The Girl in the Ice (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 4) Read online

  The Girl in the Ice

  Jason Vail

  THE GIRL IN THE ICE

  Copyright 2013, by Jason Vail

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Hawk Publishing book.

  Cover illustration copyright Can Stock Photo Inc.

  Cover design by Ashley Barber

  ISBN-13: 978-1492794691

  ISBN-10: 1492794694

  Hawk Publishing

  Tallahassee, FL 32312

  The Girl in the Ice

  DECEMBER 1262

  to

  FEBRUARY 1263

  Chapter 1

  If Edith Wistwode hadn’t made everyone in the household go to Christmas Day Mass, the dead girl might not have been found until spring.

  That December was as cold and wet and deadly a month as you could ever hope for. Snow came unseasonably early, the day after the feast of Saint Andrew on the last day of November. The snowfall gave a light picturesque dusting to the town, and its quick melting was welcomed, especially the fact that it resulted in very little mud, Ludlow’s bane. But a bone-chilling cold followed immediately, which froze the melt, and a sheen of ice covered the ground. The long incline of Broad Street became so treacherous that two horses broke legs in falls and had to be put down, one of them by Stephen Attebrook, who happened to be passing at the time. An old woman fell in the street and broke her hip, a mishap from which she eventually died. Three beggars were found frozen to death outside the town around the remains of their fire. Mistress Bartelott, the widow of late middle-age who lived across the street from the Broken Shield Inn and who had nothing to keep her company but her faith, took a tumble on her way to Mass one Tuesday and broke her wrist. She repaired to her bed and was not seen by anyone throughout the month, to the relief of more than one of the residents on Bell Lane, who were spared her lectures on correct deportment, which she was often keen to dispense from her upper window at no charge.

  At the end of the first week, it snowed again, partly melted, and froze once more, leaving another dangerous crust of ice. On Corve Street outside town, a fire left burning too high for warmth during the night threw out sparks that caught the straw on the floor and burned up the house and six of the family inside it; only a child of seven survived by jumping out an upstairs window.

  This second freeze had no sooner hit than it snowed yet again, this time even more heavily. The third storm left a fall more than knee-high in the streets. In some places the wind sculpted drifts to waist high, and across Saint Laurence’s churchyard there was a monstrous drift as tall as a man’s head. Most of the roofs of the houses were steep enough that the snow could not find a grip, except along the very peaks. Whenever Stephen threw open his window in the morning, which he still often did despite the cold, he had a glorious view of the town, with brilliant white bars of snow capping every roof clear down the slope to the walls and beyond to the river.

  The scene at dawn on Christmas morning was much the same, although the air, which had taken on an almost spring-like tang, was warm enough to leave the shutters open. It was amazing, after so many days of cold, to have a day when you could not see the mist of your breath. How did weather happen? What caused it? Stephen wished he knew.

  He paused before closing the shutters. He loved this view, which he took in every morning, even when it rained. Below, movement at the stables caught his eye. Harry the legless beggar sat in the open doorway. It was hard to read Harry’s expressions, given the great tangled mass of hair and beard that concealed his face like a mask. But Stephen had come to know him pretty well, and Harry was giving every sign of distress. It was harder for Harry to get around than most people. He sat on a board that had cunning rockers nailed to the bottom, on which he propelled himself with his hands, which were protected by thick leather gloves. He was on his board now and had on his gloves. And he rocked back and forth in the doorway as if about to launch himself into the sodden snow that covered the yard. He had sat like this every morning since the weather had turned bad. In the early part of the month, he had defied the weather and clumped down to his licensed position at Broad Gate. But when the snow got really thick, he had been trapped in the stable like other people were in their houses. Stephen doubted that he had collected more than three pence in the last two weeks. He was probably close to starving. It was a miracle Harry had survived at all.

  “Harry!” Stephen called.

  Harry looked up. “Don’t be taking a piss out of that window, hear? You’ll fall and break your neck!”

  “Lovely day!” Stephen called back, ignoring the insult. It was best to ignore Harry’s insults.

  “The damned sun’s shining, that’s all I have to say about it.”

  “You’re not thinking about going to work, are you?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “On Christmas Day? It’s a day of rest, of rejoicing.”

  “For you maybe. What do I got to rejoice about? My stump’s got frostbite and my purse’s empty. Wistwode’s charity will only extend so far.” Gilbert and Edith Wistwode owned the Broken Shield. They rented Harry his space in the stable; he had fallen behind because of the storms. They had even allowed him some meals for free.

  Stephen sighed. He could see Harry’s dilemma. One had no right to exist on another’s charity. Harry had to go out, despite the hardship. “Wait there!” he called. “I’ll be down in a few moments.”

  “What?” Harry spat. “You’re going to give me your blessing?”

  But Stephen had already left the window.

  He hurried down the stairs, limping because of the pain in his bad left foot, which was missing from the arch forward, the dying gift of a Moorish warrior on the walls of a Spanish castle. It ached so terribly this morning that he could barely stand on it. Sometimes it itched. Sometimes he even thought he could feel the toes that were no longer there. He could hear thumping as people moved around. There were fewer thumps and voices than usual. The deep snows and treacherous conditions on the roads had brought travel to a halt. There were only two guests now, the fewest number in the four months he had lived here. Business had been bad because of the weather for more than just beggars.

