Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘We are only trying to help,’ said Langelee, offended. ‘If you wed a respectable lady, like Philippa, we can make sure that you still do a little teaching for us. Unfortunately for you, Matilde is not the marrying type, you see. She came to Cambridge to escape constant matrimonial offers, and it is common knowledge that she likes her freedom. So, we have decided to find you another woman.’

‘But I do not want another woman,’ objected Bartholomew. He saw the Fellows interpret this to mean he had set his heart on Matilde and hastened to put them right. ‘I do not want anyone.’

‘So, you will be taking major orders, then?’ asked Clippesby, wide eyed. ‘Will you become a monk or a friar?’

‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And I can find my own women, thank you.’

‘You have not done very well so far,’ said Langelee bluntly. ‘Women who pass through your hands like ships in the night offer no satisfaction. You need a wife. Or are you intending to keep Matilde as a lover and retain your Fellowship at the same time? I suppose that would work, as long as you are discreet.’

‘It is no one’s business what–’ began Bartholomew angrily.

‘I will fetch mint from the herb garden for you to chew,’ interrupted Clippesby helpfully. ‘She will notice that when you kiss her.’

‘Kiss her?’ echoed Kenyngham, aghast. ‘But she is a married woman!’

‘It is not unknown for marriages to be annulled, Father,’ said Langelee meaningfully, having dissolved an awkward liaison himself not long ago. ‘Do not look so shocked. I am sure you lusted over married matrons in your youth.’

‘I can assure you I did not!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, simultaneously appalled and indignant. ‘I am–’

‘Here she comes,’ said Clippesby, in what amounted to a bellow as there was a polite knock on the door. ‘Ready yourself, Matt. Try to look alluring.’

Bartholomew shot him an agonised glance as the porter opened the gates to admit the first guest. Fortunately, it was only Robin of Grantchester. The dirty surgeon had been to some pains to make himself presentable: he had washed his hands. He wore lilac-coloured hose, a dirty orange tunic and a green, old-fashioned cloak that had probably not been new when King Edward II had been murdered in 1327. Bartholomew was surprised that the surgeon had been invited to Michaelhouse, since it was highly unlikely the College would persuade him to part with any of his meagre fortune. Michael evidently felt the same. He turned to Langelee as student ‘cup-bearers’ hastened forward to greet Robin with a goblet of wine.

‘What is he doing here? He will never help Michaelhouse. He is not wealthy – you must have seen the state of his house on the High Street.’

‘But rumour has it that he arranged a substantial interest-free loan for the Franciscans,’ said Langelee. ‘And he was involved in lending money to Valence Marie to develop their library.’

‘Robin?’ asked Michael, eyeing the dirty surgeon in disbelief. ‘You jest, man!’

‘I do not,’ said Langelee. ‘He did not donate the money personally, but he certainly had a hand in the organisation. Ask Pechem of the Franciscans.’

‘Our Master has misunderstood something,’ said Michael, as Langelee went to do his duty as host. ‘Robin as a philanthropist, indeed! I have never heard such an unlikely tale!’

The second person to arrive was Sheriff Morice, dressed in finery fit for a king. He had evidently been spending some of the money he had accrued from his corrupt practices, because all his clothes were new. The predominant colour was blue, with silver thread glittering in the frail afternoon light. His plump and dowdy wife hung on his arm like a large brown leech. Morice spotted Michael and sauntered across the yard to speak to him.

‘My investigation into Norbert’s death is going well,’ he remarked, his eyes cold and calculating. ‘I have several culprits in my prison awaiting interrogation.’

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Michael smoothly. He nodded in the direction of the gate as more guests arrived. ‘But here comes Dick Tulyet. I am sure he will be delighted to know that you are close to a solution. Dick! Welcome! Morice here has just informed me that he has all but solved Norbert’s murder.’

Tulyet grimaced. ‘I hear your cells are full, Morice, but the patrons of the King’s Head are not the culprits. They were all drunk the night Norbert was killed, and I doubt any could even draw their daggers, let alone kill with them.’

Morice sneered. ‘But they hear rumours. One will tell me what I want to know. I will find your killer, Tulyet, and the Senior Proctor will not.’ He strutted towards Suttone, who fluttered about him like an obsequious crow.

Michael took Tulyet’s arm and pulled him aside. ‘Tell me about Dympna – Norbert’s secret lover who wrote him notes. Did you know her? Who is she?’

Tulyet gazed at him. ‘I thought he had many lovers, not just a single person. And how do you know she was called Dympna?’

‘Does this mean that you do not know her?’ said Michael, disappointed.

‘I do not know any woman called Dympna,’ said Tulyet. ‘But you will waste your time if you follow that line of enquiry. Norbert would never have indulged in a relationship with a woman who could write: that would have made him feel inferior, which was something he hated. Dympna will lead you nowhere, Brother.’

While the exchange between Tulyet and Michael took place, Bartholomew was experiencing grave misgivings about the wisdom of meeting Philippa in such a public place. Gradually, Langelee’s suggestion that he spend the afternoon in hiding became increasingly attractive, and he took two or three steps away. But he had dallied too long, and the last guests arrived with a sudden flurry. First, came his sister with her husband at her side. Edith’s black curls contrasted starkly with Oswald Stanmore’s iron-grey hair and beard, and both wore tunics of a warm russet colour. Edith’s cloak was blue, while Stanmore’s was Lincoln green, and together they were a handsome couple. Edith smiled sympathetically at her brother.

‘I tried to prevent Langelee from extending his invitation to our guests, but you know what he is like. He thought Walter Turke might give funds to Michaelhouse, and was oblivious to my hints that he should keep his hospitality to himself. I was hoping she would be gone before you knew she had even been here.’

‘How long has she been with you?’

‘Four nights – since Wednesday,’ replied Edith, ‘although she arrived in Cambridge ten days ago, and was enduring the dubious delights of the King’s Head. In all fairness to her, she was reluctant to stay with us out of deference to your feelings: her husband accepted my offer immediately, however, and that was that. Meanwhile, Cynric has been steering you away from places he thought she might be, while I told her that you are too busy to visit. I am sorry, Matt. I did not want you to find out like this.’

Bartholomew smiled, thinking that the cold weather and his determination to do as much teaching as he could before term ended meant that he had been out very little, and Edith might well have succeeded in preventing a meeting of the two parties had Langelee not interfered.

‘You need not have gone to such efforts on my behalf. I do not mind seeing Philippa again.’

Stanmore finished greeting Langelee, and turned to take his wife’s arm. It was cold in the yard and he wanted to go inside, where there would be a fire in the hearth and hot spiced ale warming over the flames. As Edith moved away, Bartholomew saw the three people who had been behind her, and found himself at a loss for words.

The older of the two men was much as Bartholomew imagined a wealthy fishmonger would look. He had an oiled beard, sharp grey eyes, and every available scrap of his garments was adorned with jewels or gold thread. The buckles on his shoes were silver and his buttons were semi-precious stones. Each time Walter Turke moved, some shiny object caught the light and sparkled.