‘He was very feeble,’ added Giles. ‘I was surprised when Walter chose him to come with us when he had better men at his disposal. But Walter did make odd decisions on occasion.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Philippa, voicing the question that was also on Bartholomew’s lips. ‘Everything Walter did was careful and prudent.’
‘Careful, yes,’ said Giles. ‘But not always prudent, and they are not the same thing. You cannot say that killing Fiscurtune was prudent – and neither was going skating on thin ice.’
‘He was prudent in business matters,’ she said defensively. ‘It made him rich. And he owned two relics – St Zeno’s finger and the snail from Jesus’s tomb. That made him special, too.’
‘But he gave them both away,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The finger is at Michaelhouse and Sheriff Morice has the snail.’
‘He planned to buy more relics at Walsingham,’ said Abigny. ‘He had his heart set on purchasing something really impressive, like a piece of the True Cross or a lock of the Virgin’s hair – some very holy item to flaunt at his colleagues in the Fraternity of Fishmongers.’
‘That does not explain why he parted so readily with the old ones,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is more impressive to own three relics than one?’
‘I do not think he ever felt comfortable with that finger, despite the fact that he usually carried it with him,’ said Abigny. ‘And he, like me, thought the snail was fraudulent. It was a clever ploy to give it to Morice.’
‘He did not care for the finger,’ agreed Philippa. ‘I think he was afraid of St Zeno. But the snail
‘Gosslinge,’ prompted Michael, to bring the discussion back to the dead servant and declining to comment on the fact that price had little to do with authenticity in the world of relics. ‘Was he upset about anything? Lonely? Worried about the journey that lay ahead? And in what way was he weak? Easily bullied?’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed both Philippa and Abigny at once. Philippa continued. ‘Despite his size, Gosslinge was very confident. Walter was the only man he ever heeded; he ignored everyone else.’
‘He was rude and lazy,’ murmured Abigny.
Philippa did not hear him. ‘But he was not strong physically. I do not mean he was sickly, just that he seemed unable to lift even fairly light loads.’
‘That was because he did so little work,’ muttered Abigny. ‘His muscles were wasted.’
‘But he was not upset about anything,’ said Philippa, ignoring her brother’s aside. ‘On the contrary, he was looking forward to the journey we were about to make.’
‘He saw opportunities,’ said Abigny darkly. ‘Him and his dice. I think he had done something to the balance, so they would fall more often in his favour. While I have no idea what led him to die in a church wearing someone else’s clothes, I would not be surprised to learn that he did it for reasons that would benefit him financially.’
‘Giles!’ admonished Philippa tiredly. ‘It is not kind to tell tales now the poor man cannot defend himself.’ She turned to Michael and made a helpless gesture, raising her hands palms upward. ‘Gosslinge was not the best servant we had, but he was loyal, and Walter valued loyalty.’
‘I never understood that,’ said Abigny. He looked at Philippa. ‘Even you cannot pretend Walter treated his servants well – he was demanding, mean and critical of their efforts. Yet Gosslinge stayed for years, when we were lucky if others managed more than a few months.’
‘They liked each other,’ said Philippa stubbornly. ‘Walter was kinder to Gosslinge than to the others, and Gosslinge repaid him with devotion.’
‘No,’ said Abigny, shaking his head. ‘It was more than that. I always felt there was some bond that went deeper than a master – servant relationship.’
‘But Walter did not seem particularly distressed when he learned that Gosslinge was dead,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Rather, he was irritated, because it meant he had to find a replacement.’
‘You did not know Walter,’ said Philippa, angered by the comment. ‘He was upset; he just did not show it with tears and lamentations. He would have missed Gosslinge very much.’
‘Can you think of any reason why they should both die in Cambridge?’ asked Michael, unruffled by her ire. ‘Is it possible that Walter was so distressed by Gosslinge’s death that he skated on the Mill Pool, knowing that it might crack under him and bring about his death?’
‘Suicide?’ asked Abigny with a startled laugh. ‘Walter? I do not think so!’
‘No,’ said Philippa firmly. ‘It is winter, and men do die of cold or falling through ice. You are trying to read something into these deaths, when there is nothing. Now, the best thing you can do is leave my husband and his servant in peace, and let me grieve for them.’
