‘We have been in this miserable town for ten days now,’ Turke grumbled on. ‘Philippa’s horse went lame, so we have been obliged to rest it. I could hunt the alehouses for Gosslinge, I suppose, but I have better things to do. Perhaps I should pay some of these good-for-nothing students to look for him. I want him back tonight, because I intend to leave tomorrow.’
‘You will be going nowhere, if this snow continues,’ said Langelee, politely ignoring the insult to his scholars. ‘I hear the London road is already impassable, and the route north is likely to be the same. You may have to remain in Cambridge until milder weather brings about a thaw.’
‘We shall see,’ said Turke importantly, as though snow would not dare fall if it inconvenienced him. ‘But I shall be angry with Gosslinge when he deigns to show his face. I want to complete my business at Walsingham and go home. I do not want to be away longer than necessary.’
‘What does Gosslinge look like?’ asked Michael helpfully. ‘I can ask my beadles to look for him.’
‘That would be acceptable,’ said Turke ungraciously. ‘He is a beggarly-looking man, with thin hair and a mean, pinched face. And he is missing a thumb.’
The following day, just after dawn, a number of people gathered in St Michael’s Church. Walter Turke and Philippa were there to make an official identification of their servant’s corpse. Giles Abigny, nursing a fragile head and looking distinctly unwell, had apparently been pressed into service as Turke’s clerk, lest the procedure require official certification. Langelee was also present, still aiming to secure a benefaction for his College, and keen to let Turke know that Gosslinge’s mortal remains had been respectfully treated at Michaelhouse’s expense.
Langelee was not the only one hopeful of reward: Sheriff Morice had arrived in a flurry of flapping sleeves, clanking spurs and crafty eyes, determined to make Turke aware that Cambridge’s secular authority also took an interest in the corpses of visiting merchants’ servants, and that his men were available to provide coffins, dig graves and erect head-stones – for a price, of course. Michael led them to the south aisle and drew back the sheet that covered the corpse.
‘That is Gosslinge,’ announced Turke grimly. ‘Damn the man! Now what am I supposed to do? Where can I hire another good servant?’
‘Poor Gosslinge,’ said Philippa softly, reaching out a gloved hand to touch the body. ‘I am sorry he came to this.’
‘It is his own fault,’ said Turke harshly. ‘I told him to stay close, and he disobeyed. Look where it has led him.’
‘Servants always think they know best,’ agreed Morice with a grimace of sycophantic sympathy. ‘And their deaths are nothing but an inconvenience.’
‘Gosslinge’s clothes are very shabby for a retainer,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled by the man’s rags. Even if Turke was mean with his wages – which seemed likely – he would not want his retinue dressed poorly, because that would reflect badly on him. The servants of wealthy merchants tended to be a good deal better dressed than Bartholomew was ever likely to be.
‘He sold his livery, I imagine,’ said Turke with tight-lipped anger. ‘Was a purse found on his body? If so, then its contents belong to me. I did not give him permission to dispense with clothes that were purchased at my expense.’
Philippa was obviously embarrassed by her husband’s outburst. ‘Gosslinge wore a black tunic and hose, with a yellow belt,’ she said, addressing Bartholomew as though Turke had not spoken. ‘I suppose someone must have found his corpse and stripped it. These rags certainly did not belong to him.’
‘Were his clothes worth stealing?’ asked Bartholomew, aware, even as he spoke, that it was a stupid question. After the plague, when everyday goods were expensive, virtually anything was worth stealing by those who owned nothing.
Philippa nodded. ‘They were of good quality and very warm. Walter says it is better to buy one good garment than several cheap ones.’
‘I am right,’ asserted Turke. ‘Never let it be said that Walter Turke’s servants are badly dressed.’
‘How many people did you bring with you?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Just Gosslinge,’ replied Philippa. ‘It would not be right to go on a pilgrimage with a large retinue, though we did hire a pair of soldiers before we left London – to repel robbers.’
‘Where are they?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did they argue with Gosslinge at all?’
‘They barely acknowledged each other,’ said Abigny. ‘The soldiers are rough mercenaries, and Gosslinge was a man who could barely slice his meat without fainting at the sight of the blade.’
‘Blade,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Did Gosslinge own a knife? Could it have been stolen with the rest of his clothes?’
‘He had a dagger,’ replied Abigny. ‘It was too large for a man of his size, and he was clumsy with it.’
‘I do not recall,’ said Turke carelessly. ‘But I doubt it is worth retrieving. I am more interested in his clothes. They were expensive.’
‘We shall look for everything,’ promised Michael. ‘Now, where are these soldiers? It is possible that they stole Gosslinge’s belongings and hid his body. Mercenaries are experienced corpse looters, after all.’
‘I can answer that,’ interjected Morice smoothly. ‘They are in the Castle prison, where they have been residing for the last eleven days. Within hours of Master Turke’s arrival here, they visited a tavern and were involved in a brawl. I shall release them when he leaves, so they can accompany him, but until then they can stay where they are.’
‘I do not want them back, thank you very much,’ said Turke stiffly. ‘I shall hire new ones – ones that can behave themselves. Your prisoners can find their own way back to London.’
‘Pay them what they are owed first,’ advised Abigny practically. ‘We do not want a pair of cheated killers on our trail as we make our way into the wilds of Norfolk.’
‘I suppose not,’ admitted Turke reluctantly. ‘Very well. See they are paid, then dismiss them. Perhaps Morice will keep them locked up until we are safely away.’
‘I might,’ said Morice, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘We can negotiate the cost of their stay later, when we have a little privacy.’
‘Why do you want to know about the soldiers, Brother?’ said Philippa curiously. ‘You said last night that Gosslinge died of the cold. Are you now suggesting he did not, and they might have harmed him in order to snatch his possessions?’
Michael shook his head. ‘There is nothing to suggest that happened. Matt believes he froze to death, then someone found his body and took the opportunity to strip it.’
Turke sniffed. ‘The thief will be easy to catch, Brother. All you need to do is look for Gosslinge’s clothes.’
‘A thief will not be stupid enough to wear stolen apparel in a small town like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘And given that he hid the body among the albs to cover his tracks, I predict he is not totally witless.’
‘I am sorry Gosslinge was treated so disrespectfully,’ said Philippa, staring down at the corpse. ‘But desperate folk are driven to desperate measures, and it would be wrong to judge a man with hungry children by our own principles. I, for one, do not want to persecute such a person. We shall bury Gosslinge, and there will be an end to the matter.’
‘I want my livery back,’ said Turke. A cunning expression crossed his face. ‘Or, better yet, Michaelhouse can keep the clothes when they are found as payment for Gosslinge’s burial.’
‘I do not know about that,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘Suppose they never appear?’
Turke scowled. ‘I am offering you a good bargain. The cost of the clothes will more than pay for a mass and a grave. But if you would rather return the livery to me when I pass through Cambridge on my return journey, then I shall pay you in another way.’