Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘Rachel is helping,’ said Edith, indignant that her guest appeared to be complaining when assistance in the form of Cynric’s competent wife had been provided. ‘She has been with you all morning – and continued the work when you were receiving your various guests here in the solar.’

Philippa gave an absent smile. ‘She has been very helpful, especially since visitors like young Quenhyth have interrupted me so often. But I shall be finished before dusk, and we will be on our way at first light tomorrow.’

‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did he come?’

‘He visits me often,’ replied Philippa. ‘His father is a colleague of Walter’s, and he feels obliged to see me on a fairly regular basis.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘London manners.’

Bartholomew glanced at her shoes as she left, half expecting to see the delicate leather sodden with muck from the High Street. But Philippa was not wearing her flimsy shoes, and he was not surprised she had been making such a noise on the wooden floor above when he observed the pair of heavy boots. He regarded them uneasily, wondering why she had donned such robust footwear when she had just claimed that she planned to spend the rest of the day packing.

Bartholomew was thoughtful as he strode the short distance between Milne Street and Michaelhouse. He asked Quenhyth, who had been assigned gate duty again, whether Michael had returned, and the student said that he had not. Quenhyth mentioned that Beadle Meadowman had asked the same question less than an hour ago, because the Chancellor had been demanding a report on Ailred’s death and wanted Michael to provide him with one. A nagging concern gnawed at Bartholomew as he trotted up the stairs to Langelee’s room to ask whether the Master knew where the monk might be. Langelee shook his head.

‘Why do you ask? Is he in trouble? I heard there was a scuffle in the Market Square, when a snowball fight between scholars from Peterhouse and Stanmore’s apprentices turned into something a little more dangerous. Perhaps he is still dealing with that.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew, although his growing sense of unease would not be ignored. He went to his room, intending to spend the rest of the afternoon working on his lecture, but found he could not settle. He grabbed his cloak and set off again, heading for Michael’s offices at St Mary the Great. On the way, he met Cynric, who also claimed he had not seen the monk since the incident at the Mill Pool. Without waiting for an invitation, the Welshman fell into step as the physician walked briskly towards the High Street.

Michael was not at St Mary the Great, and Meadowman claimed he had spent the last three hours trying to find him. The beadle’s irritation with his master’s disappearance turned to worry when he saw he was not the only one who had been trying to track Michael down. He mentioned the incident in the Market Square, and informed Bartholomew that it was unusual for the monk not to appear in person to ensure potentially explosive situations were properly diffused – especially since the incompetent Morice had become Sheriff.

‘I am going to the Gilbertine Friary,’ said Bartholomew, looking both ways up the High Street, and half expecting to see the familiar figure sauntering towards them. ‘That was where he was going when we last spoke. He wanted to follow Philippa, to see her lover – although she denies that she has left the house today.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Meadowman, his pleasant face creased with concern. ‘Brother Michael does not usually wander off without telling a beadle where he might be found.’

‘I am uneasy with him following this Philippa, who was not Philippa,’ said Cynric. ‘Edith is right: Philippa has not been out today, because my wife has been helping her pack. However, although Philippa may not have ventured out today, she certainly has done so on other occasions.’

‘Clippesby said that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was sceptical at first, because I was under the impression that she always demanded a male escort when she went out – even when it was inconvenient for them.’

Cynric shrugged. ‘She insisted on escorts so everyone would think she would never leave without one. But the reality is that she did. Often. I followed her once, just for something to do. She went to the Gilbertines’ stables, where there are several derelict outhouses. Because there are not as many Gilbertines now as before the Death, most of these sheds have fallen into disuse.’

‘We are wasting time,’ said Bartholomew abruptly and, with Cynric and Meadowman at his heels, he ran along the High Street and through the Trumpington Gate. He pounded on the door to the friary, and fretted impatiently when the gatekeeper took his time to answer. But the lay-brother said there had been no visitors that day, and he had not seen Michael, Philippa or anyone else.

‘I suppose he may have followed Philippa, then gone elsewhere,’ said Meadowman, although he did not seem particularly convinced by his own explanation.

‘He did not follow Philippa at all,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘Or rather, it was not Philippa he thought he was following. She wears those silly shoes, but today she donned boots. It is obvious she lent the shoes to another person, so people would think it was her hurrying to the friary.’

‘I do not see why she would do that,’ said Meadowman doubtfully. ‘Especially since you just said she was at pains to make folk believe she never walks out unescorted.’

‘I suppose the person wearing the thin shoes was actually Giles,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his head tiredly. ‘There is not much difference in their size. He took her shoes with the intention of making people believe he was her.’

‘We need to look in some of these deserted outbuildings,’ said Meadowman, wanting to waste no more time in speculation.

Together they began a systematic search of the ramshackle sheds and storerooms that formed a separate little hamlet behind the main part of the friary. Most were lean-tos, which had been used to store firewood, peat, and hay and straw for horses in more prosperous times. There was also a disused brewery, a laundry and some substantial stables. But all were empty.

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Where can he be?’

‘Hopefully in the Brazen George, unaware of the worry he is causing,’ said Meadowman. ‘I shall go there now, then round up some of the lads to search his other favourite haunts.’ He left without waiting for an answer.

‘I will look in Peterhouse and the King’s Head,’ said Cynric. ‘The food is good at Peterhouse, and he may have gone there for a meal and not realised how much time has passed.’

He slipped away, leaving Bartholomew alone in the overgrown yard. The physician supposed he should follow Cynric and Meadowman but he remained convinced that Michael’s disappearance was somehow connected to Philippa, and was certain the monk was not far away. He walked through the outbuildings again, this time more carefully, searching for any clue that might tell him that Michael had been there.

The last place he explored was the stables, a low, thatched building with a sizeable loft. There were three horses in residence, none looking very wholesome. The place had not been cleaned since the snows, and the stink of manure and the sharp tang of urine was overpowering. But Michael was nowhere to be found. Bartholomew stood still and looked around slowly.

Clippesby said he had overheard Philippa talking to her lover from the stables, so her trysting place could not be far. The hayloft was derelict, so she had not scrambled up a ladder to frolic there among the straw. Hoping he was not wasting his time by placing so much faith in the word of a man who spoke to animals, Bartholomew continued his careful assessment of the building. If the upper storey was unavailable, and he could not see Philippa setting her pretty shoes in the uncleaned filth of the stalls, then her secret place must be in a downward direction. Many buildings contained basements for storage, and the friary had been built in an age where cellars were commonplace. Bartholomew began to walk back and forth, searching for a trapdoor.