‘Perhaps he was just inept with his laces,’ Bartholomew suggested.
Stanmore waved a dismissive hand. ‘Then what about Gosslinge? You said yourself it is unusual for two members of the same household to die in such rapid succession, and you must see that neither death was exactly normal.’
‘It is winter,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘People do freeze to death and fall through ice at this time of year. It is unfortunate that both are dead, but not necessarily sinister.’
‘“Necessarily”,’ pounced Stanmore. ‘You have already considered the possibility that there is something odd here, and you are right: there is something sinister – to use your word – going on. Think about what Turke muttered as he died. It clearly meant something to Philippa, because she was a different woman afterwards.’
‘That is true,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But what do you suggest we do about it? I cannot begin an official investigation, because Turke’s death is outside my jurisdiction.’
‘Jurisdiction can be bought these days,’ said Stanmore grimly. ‘Leave Morice to me.’
‘I suppose corruption has its advantages,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘I was obliged to offer him some money myself recently. His men were trailing my every move while I investigated the death of Norbert, and were making it impossible for me to work. The only way to get rid of them was to pay Morice with coins from William’s fines chest.’
Bartholomew was unhappy that either of them should be involved in bribing one of the King’s officers. He knew such matters had a habit of being raised at later dates – such as when Morice decided he had not been paid enough and demanded more, or when Morice himself was eventually called to explain his dishonesty to the King’s justices. ‘Even if you do buy Morice, Philippa will not want us prying into her business,’ he warned.
‘I do not care,’ said Stanmore. ‘I want you to look into it. You have solved so many cases before that I am sure this one will present you with no problems.’
‘Where do you want us to start?’ asked Michael.
‘With Giles,’ said Stanmore, glancing up the road again, as though he imagined Abigny might be listening. ‘Philippa never leaves the house unescorted – she is a nuisance actually, always wanting someone with her – but Giles is in and out like a bishop in a brothel, despite the pain he is in from his chilblains.’
‘Where does he go?’ asked Michael.
‘Taverns, I imagine. The man lives in Turke’s house, but is clearly discontented. Perhaps that is why he insisted on joining this pilgrimage – to dispose of the brother-in-law he despises, well away from other fishmongers who might ask awkward questions. By killing Turke he has relieved Philippa of a tiresome husband and improved his own lot in the process.’
‘How do you know Philippa regarded Turke as tiresome?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought she seemed fond of him. Even though she was uncomfortable with the notion of Fiscurtune’s cold-blooded murder, she said nothing disloyal about Turke. And anyway, Giles might lose a good deal by dispensing with his brother-in-law. Without Turke to protect him, he may lose his post at the law courts. And he may have condemned Philippa to a life of destitution, if Turke’s sons inherit their father’s wealth and she does not.’
‘Philippa was fond of Turke’s money, not of Turke himself,’ asserted Stanmore dogmatically. ‘She chose an elderly fishmonger over you and, unless she is blind or deranged, she did not make that choice based on looks or character. It was his wealth she loved.’
‘Many people marry for money, but that does not mean they are all biding their time to dispense with their spouses,’ countered Bartholomew.
‘Then prove me wrong,’ urged Stanmore, glancing around him once more. ‘Convince me that the deaths of Turke and Gosslinge are what you say – bizarre and tragic accidents. Look at Giles’s role in the affair. Find out where he goes when he slips away wearing that plumed hat and that dark cloak. But do it soon, Matt. The weather shows no sign of breaking, and Philippa and Giles might be here for weeks. I do not want Edith living under the same roof as ruthless killers until the spring brings a thaw and our unwanted guests transport their victim for burial in London.’
Bartholomew was unsettled by Stanmore’s claims and felt a nagging concern for Edith, despite the fact that he thought Stanmore was over-reacting. He tried to convince himself that he did not seriously believe Philippa or Giles would do anything to harm her, but was aware that no amount of rationalising and reasoning would dispel the unease he felt. He knew he would have to do some probing into the affair, even if it was only to set his and Stanmore’s minds at rest.
Since he had promised to take chilblain ointment to Abigny, he suggested they begin the investigation immediately by accompanying Stanmore home. Michael was willing, so they set off for Stanmore’s business premises on Milne Street, stopping on the way at the apothecary’s shop to purchase the ingredients necessary to make a soothing poultice for the clerk’s painful kibes.
Philippa, Abigny and Edith were in the solar when they arrived. The building was not as comfortable as Stanmore’s hall-house in the nearby village of Trumpington, but it was considerably nicer than Michaelhouse. Woollen hangings covered the plaster walls, and thick wool rugs lay on the floor. A fire blazed in the hearth, sending showers of sparks dancing up the chimney, and the room smelled pleasantly of wood-smoke and the dried flowers that Edith had placed in bowls along the windowsills. The shutters were closed against the chill, even though the windows were glazed, and the room was lit yellow and orange by the fire and the lamps in sconces on the walls.
Abigny was sitting near the hearth with his boots off and his toes extended towards the flames, while Philippa perched next to him, attempting to sew in the unsteady light. The garment was long and white, and Bartholomew saw it was a shroud for her husband to wear on his final journey. She was dressed completely in black, following the current fashion for widows who could afford it. Edith was at the opposite end of the room, sitting at a table as she wrapped small pieces of dried fruit in envelopes of marchpane. Michael went to sit next to her, and it was not long before a fat, white hand was inching surreptitiously towards the sweetmeats.
‘Those are for the apprentices,’ came an admonishing voice from the shadows near the door. Michael almost leapt out of his skin, having forgotten that Cynric had been charged to stay with Edith while Stanmore was out.
‘God’s blood, Cynric!’ muttered the monk, holding a hand to his chest to show he had been given a serious fright. ‘Have a care whom you startle, man!’ He helped himself to a handful of the treats, indicating that he needed them to help him recover from the shock.
‘Did you bring that potion for my feet?’ asked Abigny eagerly of Bartholomew. ‘I long to be relieved of this constant pain. I know you dislike calculating horoscopes, Matt, but I am your friend and my need is very great, so I am sure you will not refuse me. Do you know enough about me already to determine the course of treatment, or are there questions you need answered?’
‘The latter,’ said Michael, not very subtly. ‘He needs to know whether you have spent much time walking in the snow of late.’
‘Of course I have,’ said Abigny, surprised by the question. ‘First there was the journey to Cambridge, and then there have been old friends to see and arrangements to make.’
‘Arrangements?’ asked Michael innocently.
‘Now that Walter is dead I may lose my post,’ replied Abigny, apparently unconcerned by Michael’s brazen curiosity. ‘So, I went to see a Fellow at King’s Hall, who has agreed to provide testimony that I am an honest and responsible citizen. And I have been obliged to visit coffin-makers and embalmers.’ He regarded Bartholomew with innocent blue eyes. ‘Are these the kind of things you need to know for my stars, Matt?’