  The stairway emptied into the hall by the great fireplace. Stephen found Jennifer, the oldest of the Wistwode children, on her hands and knees blowing on the coals to restart the fire. Her mother, Edith, stood behind her, wearing an angry expression. It was evident that Jennie had let it go out, a major sin.

  Gilbert the Younger, a boy of seven, suddenly appeared, racing from the back rooms in the inn, which held the pantries and led to the kitchen, a separate building out back. He darted across the hall, weaving between the tables — or attempted to, anyway.

  Edith whirled with speed remarkable in so short and stout a woman — for she was shaped, Harry had once remarked in one of his more uncharitable moments, like an ale keg — and snared him by the collar.

  “Gillie!” his mother said stonily, “behave yourself! Or I’ll have you thrashed!”

  The threat was a real one, because Edith’s temper had been growing shorter since the first of the month, as business at the inn went from bad to almost non-existent. But Gillie was not the sort of boy to be intimidated. “Yes, mamma,” he said with apparent sincerity, and working loose from Edith’s grip, he slunk away to the front of the hall, where he began poking his younger brother, Horace, in the ribs with a finger.

  Edith did not see this, however, because her attention had turned to Stephen. Her eyes traveled from his head to his feet, and had that measuring cast that he had see
n her use on prospective guests when gauging their ability to pay. He became acutely aware of the threadbare state of his clothes — battered and rather shapeless maroon hat, faded with wear; his tatty green coat with the frayed collar and cuffs; the outer shirt, half blue and half white, needing the attention of a laundress, its hem dangling several loose threads; the red stockings that had once been so bright they were almost festive, and now seemed tired; the scuffed and worn shoes. Although he was, or had been, a member of the gentry and had been knighted in Spain, for what little that was worth, his present position paid neither well nor regularly, and this was the best he could do.

  In contrast, Edith, Stephen suddenly noticed, was arrayed in her best: a brilliantly white and starched wimple adorned her round head, the veil trailing like a waterfall down her back; a checkered green and yellow traveling cloak joined at the neck with a silver broach; an outer gown of embroidered yellow linen; sleeves so long on the underdress that they almost touched the ground; and her best shoes of delicate calf skin. For a member of the merchant class, she looked quite elegant.

  “Sir, you’ll be accompanying us, of course,” Edith said in a tone that did not invite dissent.

  Stephen, who had been expecting this, said, “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you good,” Edith nodded decisively. “You don’t get to church half as often as you should.” Her attention swung back to Jennie. “Leave it. We have to go, if we’re going to get a good spot up close.”

  “Yes, Mum,” Jennie said with some relief.

  “Where is your father?” Edith asked. Moving to the bottom of the stairs, she called out, “Gilbert! What’s keeping you?”

  “Coming, dear!” Gilbert Wistwode’s voice came from the depths of the stairwell. “Coming!”

  Within moments, Gilbert clumped into view on the landing and descended to the hall. He was no taller than his wife and just as round, as if they had been poured from the same mold. But where Edith’s face was often pinched with concern as if on the brink of being overwhelmed by the myriad details involved in running the inn, his pug-nosed visage was genial and relaxed. Like Edith, Gilbert was arrayed in his best for Christmas Mass: a black coat with embroidery in silver thread, a stark white linen shirt underneath and black and white stockings. On his round head, looking as if a breeze could knock it off, was a round red cap that Edith had bought only the week before, venturing out into the cold and snow to do so.

  “I’m here, dear,” Gilbert said taking Edith’s arm affectionately. “There’s no rush. It’s early yet.”

  “Jennie let the fire go out,” Edith said. “And it is not early. The sun’s up and they could have already started.”

  “Oh, dear,” Gilbert allowed, unmoved. “Well, we’ll get it started again. No harm done.”

  “It will be freezing when we get back.”

  “But there’ll be no one to tend to it while we’re gone. You’ve made everyone go to church, including the guests. It’s not safe to leave a fire unattended.” His eyes swept the room, where the only two guests, a pair of soap sellers, were finishing their platters of bread and cheese that Jennie had set out for them earlier. “We could come back to find a pile of cinders instead of an inn.”

  “I suppose,” Edith said fretfully. She had high standards for the inn, and it pained her when they were not met. A frigid hall was not acceptable.

  “There we go,” Gilbert said. “Shall we be off?”

  The Wistwode family turned toward the door, as Edith called to the family servants in the back to come along.

  Stephen headed toward the side door to the yard.

  “Sir!” Edith called to him. “Saint Laurence’s is this way.”

  “I’ve got to see about Harry. I’ll be right along.”

  “Harry,” Edith said, as if she had forgotten about him.

  She followed Stephen into the yard, where he saw that Harry had not attempted to move from his dry spot in the stable door into the slushy yard.

  Edith regarded Harry with her hands on her hips while Stephen disappeared around the stable. He returned a few moments later with a small two-wheeled handcart. Normally it was used for hauling wood from the enormous woodpile that stood in three rows behind the stable.

