A Killer in Winter (44 page)

‘Is he telling the truth now, do you think?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, as the clerk hobbled away.

‘He is telling the truth about his sore feet. And as for the rest – I have no idea.’

Dick Tulyet was pleased to see Bartholomew and Michael, and invited them into the warm chaos of his house on Bridge Street.
His energetic son was racing here and there with a
wooden sword, an item that Bartholomew thought was far too dangerous a thing to place in the destructive hands of the youngest
Tulyet. The child was in constant trouble, much to the consternation of his sober and law-abiding parents.

Tulyet led Bartholomew and Michael to the room he used as an office, where he slipped a bar across the door, explaining that
young Dickon would dash in and disturb them if it were left unlocked. The ear-splitting sounds of the boy’s battle calls echoed
from the solar, where his mother and a couple of servants tried to keep him quiet until his father’s visitors left. The Tulyets
would never have another child, and both treated the boy far more tenderly than was warranted for such a brutish little ruffian.
Dickon was rapidly becoming a tyrant, and Bartholomew’s heart always sank when he was summoned to tend the brat’s various
minor injuries – cuts and bruises usually acquired by doing something he had been told not to do.

‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pouring himself a cup of wine from the jug that stood on the windowsill before settling comfortably
on a cushioned bench. ‘What does that mean to you, Dick? Mayor Horwood intimated you know something about it.’

‘Is this relevant to Norbert’s death?’ asked Tulyet warily. ‘Only I would rather not discuss it, if there is a choice.’

‘Dympna sent a number of notes to Norbert, summoning him to meetings in St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘You already know
this, because I told you. Then a note from Dympna was discovered inside the corpse of a man called Gosslinge. So, I think
information about this strange group could well be relevant – if not to Norbert’s murder, then to Gosslinge’s death.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet reluctantly. ‘We swore an oath that we would not speak about Dympna without due cause, but the murder
of my cousin
is
due cause. I think no one would take issue with that. I shall tell you about Dympna, but please do not make anything I say
public.’

‘You claimed you knew nothing about it on Christmas
Day,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You told me I would waste my time if I investigated Dympna.’

‘The latter statement is true, but the former is not,’ replied Tulyet evenly. ‘I denied knowing a woman called Dympna – and
that is correct – but I did not say I knew nothing about it. And I genuinely believed that enquiries into Dympna would bring
you no closer to Norbert’s killer, that it would lead you to waste time. It seems I was wrong.’

‘You were,’ affirmed Michael testily.

‘But I do not see how! Norbert
did
petition Dympna for funds, but apart from a single message refusing his application, Dympna had no correspondence with him.
I cannot imagine where these other missives came from.’

‘Let us go over what we know,’ said Michael. ‘Dympna is a charitable group that helps people in need. We know it supplied
funds to the Franciscan Friary, for example.’

Tulyet nodded. ‘It was founded during the Death, but I was made a member later, when I became Sheriff. Originally, gifts of
money were made to the needy, but it soon became clear that Dympna would run dry if that practice continued. It was decided
to make loans instead, so that larger and more useful sums could be offered. By the time I joined, most of Dympna’s transactions
involved loans; there are very few gifts these days.’

‘So, Dympna is just a money-lending fraternity,’ said Michael dismissively.

‘Not at all. Moneylenders make profits from interest. But Dympna does not charge interest, nor does it demand repayment by
specific dates.’

‘Then why do people repay you at all?’

‘Because Dympna does not help just anyone. Each case is carefully considered, and the
honesty and integrity of the applicant is assessed. We would not lend money to someone we could not trust to pay us back.
So, for example, we made loans to pay irate builders at Bene’t, when the College suddenly found itself without the funds to
pay for work already completed; and we made one to allow the Carmelites to buy
new habits when a fire robbed them of most of their clothes.’

‘And the recipients always pay you back?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘Always, but never with interest – unless they choose to make a donation for our future work. The Carmelites were generous
in that respect, although there was no pressure on them to do so.’

