Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘That image should reawaken her romantic feelings for you,’ said Michael gleefully.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, although Langelee’s offer was tempting. ‘I have to meet her sooner or later, and today is as good a time as any. You can keep the fiery bowel excuse for another occasion. Who knows when I may need it?’

Michaelhouse was a whirlwind of activity for the rest of the morning, and Bartholomew offered his services to Agatha, hopeful that keeping himself occupied would take his mind off the impending meeting with Philippa. He carried tables and benches from the storerooms, rolled casks of wine from the cellar to the hall, and even lent his skilful hands and eye for detail to repairing a marchpane castle that had suffered a mishap in the kitchens. But he was wrong: the chores Agatha set him occupied his body, but left his mind free to ponder all it liked. Meanwhile, Michael went to pursue his enquiries into the death of Norbert, although his glum expression when he returned indicated that he had not met with success.

‘Well?’ asked Bartholomew, as he joined the monk in the middle of the freshly swept yard. ‘Is Norbert’s killer in your cells?’

Michael gave a disheartened sigh. ‘My beadles have been unable to trace anyone who will admit to dicing with Norbert in the King’s Head and, although Meadowman dug through all that snow outside Ovyng, he has not found the weapon that killed Norbert.’

‘I imagine not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Knives are not only expensive, but can often be traced back to their owners. I doubt the killer would just have dropped one near his victim. It would be tantamount to leaving a note with his name on it.’

‘That is not always true,’ said Michael. ‘But it would have given me a starting point. I spent much of the morning searching the room where Norbert slept, hoping that one of these notes from Dympna might be there.’

‘I take it you found nothing?’

Michael grimaced in disgust. ‘Godric insists that Dympna sent Norbert several messages over the last few days, but not one was among his possessions. Meanwhile, Ailred confided that Godric is a romantic soul, who probably made a mistake when he took vows of celibacy, and that Dympna might be a figment of a lustful imagination.’

‘I thought all Ovyng’s students had seen these letters. They must have been real.’

Michael’s expression was weary. ‘Ovyng’s friars are relatively well mannered, and tended not pry into Norbert’s affairs. They knew he had missives, and one or two – like Godric – glimpsed the name Dympna and a few numbers scrawled on to a parchment. But no one ever took the opportunity to study the things properly.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘If Norbert received several messages, you would think that at least one would still exist. Do you think the killer destroyed them?’

Michael frowned. ‘I imagine Dympna would have been noticed if she had entered Ovyng and started to rifle through Norbert’s belongings.’

‘Dympna might have nothing to do with his death,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Just because Norbert went to meet her that night does not mean she killed him.’

‘The lost hour might be more significant than I first believed,’ mused Michael thoughtfully. He saw Bartholomew’s puzzled look, and reminded him, ‘There was an hour unaccounted for between the time Norbert left Ovyng and when he arrived at the King’s Head. Since he received one of these mysterious notes before he went, I am inclined to accept Godric’s suggestion that Norbert had a tryst with Dympna.’

‘And then went to the King’s Head and spent a good part of the night gambling in company with another woman?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘I now know – Meadowman told me after Shepherd’s Mass – that the woman in the tavern was a Frail Sister. Una, to be precise. So, I deduce that Dympna met Norbert earlier, at a more respectable time in the evening. Can we conclude that Dympna went home after the tryst, and was asleep when Norbert reeled from the King’s Head? Or was she lying in wait, and stabbed him for having a dalliance with Una? Is that why none of these letters survive? She demanded them back before she killed him, so that we would be unable to trace her?’

‘If Dympna was Norbert’s lover, then the fact that she sent obtuse messages indicates she was not a sweetheart who could be openly acknowledged. He might have been protecting her by destroying her notes.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Michael reluctantly. ‘Although, in the absence of any other clues I am loath to dismiss this woman’s role too quickly.’

‘Matilde will tell you if there is a Frail Sister called Dympna.’

‘She says there is not,’ said Michael. He gave a huge, dispirited sigh. ‘Dick Tulyet asked me how the investigation was progressing, and I could see from the expression in his eyes that he was wondering whether to put his faith in Sheriff Morice instead.’

‘He was not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘He knows these things take time. What about your unidentified corpse? Have you learned who he is yet?’

‘You have a way of making me feel most incompetent,’ grumbled Michael. ‘I have been so busy with Norbert that I have not had the chance to follow up where William left off.’

He looked up as Langelee sauntered across the yard with the wild-eyed Clippesby and the sombre Suttone at his heels. The College was ready, and the Fellows had nothing more to do until their guests arrived. Wynewyk joined them, brushing snow from his tabard and polishing his shoes on the backs of his hose, while even the spiritual Kenyngham was fluffing up his hair and arranging the folds of his habit. All the Fellows were freshly shaved, and their hair was trimmed and brushed. Their ceremonial robes had been shaken free of dead moths for the occasion, and together they made for an impressive display.

‘You had better change, Matthew,’ said Suttone, evidently deciding that the physician was letting the side down with his threadbare gown and patched tabard. ‘Philippa will be here in a moment, and you do not want to greet her looking like Bosel the beggar.’

Clippesby agreed. ‘You will not impress her in those clothes.’

‘It is not my intention to seduce her, you know,’ said Bartholomew irritably, knowing he was less splendid than his colleagues, but also aware that there was not much he could do about it at short notice. He decided he would invest in a new set of ceremonial robes later that year – as long as there was not a book or a scroll he would rather purchase first, of course.

‘You must make sure she knows what she has lost,’ said Langelee. ‘You do not want her thinking she has had a narrow escape while she frolics with Turke in bed tonight. You should aspire to her not frolicking at all, because she is pining for you.’

‘I shall aspire to no such thing!’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Our betrothal ended a long time ago, and there have been other women since Philippa.’

‘Oh, plenty,’ said Michael, as if he had kept a list on his friend’s behalf. ‘But none of them have been able to compete seriously for your affections – with the exception of Matilde.’

‘You cannot mean Lady Matilde the courtesan,’ said Kenyngham, a bewildered expression creasing his saintly face. ‘So, I assume you refer to another Matilde. There are so many people in our little town these days that it is difficult to pray for them all.’

‘Right,’ replied Langelee, shooting the Gilbertine a bewildered look for his innocence. ‘But you cannot have Matilde, Matt, so you had better make do with this Philippa instead.’

‘I do not want to “make do” with Philippa,’ said Bartholomew. He noticed that his colleagues were exchanging meaningful glances and was suddenly exasperated with them. ‘What is wrong with you all today?’