He shot Stanmore a look that indicated he thought his host’s sanitary arrangements left something to be desired. Stanmore bristled angrily, and was only stopped from making a rude retort by Edith’s warning hand on his arm. Turke ignored the furious cloth merchant and turned to Langelee.
‘How often do you have Michaelhouse’s emptied?’
‘Fairly regularly,’ said Langelee vaguely, not meeting Bartholomew’s eye. He had recently elected to go from twice a year to once, overriding the physician’s objections that it was unhygienic. ‘But I would not recommend lingering in them.’
‘Edith tells me you are on a pilgrimage,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa, deciding that he had better prove Michaelhouse men were capable of discussing subjects nobler than sewage disposal.
‘It is Walter’s pilgrimage,’ said Giles Abigny in a low, angry voice, speaking for the first time since the meal had started.
The physician saw that this topic would be no less contentious than latrines, and sensed that the winter journey was a source of dissent among the three travellers. Fortunately, Langelee was regaling Turke, Edith and Stanmore with a tedious account of how many hazelnuts the orchard had produced that year, and Bartholomew had only Abigny and Philippa to worry about. Nevertheless, he decided that yet another subject was probably necessary in the interests of harmony.
‘It is cold for the time of year,’ he ventured hopefully.
‘It is cold,’ agreed Abigny bitterly. ‘And no time to go traipsing across the country. But Philippa wanted to be the dutiful wife, and I insisted on accompanying her. So, here we all are.’
‘Could Walter’s journey not have waited until spring?’ asked Bartholomew, giving up on diplomacy and deciding to yield to whatever topics his guests wanted to discuss.
‘He needs to atone for a sin,’ said Philippa, clearly reluctant to elaborate. ‘Since it is a serious sin, it was decided he should leave immediately. The saints are more likely to grant him forgiveness if we travel in terrible weather, anyway, and then perhaps they will bless us with a baby.’
‘The fact that Walter has failed you in that area has nothing to do with sin,’ said Abigny nastily. ‘Fiscurtune was murdered in November, and Walter was limp long before that.’
‘Walter’s sin is murder?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, looking over at the merchant, who was helping himself to blancmange, apparently engrossed in Langelee’s hazelnut discourse.
‘It was self-defence,’ said Philippa, casting an uneasy glance at her husband. She seemed relieved that he was listening to Langelee.
‘His victim was a fishmonger called John Fiscurtune,’ said Abigny. ‘Fiscurtune was a loathsome man, but even loathsome men are entitled to keep possession of their lives, and not have them snatched away during gatherings of the Worshipful Fraternity of Fishmongers.’
Bartholomew tried to make sense of Abigny’s claims. ‘Turke killed a colleague at a guild meeting?’
Abigny drained his cup, waving it at Cynric to indicate he wanted it refilled. ‘Fiscurtune was caught engaging in dishonest practices, which brought the Fraternity into disrepute. Well, perhaps “dishonest” is unfair: what happened is that he decided to ignore the Fraternity’s regulations when it came to salting. He made several folk ill by experimenting with new – cheaper – techniques of preservation, and the Fraternity wanted him expelled.’
‘Walter argued against the expulsion,’ said Philippa in a low voice, so that she would not be overheard, ‘despite the fact that he and Fiscurtune had hated each other since Isabella died – Walter’s first wife was Fiscurtune’s sister, you see – but he was outvoted. Fiscurtune blamed Walter, which was unfair.’
‘This happened in November,’ Abigny went on. ‘Furious that his former brother-in-law had failed to help him, Fiscurtune stormed into a meeting of the guild and levelled all sorts of charges against Walter. Walter grabbed a knife, they fought and Fiscurtune was stabbed. Walter told the coroner that Fiscurtune armed himself first, and since the coroner is a friend of the Fishmongers’ Fraternity, it is no surprise that Walter was deemed innocent.’ His tone of voice suggested that he strongly disagreed with the outcome.
‘Giles,’ whispered Philippa, glancing at her husband again. ‘You should not drink wine, if you cannot hold your tongue. Do you want to lose your post at the law courts over this?’
‘You are right,’ said Abigny resentfully. ‘I should not criticise my brother-in-law when I owe him so much. After all, Fiscurtune dared to do just that, and look what happened to him.’
‘You mentioned earlier that Fiscurtune asked you to marry him,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa, fascinated by her brother’s drunken revelations. ‘You said you selected Walter because he had a better house.’
‘She should not have chosen either,’ stated Abigny harshly.
‘No?’ demanded Philippa, angry now. ‘You were lucky I picked Walter, Giles, because Fiscurtune would not have bought you your post.’
‘I sense you are bitter about Fiscurtune’s death,’ said Bartholomew to Abigny. ‘Was he a friend?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Abigny indignantly. ‘He was greedy, corrupt and sly: I would never have allowed Philippa to marry him. Comfort and riches have their price, but there is a limit to what one should pay – and Fiscurtune was well beyond it. However, if I sound bitter, it is not because Fiscurtune was murdered, but because Walter used his money and influence to evade justice.’
‘It is the way things are,’ said Philippa tiredly, although Bartholomew sensed she was not entirely comfortable with the situation, either. ‘The fraternities are powerful in London and no Crown official wants to make enemies of them. I hear Cambridge is no different: Sheriff Morice will also find in a man’s favour if his purse is sufficiently deep.’
Abigny looked around him with a shudder of distaste. ‘You should have accepted Philippa’s offer all those years ago, Matt, and come to live with us in London. It is better than Cambridge in all respects.’
‘She never asked me to London,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I did,’ said Philippa indignantly. ‘But you never bothered to answer that particular message. Are you telling me it never arrived?’
‘It did not,’ said Bartholomew. He wondered what might have happened if it had. Would he have left Cambridge and gone to her? Or would he have elected to remain at Michaelhouse? He realised that he did not know, and was surprised to feel relief that the letter in question had apparently been lost in transit.
Philippa regarded him with sombre eyes. ‘Pity. I assumed your silence meant you no longer cared for me. My life – and yours – might have turned out very differently had you replied.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether that was good or bad. ‘This pilgrimage,’ he said, wanting to return to the subject that set questions clamouring in his mind – which were easier to address than the complex gamut of emotions that raged when he thought about his courtship of Philippa. ‘Whose idea was it to go?’
‘Fiscurtune’s kinsmen suggested it,’ said Philippa shortly. ‘But the details are Walter’s business and no one else’s. We should not be discussing it – especially here, in this public place. Anyway, the whole affair will be forgotten as soon as we return from Walsingham.’
Abigny laughed unpleasantly. ‘There are rumours that Fiscurtune’s murder could prevent Walter from being elected Lord Mayor next year. Walter wants the matter dead and buried as soon as possible – which is why he embarked on this ridiculous pilgrimage. However, I feel it takes more than riding a few miles through the snow to atone for cold-blooded slaughter.’
Bartholomew glanced at Turke and saw he was wearing a dagger, attached to a belt at his waist. He hoped Michael, Stanmore or Langelee would not say anything that might prove fatally offensive. He appraised Turke anew, seeing that the man possessed considerable physical strength under all his glitter, and that his hands were strong and calloused, not soft and unused to work, like those of many wealthy men. He sensed that Turke would be a formidable enemy to anyone rash enough to cross him – as the unfortunate Fiscurtune had evidently discovered.