‘Who are the other members of Dympna?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet hesitated, but then seemed to reach a decision. ‘There are four
of us. But you must
never
reveal our identities. If that happens, and everyone learns who we are, we will be overwhelmed with demands for help, and
our funds will dissipate like mist in the summer sun. Then Dympna will be dissolved, and the town will lose something good.’

‘Who?’ pressed Michael. ‘You, and three others?’

‘Master Kenyngham is one, and Robin of Grantchester is another.’

‘Robin?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished that Clippesby had been right, and even more astonished that a disreputable fellow
like Robin should be chosen to serve an altruistic organisation.

‘Kenyngham?’ asked Michael at the same time. ‘I suppose that should not surprise me. He is exactly the kind of man to engage
in kindly acts and keep his beneficence a secret.’

‘Robin is not, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why did you select him to help?’

‘Many of the people he treats die or become very ill,’ explained Tulyet. ‘They often need Dympna to pay for healing potions
or to allow their families to bury them. Robin keeps us informed of who might require such assistance.’

‘I should have guessed this ages ago,’ said Bartholomew, putting together facts in his mind. ‘All the evidence was there,
but I did not make the connections. We were told that Robin has been associated with various acts of charity recently – by
Ailred, among others. It was also Robin who brought food for Dunstan after Athelbald died.’

‘That was not Dympna,’ said Tulyet. ‘Each transaction
must be agreed by all four members, but we have not met for several weeks now. Dympna did not help Dunstan. As I said, we
seldom make gifts, only loans. We would not have lent money to Dunstan, because dying men are unlikely to pay us back. Robin
must have arranged that out of the goodness of his heart.’

‘I do not think so!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the notion.

‘Kenyngham, then,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is generous and compassionate. So is Father Ailred of Ovyng. I am lucky to have two such
honest and kindly souls to work with.’

‘Ailred is the last member?’ said Michael. ‘Now, that
is
interesting! What was his reaction when Norbert’s classmates said he had received messages from Dympna, Matt? Can you remember?
Indignant? Thoughtful? Concerned?’

‘He told us we should look elsewhere for answers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just like Dick.’

Tulyet winced. ‘What else could I do? Dympna has done a great deal of good in the town. Ailred feels as I do – that we should
do all we can to protect it, so it can continue to help the needy.’

‘Robin lent Ailred a backgammon board and pieces,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I was surprised at the time that they knew each
other well enough for borrowing and lending, but now I see exactly how that came about: they are colleagues.’

‘Robin is hardly our colleague,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘But he serves his purpose, and we have no complaints about the
way he discharges his responsibilities.’

‘We shall speak to him and the other two members later,’ vowed Michael. ‘But where do you keep Dympna’s money?’ He looked
around him, as though he expected a large chest filled with coins to manifest itself.

‘I cannot tell you – not because I am refusing to cooperate, but because I do not know. It moves between members, so no outsider
will guess where it is and steal it – a chest of coins is a tempting target for thieves. It is Kenyngham’s turn to be keeper
at the moment.’

‘Kenyngham?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘You entrust all that gold to a man who cares so little for worldly possessions? What
if he forgets where he has stored it?’

Tulyet laughed. ‘He is not
that
absent-minded. But we know accidents happen – it would be unfortunate if the keeper died, and no one knew where the box was
hidden. So, the keeper always tells one other member as a safeguard. He must have told Ailred, because I do not know, and
we do not let Robin near the actual money. The temptation might prove too much.’

‘How long has it been with Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Three weeks, perhaps. Ailred had it before him. Why? Are you saying that Norbert’s death has something to do with the chest
being passed from Ailred to Kenyngham? That Ailred stored it somewhere in Ovyng, where Norbert lived?’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘The timing certainly fits, because Norbert has been dead for twelve days now, and he started
to receive letters from “Dympna” about a week before he died. That is roughly three weeks in total. Do you really have no
idea where Kenyngham keeps it?’

Tulyet’s face creased in a frown of concentration. ‘I imagine it is with the Gilbertine friars. I expect you would have noticed
a chest in Michaelhouse.’