  “What on earth is that for?” Edith asked.

  “Harry needs a ride to work,” Stephen said. “I thought that, this being Christmas Day, you wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it.”

  “I do in fact mind,” Edith said indignantly. “No work should be done on Christmas day.”

  “The cooks have to cook and the servants have to serve, otherwise we won’t have a feast today.”

  “That’s different. That’s allowed. Begging is not.” Her eyes narrowed as a thought crossed her mind. “He shall come along with us. He needs communion as well as we do.”

  Harry looked startled to see his fate so quickly decided, and without any effort to consult him. “Now wait a minute,” he began.

  “Don’t say a word,” Edith snapped, “or I’ll take you for a heathen and you can find another place to spend your nights. You can go to Mass just one day a year. Beg forgiveness for your sins, and pray for salvation. I’m sure that will take most of the day.” She looked into the distance and added less harshly, “And pray the weather has truly broken and business gets better. God knows, we need both.”

  “You can’t fight it, Harry,” Stephen said. “She’ll wear you down.”

  Harry got a cunning look. “All right then. I’ll go. But how am I supposed to move that thing?” He gestured to the cart.

  “I’ll have to pull you,” Stephen said.

  “Really!” Edith said, surprised and shocked at the idea.

  “Penance for my sins of the year,” Stephen said. “There are certainly many.” Many that Edith did not know anything about, and with luck she never would: like the dead man in the old latrine not more than thirty yards away and a man he had killed in the lane outside just last October. “Or you could look at it as Boxing Day come early.”

  “Boxing Day indeed! It’s about time that someone recognized my importance,” Harry said, cheered at the notion of a role reversal, the comic theme that ran through the heart of Boxing Day, when the low switched places with the high. “Well, what are you waiting for? Set me aboard! I can’t climb up there by myself.”

  Stephen bent to lift Harry. The legless man was heavier than he looked, and, crossing his massive arms in a lordly fashion, did nothing to assist. With a grunt, Stephen heaved him over the side of the cart. Harry landed with a thump and a bitten-off curse. He smoothed his hair and beard. “And I’ll have my board, too, lad.”

  Stephen gritted his teeth at Harry’s tone. “It isn’t Boxing Day yet.” He put the board behind Harry and got between the traces of the cart, regretting his impulse to volunteer.

  It didn’t help his pride that Gilbert and the servants were staring at him with gap-mouthed astonishment as he struggled across the yard, and Gillie and Horace were openly snickering. “Wipe that smile off your face,” Stephen snapped at Gillie, who tried without success to appear solemn.

  Stephen continued without pause to the gate and went through to the street, hoping he wouldn’t meet anyone he knew.

  “Come along!” he heard Edith command behind him and everyone headed into Bell Lane toward Broad Street in procession, with Stephen leading the way.

  Stephen’s hope that he might remain invisible was dashed at Broad Street. When he turned the corner, he found there were gaggles of people heading uphill to Saint Laurence’s Church for Terce Mass, which was the most popular Mass on Christmas day. He knew they were looking at the spectacle with the same degree of amazement as Gilbert and the servants had shown. Some even looked as though they might say something. Stephen’s face burned and he kept his head down and pulled. The more quickly he got this humiliation over, the better.

  Harry, however, was enjoying his ride. He waved and called greetings to everyone in earshot, and since he knew everyone on Broad Street, he was able t
o do so by name.

  “If you don’t stop that,” Stephen grated, “you’re going to walk back yourself.”

  “It’ll be worth it, your honor,” Harry laughed. “Best ride I’ve ever had in my life.”

  “I hope you freeze to death, then.”

  “Not likely. God, what a day! What a beautiful day!”

  On good days, a crowd often gathered in the churchyard before the start of a Mass, but not today. Because of the wet, everyone was going straight inside. Stephen manhandled the cart to the edge the path that had been dug through the snow outside the door. Gilbert, Edith, and their family procession flowed inside. Stephen was a bit stung that Gilbert hadn’t paused to help him unload Harry.

  Harry, for his part, was still waving at those who passed, with a broad smirk on his face.

  “I ought to tip you out,” Stephen said.

  “Don’t be churlish, especially at church. Not the Christian thing to do.”

  Trouble was, Harry was right, and it was this exact impulse that had originally driven Stephen, although his humiliation had overridden his sense of charity. Feeling equally shamed by his public humiliation and by his ugly thoughts, Stephen dropped Harry’s board in the snow and deposited Harry upon it.

  The smirk vanished from Harry’s face as he buckled himself onto the board. “Thank you, Steve,” he said softly.

  “You’re welcome, Harry.”

  Harry did not pay much attention to the Mass or take part in communion, although he had no doubt that Edith Wistwode intended that he benefit from it. He stayed in the rear of the church by the main, west-facing doors, where the children played and made too much noise for him to hear even the sermon let alone the service. He came in late anyway, having taken the opportunity to hold out his begging cup at the doors to the church. It wasn’t his licensed spot, and beggars normally weren’t allowed to beg at the doors to the church, but no one had objected.