‘I did not say they were criminal,’ corrected Abigny. ‘I said they were questionable. He was ruthless, and destroyed more than one competitor as he made his way to the top. You will not find anything flagrantly illegal in his past, but there is a lot of unpleasantness and unkindness.’
‘I am puzzled by Gosslinge’s role in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why Turke employed someone lazy and indolent – even if he did remain on the right side of the law.’
Abigny hesitated. ‘I could give you my views on the matter, but I have no evidence to back them, and there is no point in telling tales now that both are dead. It would hurt Philippa, and I do not want to do that. And anyway, I thought you had agreed to leave Walter in peace.’
‘Turke, yes, but not Gosslinge,’ said Michael craftily. ‘I am not entirely satisfied that his death was natural.’ He raised an eyebrow at Bartholomew, who stared at the ground, chagrined. ‘I cannot allow him to be buried until I am sure there is nothing sinister about his demise.’
‘Really?’ asked Abigny, surprised. ‘You think someone might have done away with him? I do not think it was Turke, so do not waste your time exploring that line of enquiry. He was too angry about Gosslinge’s disappearance to have had a hand in it himself.’
Bartholomew rubbed his chin as he considered the clerk’s claims. Was Abigny telling the truth about Turke’s level of irritation over the servant’s death, or was he just trying to dissuade them from including Turke in Gosslinge’s murder investigation? Bartholomew realised with a shock that not only had Philippa changed to the point where he barely knew her, but so had her brother. Bartholomew and Abigny had shared a room for several years, and had been good friends, but Bartholomew now found himself questioning everything Abigny said.
‘You still have not answered Matt’s question,’ said Michael, as Abigny leaned against a wall and flexed one of his feet, wincing as he did so. ‘Why did Turke employ a lazy scoundrel like Gosslinge?’
‘I will tell you what I think,’ said Abigny, repeating the operation with the other foot. ‘But on condition that you leave Walter alone afterwards. I do not want Philippa distressed any more than she has been. Gosslinge’s position in the household was more powerful than it should have been. He had some kind of hold over Walter.’
‘Do you know what that hold might be?’ asked Michael.
‘Gosslinge lost a thumb when he was a boy – as an apprentice gutting fish for Walter, apparently. I have always wondered whether it was an accident, or whether Walter did it.’ Abigny smiled ruefully when he saw the expression on their faces. ‘I knew you would be sceptical. It does not make sense, does it?’
‘Why would Turke sever Gosslinge’s thumb?’ asked Michael. ‘And why would Gosslinge let him?’
‘Gosslinge was puny,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he could not stop it.’
‘Or was it an accident?’ mused Michael. ‘But Turke felt responsible, so gave Gosslinge licence to live a lazy life. But, by all accounts, Walter was not a compassionate man, and so that seems unlikely, too.’
‘It crossed my mind that St Zeno’s finger was Gosslinge’s thumb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Langelee sold it before I could look.’
Abigny made a disgusted face. ‘I confess that possibility never occurred to me! I cannot envisage any situation that would lead Walter to revere other men’s severed body parts. It is grotesque! You must be wrong.’
‘We shall have to ask Philippa,’ said Michael. ‘She will know where the relic came from.’
‘Do not,’ pleaded Abigny. ‘You will upset her if she thinks you are probing Walter’s death after she asked you to leave him alone. She was fond of him, despite his shortcomings, and will grow fonder still once the bad memories have faded and only the pleasant ones remain. She will be a good widow, and will never say anything to harm his reputation – no matter what the truth.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Michael. ‘What did you really think of Walter?’
Abigny smiled. ‘I always said that Philippa made a mistake in her choice of husbands, which did not make me popular with Walter. You would have been a much better brother-in-law, Matt. We would have been friends.’
‘Walter was not your friend?’ asked Michael.
‘Lord, no! He was too busy running the Worshipful Fraternity of Fishmongers and making everyone believe he was respectable and decent. Of course, the murder of Fiscurtune made people think again. Would you want the prestigious post of Lord Mayor filled by a man who had stabbed another in what basically amounted to a fit of pique? Fiscurtune was being abusive and he had brought the Fraternity into disrepute with his poor salting techniques, but honourable men do not resolve arguments by stabbing unarmed opponents. However, now you must excuse me …’
‘Before you go, why are you here in Cambridge?’ asked Michael. ‘Is it really to protect Philippa?’
‘Totally – and you can see I was right to have misgivings about the venture. I am glad I was here to help her when she needed me. But now I really must go.’
He gave them a jaunty wave as he entered the King’s Head. Bartholomew waited a moment, then ploughed through the snow to the window. The shutters were drawn, to keep out the cold, but there were enough gaps in the wood to allow him to see through. He watched thoughtfully as Abigny doffed his hat in an amiable greeting to Harysone, then sat next to him and began to talk.
‘The Chepe Waits. Abigny. Fish. Dympna,’ said Michael, counting them off on his fingers late the following afternoon, as dusk was settling over the town. ‘These are the strands that connect Turke and his lazy servant, the dancing pardoner and the murder of Norbert. The only problem is that I cannot see how.’
Nor could Bartholomew, and he had been mulling over the information all day. The whole morning had been spent making enquiries about Harysone, but these yielded nothing they did not already know: the pardoner had arrived with his cartload of books, but no one knew anything about him other than that which he had chosen to divulge. No one could say how he had come by his curious fascination with fish. No one had seen him with Turke, but he had been noted in company with Gosslinge, although it seemed they had not spoken. No one could offer any plausible theories as to why someone should stab him, and the most likely explanation seemed to be Bartholomew’s – that the pardoner’s gyrations had driven him accidentally on to a knife worn in someone’s belt.
Michael had listened to reports from his beadles about Dympna that morning, but was disappointed with their trawl of information. Several witnesses had heard of Dympna, but no one had actually met her. A man who had lost a foot in an accident with a cart claimed Dympna was a saint, but would say no more about her, despite Meadowman’s best efforts and a large jug of ale. Later, Michael had gone to Ovyng. Ailred was preaching to his students – with apparent sincerity – about the virtues of honesty, but still insisted he had not left the hostel on the night the intruders had invaded St Michael’s. Godric said nothing at all.
When he returned to Michaelhouse, the monk struck up a conversation with Makejoy. The woman said the Waits had been together five years, and had spent most of their time enjoying lucrative careers in Chepe. The journey to Cambridge was unusual for them, and was undertaken partly because business was currently poor in London, and partly because Frith had expressed a desire to see the Fen-edge town. For want of anything better to do, the troupe had agreed to travel.
‘You would be better off without Frith,’ Michael had advised. ‘Not only is he surly and aggressive – and his rude tongue must lose you business – but he has no talent.’
Makejoy pulled a wry face. ‘None of us are overly endowed in that area, Brother, but we get by. Frith is good at organising. It is he who secures us our customers, he who negotiates better pay, and he who invests our takings and turns pennies into shillings.’