‘We have taken up enough of your time, Robin,’ said Michael. ‘Thank you for your help. And give our regards to Helena.’

Bartholomew and Michael continued towards Ovyng, where both scholars felt they would have better answers from Ailred than
those they had squeezed from Robin. It was obvious
that Robin was not involved in the more important decisions, and that Tulyet had been correct in saying he had been invited
to join only as a way for the group to know which of the townsfolk had hired his services and so might be candidates for Dympna’s
charity. Robin received payment for his membership, indicating that the others knew he was the kind of man whose help and
silence needed to be bought.

Bartholomew’s feet were sodden by the time they reached Ovyng, and his toes ached from the icy water inside his boots. Michael’s
face was flushed and sweaty, and he removed his winter cloak and tossed it carelessly over one shoulder; part of it trailed
in the muck of St Michael’s Lane. He knocked loudly and officially on Ovyng’s door. It was eventually opened by Godric.

‘You took your time,’ said the monk accusingly. ‘We have come to speak to your principal.’ He pushed past the friar, and Bartholomew
followed, surprised to find the main room of the hostel empty. The hearth was devoid of even the most meagre of fires, and
the room felt colder than the air outside. It smelled stale, too – rancid fat mixed with boiled vegetables and dirty feet.
Godric had been given the tedious task of rewaxing the writing tablets the students used for their exercises. The size of
the pile on the table suggested that Godric would be labouring for some hours to come.

‘Father Ailred is not here,’ said Godric sullenly, stating the obvious. ‘He has gone out and taken the others with him. Except
me. I am obliged to remain here.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘What have you done to displease him? Gambling? Taverns?’

‘Telling you he went out when he claims he stayed in,’ said Godric resentfully. ‘At least, I am sure that is the real reason.
The official one is he thinks my humours are unbalanced, and that I should stay inside until they are restored.’

‘Do you feel unwell?’ asked Bartholomew. The friar looked healthy enough, despite his unshaven and pale cheeks. But most people
in Cambridge had a seedy sort of appearance during winter, when days were short and chilly and shaving
was an unpleasant experience involving icy water and hands made unsteady by shivering.

‘I am cold and hungry, because we have no money for fuel and not much for food. But other than that I am well. I think Ailred
is angry with me for telling you the truth about his evening out. I should never have allowed you to bully me into talking
about it in the first place. He was furious.’

‘Was he, indeed?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘And why would that be? What is he hiding?’

‘I do not know; I was not with him,’ replied Godric petulantly. ‘And anyway, he says he was in, and I am mistaken about his
absence.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked Michael. ‘Or will he later say he was here all the time and you have been mistaken about that, too?’

This coaxed a rueful smile from Godric. ‘He is skating on the river. Ice skating.’

Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘You mean fooling around, like children? That does not sound like a suitable activity for
the principal of a hostel.’

‘Ailred says ice is a gift from God,’ said Godric. ‘He does not like cold weather particularly, but he adores ice. He says
it is Heaven’s playground, and has all our students out at the First Day of the Year games near the Great Bridge.’

‘I thought the ice there was breaking up,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Apparently not,’ said Godric. He jerked a thumb at the window.
‘Although it will not be long if this thaw continues.’

‘Do you know where he was born?’ asked Michael.

Godric seemed startled by the abrupt change of subject, but answered anyway.
‘Lincoln. Surely you must have heard him waxing lyrical about the place?’

‘He comes from a village
near
Lincoln,’ corrected Michael. ‘Not Lincoln itself, although our records say he had his education from the school in the city.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Godric, frowning as he remembered. ‘I think his home was called Fisheby or Fiscurtone or some such thing.
Why do you ask?’

‘Does he have family?’ asked Michael. ‘A brother or cousins? Male relatives of any kind?’

Godric shook his head. ‘Not that I know. But we Franciscans are supposed to renounce earthly ties once we take final vows,
so it is possible he has put his kinsmen behind him.’

‘Damn,’ swore Michael softly. ‘I was hoping you would know whether he was related to a man named John Fiscurtune, who was
murdered in London last year.’

‘If he was, then he never mentioned it,’ said Godric.

‘Do you know whether he has any association with fishermen or fishmongers?’
asked Bartholomew. ‘I recall him gutting fish very expertly when we were here once.’