‘How big is it?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to envisage potential hiding places.

‘It is a walnut chest, perhaps the length of my forearm, and about two hand widths deep.’

‘I know where it is,’ said Bartholomew, smiling as he recalled various incidents that should have warned him sooner that something
was amiss. ‘The conclave.’

‘It is not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘The conclave’s contents comprise benches, a table, two chairs and some rugs. There are
no walnut-wood boxes there, because we would have noticed.’

‘About three weeks ago – the time the chest passed to Kenyngham – the floorboards in the conclave became
uneven,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have all stumbled over them, and William hurt himself quite badly. I suspect that is where
Kenyngham has stored Dympna.’

‘I do not see Kenyngham prising up floorboards to make himself a secret hiding place,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘He is not
sufficiently practical.’

‘That is probably why the floor is now uneven,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, he did tell Langelee that he worked with wood
before he became a friar. Remember?’

Michael gnawed his lower lip. ‘I do, now you mention it. And I recall his odd reaction when he learned the students planned
to use the conclave for the duration of the Twelve Days. He was appalled, and that surprised me because he does not normally
care about such things. He was not concerned about his personal comfort, as we all assumed: he was worried about access to
his chest.’

‘And once I saw him working on some documents,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the first night he had been driven by cold to
spend the night in the conclave. ‘I asked him what he was doing, and he declined to tell me. Doubtless that was Dympna’s business,
too.’

‘We shall look into it, and recommend the thing be moved to the Gilbertine Friary,’ said Michael. ‘I do not want our students
unearthing it – especially this week, when we have a Lord of Misrule to make stupid suggestions about how it should be spent.’

‘You say Dympna refused to lend Norbert money?’ asked Bartholomew of Tulyet, wanting to bring the discussion back to the student’s
murder.

‘He did not meet our two basic criteria – that the money is for a worthy cause and that it will be repaid. Where are these
messages? May I see them? I may recognise the writing.’

‘All destroyed,’ said Michael. ‘I have searched Norbert’s possessions on at least three occasions, and found nothing.’

‘Perhaps Godric was lying about them,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Ailred said he has peculiar ideas about love-letters and suchlike.’

‘Norbert received them,’ said Michael firmly. ‘The other Ovyng lads saw them too, remember?’ He turned to Tulyet. ‘And you
are sure Kenyngham, Ailred or Robin have not written to Norbert in Dympna’s name?’

‘I am sure Dympna gave nothing to Norbert. We discuss every loan made – no one person is allowed to act alone, because that
would leave us open to charges of corruption.’

‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had the chest, and Norbert lived in his hostel. There is a connection here. Perhaps Norbert
found the chest and stole from it, so Ailred sent messages demanding it back. Or perhaps Ailred made an exception for Norbert,
because he was a member of his hostel.’

‘Made an illegal loan, you mean?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully. ‘Ailred is an honest fellow. I do not see him breaking our rules
– especially for Norbert, who would have spent the money on his own pleasures.’

‘Well, we shall have to ask Ailred himself,’ said Michael, draining the wine in Bartholomew’s goblet as he prepared to leave.
‘And we shall ask him about the murdered Chepe fishmonger John Fiscurtune, too, since I have reason to believe he and Ailred
were related.’

Bartholomew and Tulyet gazed at him in astonishment, and Michael’s face became smug when he saw he had startled them.

‘Fiscurtune?’ asked Tulyet. ‘The man Turke killed, whom I told you last night that I had met many years ago?’

Bartholomew had forgotten Michael’s mention of a previous association between Tulyet and the dead fishmonger. He raised his
eyebrows questioningly, and Tulyet spread his hands to indicate he knew little of interest.

‘I met Fiscurtune before the Death, in the market at Chepe. He sticks in my mind for two reasons: first, because he was unforgivably
rude, and second, because he was totally devoid of teeth. Fortunately, an excess of gums rendered his speech indistinct, so
most folk could not understand him. But I am not surprised someone tired of his offensive manners and murdered him.’