A Killer in Winter (53 page)

‘I did not say I was swooning over him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And my point remains: most people have a distinctive feature that
makes them unique. Take Suttone’s big hands, Clippesby’s mad eyes, Wynewyk’s nose and William’s hair as examples. This single
feature can often be so distinctive that it masks all others. For example, do you know the colour of William’s eyes?’

‘Blue,’ said Michael immediately. ‘No, brown.’ He sighed. ‘I have no idea.’

‘That is because you see the tonsure,’ said Bartholomew, satisfied that he had proved his point. He was about to add more,
but the door opened and Cynric entered.

‘I think you had better come,’ said the Welshman. ‘Ailred has been found.’

F
ROM THE TONE OF CYNRIC’S VOICE, BARTHOLOMEW ASSUMED
that Ailred was dead. The book-bearer would say nothing more, and Bartholomew and Michael hurried after him as he led the way. Everywhere, Cambridge dripped. Snow still dropped from roofs, gables and trees, while melting
icicles added a new peril as they plummeted like lethal daggers to the ground below. Bartholomew had already attended two
nasty accidents that week, and hoped the thaw would soon be over. He wondered if Ailred had died because an icicle had fallen
and pierced his skull. He sensed it was only a matter of time before someone did.

But Ailred was not dead. He had fallen through the sheet of ice that covered the Mill Pool near the Small Bridges, and a head
and two clawing hands were all that could be seen of him. The ice was grey-white near the centre of the pond, indicating that
it was rotten, and Bartholomew could not imagine what had induced the friar to venture out so far on to a surface that was
patently unsafe. Ailred was making a valiant effort to stay afloat, but the ice was thin enough for Bartholomew to see the
current running swift and strong underneath it, made more powerful by the melted snow that had flooded the river. He knew
that the friar would be swept away if he relinquished his tenuous hold even for a moment.

‘What happened?’ asked Michael, horrified when he saw Ailred’s predicament. A crowd of people had gathered, some to help and
some to watch. Three of Stanmore’s apprentices were tying together a number of planks, so that they could be used to crawl
across the treacherous surface and reach the stricken man. Bartholomew sensed they did not
have much time. Ailred’s strength was being leached away by the cold water and the effort of clinging to the broken edges,
and it would not be long before his frozen fingers failed him.

Godric was in the crowd, and hurried forward when he saw Michael. ‘We cannot believe he is guilty of the crimes you have charged
him with.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘We know he is not a murderer, despite developing an uncharacteristic interest in riches
over the last few weeks.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Michael kindly, squeezing his arm comfortingly, although Bartholomew was not so sure Ailred
was the innocent Godric believed him to be. ‘Has he become more interested in money recently?’

Godric nodded miserably. ‘None of us understood it, because it was so unlike him. It was as if he had been seduced by something
that had tainted him.’

Kenyngham had said the same thing, Bartholomew recalled. Access to large amounts of treasure brought a degree of power – the
power to grant and refuse people things they craved. Perhaps it was that, rather than the gold itself, that had corrupted
Ailred.

‘What was he doing here?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he return to Ovyng first?’

‘We have not seen him since he fled from you,’ said Godric. ‘But I was going to collect flour from the mill a short time ago,
and I happened to glance over the bridge. Ailred was there, skating round and round in the centre of the pool. I shouted the
ice was too thin, but he ignored me, or did not hear. Then there was a crack and he went down. He has been hanging there ever
since.’

Bartholomew clambered over the bridge and slid down the river bank to join Stanmore’s apprentices, who were still working
feverishly on their makeshift ladder.

‘It is almost finished,’ said the freckle-faced youngster called Harold. He sat back to assess his handiwork, and exchanged
a nervous grimace with his fellows, to indicate it was not all they could have hoped for. He glanced up at
Bartholomew. ‘Are you ready? We will hold this end and haul it back again when the ice starts to crack.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘You think I am going?’

Harold was surprised by the question. ‘Cynric said you would; it was why he fetched you. He says the friar may need medical
attention, and that it would be dangerous to tug him out of the water any old way. He thinks Turke died because inexperienced
hands snatched him clear, and we should not let the same thing happen to Father Ailred.’

Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows at his book-bearer.

Cynric was unabashed. ‘Turke might have lived if a physician had been on hand sooner. You said so yourself. Do not fret, boy.
I will tie a rope around you and will not let you sink.’

‘This is very ironic,’ said Harold, squinting across the bright ice towards the trapped scholar. ‘Father Ailred was among
the folk who rescued Turke from this very spot the day after Christmas.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Ailred was not here when I came to examine Turke.’

‘It was Ailred who ordered us to let Turke rest before summoning other help,’ said Harold. ‘Or was it his friend – that Chepe
Wait? Anyway, they both agreed we should wait until the ice formed on Turke’s clothes.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.

‘Of course,’ said Harold scornfully. ‘Well, I am not certain exactly who said what, but I know they told us it is best to
let a man freeze after a dip in cold water. They said it is something to do with slowing the blood and preventing the heart
from exploding.’

‘Who else was here, besides Ailred and Frith – the Wait?’ asked Bartholomew, his own heart pounding as he considered the implications
of the boy’s statements. It sounded as though Turke had been deliberately allowed to freeze to
death, and a physician summoned only when it was certain that nothing could be done to save him.

‘Just us,’ said Harold, indicating himself and two other boys. ‘When Frith and Ailred eventually decided that Turke might
benefit from your services, they sent us to fetch Cynric.’

‘And all this took time,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I arrived, Turke was beyond saving.’

Harold exchanged a frightened glance with his friends. ‘You mean they were wrong, and we should have fetched you immediately?
But I thought they were trying to help Turke.’

‘They were not,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘Quite the reverse. By waiting until his wet clothes turned to ice, they ensured
he died. He was murdered, after all.’

‘They forced him to skate,’ said Harold miserably. ‘He said he did not want to, because the ice was too thin. But they promised
him that if he could reach the other side of the Mill Pool, then he would be free of them for ever. We thought they were playing
games, like we do – you know, daring each other to do dangerous things. Except that Turke was crying, because he said he was
afraid.’

‘Did Frith or Ailred see you watching them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Harold gave the ghost of a smile. ‘We were hiding under the bridge, because it is sheltered from the wind. They did not see
us until we came to help – after Turke fell in.’

‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that the apprentices might well have been forced to do some skating on thin ice themselves
had Ailred and Frith known their murderous fun had been observed. He stared at the floundering figure in the distance, and
thought about what Ailred had forced Turke to do. ‘It looks as if he offered Turke a chance of life – saying that if he reached
the other side, he would be free of their vengeance.’

‘Turke did not have a hope wearing
those
skates,’ determined Harold, the proud expert. ‘They were not even tied properly.’

Michael had said that, Bartholomew recalled. But it had been decided that the inexpert tying of thongs was not significant,
whereas in reality it had been a vital clue to the cruel game Frith and Ailred had played with Turke. They had offered him
a chance, but had actually ensured he would never reach safety. And then they had deliberately let him freeze to death.

‘Why did you not mention this before?’ he asked.

Harold looked aggrieved. ‘I tried! Twice! But no one would listen to me.
I was sent off to warm myself by the fire like a small child. No one would even let me speak.’

That was true, Bartholomew remembered. Harold had tried to say something, but Stanmore had noticed the boy’s blue hands, and
had dispatched him home; his protectiveness had resulted in valuable information going untold. Another mistake had been made:
Turke’s murder had been deemed an accident, because there had been no marks of violence on the body. They had assumed – wrongly
– that no coercion had taken place.

‘Philippa was not here, too, was she?’ he asked, wondering whether Stanmore’s suspicions had been justified all along.

‘No,’ said the boy, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm in a sudden, painful pinch
and pointed across the water. ‘The friar is slipping! You had better see if you can save him, before it is too late.’

Cynric stepped forward and tied a rope around Bartholomew’s waist, handing the other end to Michael, who wrapped it around
his shoulders, like someone preparing to climb a mountain. The book-bearer gave Bartholomew a second length of twine, which
he said he should throw to Ailred when he was close enough. The notion was that Ailred would either tie it around himself
or hold it, and Michael would haul them both to safety. Bartholomew gazed at the ice with trepidation, not at all sure their
plan would work.

* * *

Ailred had chosen the exact centre of the Mill Pool through which to crash, and was not easy to reach. Bartholomew had misgivings
immediately, when he knelt on the planks and there was an ominous crack beneath him. He lay on his stomach, and began to inch
his way along, trying to spread his weight over as wide an area as possible. Slowly, wincing at every groan and creak, he
eased towards the friar.

‘We have been looking for you,’ he called, mostly to assess whether Ailred was still able to think rationally or whether the
cold had deprived him of his wits.

‘I have been staying with Robin,’ replied Ailred softly. ‘For two pennies a day, he offers a blanket near his fire, the company
of a pig and no questions asked.’

‘You lied to us,’ said Bartholomew, as he crawled. ‘And you made your students lie, too. Why did you say you were at Ovyng
the night the church was broken into, when you were out?’

Ailred gave a gentle sigh. ‘Because I went to make a loan to Harysone at the King’s Head, and wanted to keep the matter quiet.
After that I went to Dunstan the riverman. I waited until Matilde left, then slipped in to sit with him. He died in his sleep,
quite peacefully, but I did not like to think of him waking to find himself alone in his last moments.’

‘Why did you not tell us that?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is not a crime to be kind to a dying man, and it would
have saved us – and Godric – a good deal of worry.’

‘I did not want anyone to know what I did for Dunstan,’ said Ailred, ‘partly because folk would assume I had continued to
use Dympna illegally after Kenyngham told me not to, and partly because I believe charity should be practised quietly, so
it does not become an act performed for the giver’s sake. That was what Dympna was about – secret charity. I am sorry it entailed
a lie, and I am sorry I distressed Godric by putting him in an awkward position.’

‘This explains why you kept your vigil with Dunstan a secret,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it does not explain why you refused
to tell us about the business with Harysone.’

‘Kenyngham forbade me to make any more loans.’ Ailred grimaced in anguish. ‘But it was the only way I could think of to recoup
the losses before Tulyet learned what I had done. I was at my wits’ end, and did not know what else to do.’

When Bartholomew was about two-thirds of the way across, he noticed that there was blood on the friar’s hands, torn as he
had scrabbled at the sharp ice in order to stop himself from sinking. The wounds were in a criss-cross pattern that was curiously
familiar, and Bartholomew realised he had seen such cuts elsewhere. Turke’s legs, he thought. The marks were identical, and
must also have been caused by ice. He paused for a moment, thinking about other things he had learned. Harold had said Turke
had wept when his killers had forced him to skate, saying he was terrified. The physician also recalled the extremes to which
William had gone to avoid leaving the College while the worst storms raged, and realised the Franciscan was not the only one
who had a morbid fear of ice: Turke had been afraid of it, too. The pilgrimage undertaken during the winter was more of an
ordeal than anyone had realised.

‘Turke was frightened of ice,’ he said to himself. ‘He did not like the scars on his legs to be seen, because answering curious
questions about them forced him to remember how they were caused. And that memory was painful for him.’

‘You have done well to reason that,’ said Ailred, nodding approval. ‘It was why I chose the river as a means to kill the man.’

‘You killed Turke?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Godric maintains that you are innocent, and will be disappointed when he
learns he is wrong. We all thought Turke’s death was an accident.’

‘Godric will understand when he learns my reasons,’ said Ailred. ‘So you must tell him. Turke murdered Isabella, you see,
during the plague.’

‘Isabella,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Turke’s first wife.’ Clues suddenly slotted together in his mind. Turke had married
John Fiscurtune’s – and therefore Ailred’s – sister, and Philippa said she had died during the pestilence. Bartholomew had
made the erroneous assumption that dying
during
the plague was the same as dying
from
the plague, which had apparently not been the case. ‘Why did Turke kill her?’

‘They both went skating on the Thames, to take their minds from the Death that raged in the city. The ice cracked.’ Ailred
gave a grim smile and indicated his own predicament. ‘They were both left clinging to the edge of a hole.’

‘And Turke saved himself, but could not rescue her?’

‘He used her as a ladder to haul himself to safety,’ corrected Ailred.
‘John and I saw it all from a nearby bridge. Then he did nothing to help as she slowly lost her grip and was swept to a horrible
death. That is how he came by his scarred legs. She gripped his feet in terror, but he kicked her off. As he did so, the ice
cut into him. He was ashamed of those scars, and always avoided going near frozen water.’