Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘Neither might Harysone,’ said Bartholomew dryly, not impressed by the skills of the other two men who practised medicine in Cambridge. ‘Lynton prefers writing horoscopes to examining patients, while Robin would not know a stab wound if he had watched one inflicted.’

‘And the wound was definitely caused by a knife?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew passed Michael the triangle of metal he had prised from Harysone. ‘You can see from its shape that this is the tip of a blade. According to Ulfrid – the novice who saw him in action at the King’s Head – Harysone’s dancing is sinuous, so the weapon may have been aimed elsewhere, but missed its target in all the movement.’

‘You make him sound like a bumble-bee,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘Yet he claims the pain occurred during an estampie. An estampie is a slow dance compared to many.’

‘Ulfrid said the man dances like a Turkish whore, whatever that means. I suspect Harysone’s attacker not only missed what he was aiming for, but damaged his blade into the bargain.’

‘We shall have to buy him a new one, then,’ said Michael nastily, ‘and see whether he is more successful a second time.’

‘I doubt Michaelhouse students did it, though. I imagine they just happened to be there at the time.’

‘I agree. But he has made an accusation against members of the University – against members of my own College – so it is the Senior Proctor’s duty to investigate. But first I shall retrieve Clippesby’s tench, and then we shall see what Harysone has to say when we present it to him.’

Michael’s timing was fortunate. Agatha had located the smelly object in the depths of the cellar, and was turning it this way and that as she considered whether some of it might still be good enough to add to a stew. Bartholomew was appalled, suspecting that it was sufficiently rotten to poison anyone who ate it, although Agatha claimed that putrefaction was nothing a few herbs and plenty of onions could not overcome.

‘It went bad because someone skimped on the salt,’ she declared, examining it with expert eyes. ‘It would have been perfectly serviceable if the preserving had been done right.’

‘An apprentice must have practised on it,’ said Michael, not particularly interested. He wrinkled his nose. ‘But Norbert must have been drunk indeed to imagine he did well by winning this from Harysone. I have seldom smelled anything so rank.’

He wrapped it in a cloth and left, heading for the King’s Head with Bartholomew in tow. They had just turned into the High Street when their attention was caught by a sudden rumble near St John’s Hospital. Opposite was a line of decrepit houses, which the Sheriff and the town burgesses had recently declared unfit for human habitation. However, these homes had occupants, who were not about to move just because some wealthy businessmen decided their homes were an eyesore and wanted the land they were built on. The hovels remained, becoming shabbier and more derelict with each passing season, and one of them had met its end that morning. It had a thatched roof, and the weight of water from a wet autumn, combined with recent snowfalls, had been too much for the ageing structure. With a groan, it had collapsed inward, taking the walls with it and leaving nothing but a heap of snow-impregnated rubble.

‘Robert de Blaston the carpenter lives there,’ whispered Bartholomew, aghast. ‘With his wife Yolande and their ten children.’ He joined the throng running towards the house, some wanting to help and others just to watch the unfolding of a tragedy.

The rubble was still settling when he arrived, and powdery snow that had been hurled into the air was drifting downward like fine dust. Bartholomew scanned the wreckage in horror, trying to spot anything human. All he could see were smashed beams, piles of mouldy thatch and a broken door on which a child had painted a bright flower. Bartholomew felt sick. He started to move toward the mess, but someone caught his hand and stopped him.

‘It is not safe, Matthew,’ came a woman’s low, pleasant voice.

Michael seized the physician’s other arm when he tried to shake her off. ‘Matilde is right, Matt. Wait until it has settled, then we can go in with ropes and planks.’

Bartholomew stared at Matilde. ‘But Yolande is a friend of yours.’ Yolande de Blaston was one of the town’s more energetic Frail Sisters, with a list of regulars that included the Mayor, a number of burgesses and several high-ranking University men. Her occupation doubtless explained why most of her children looked nothing like her carpenter husband.

‘She is safe,’ said Matilde. ‘She and her family are staying with me, because Robert knew the snow would weaken his roof.’

‘No one was in?’ asked Bartholomew, slow to understand.

She smiled at him. ‘You are a good man to be concerned for a tradesman and his family. But Yolande and her brood are well, and filling my little home with their noise and laughter. I do not know what they will do now, though. They cannot stay with me for ever, nor can they pay the high rents charged in the town.’

‘Yolande should make use of her contacts,’ said Bartholomew, jumping as a beam snapped and the rubble settled further. Dust flew out in a choking cloud. ‘Perhaps the Mayor can help.’

‘You mean she should pressure her regulars into doing something for her?’ asked Matilde, her eyes twinkling in amusement. ‘I am surprised at you for making such a suggestion, Matthew! But it is a good idea. I shall recommend that she acts on it.’

‘There is nothing to do here, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘We should go to the King’s Head, before Harysone decides to go dancing somewhere we cannot find him.’

‘Harysone?’ asked Matilde distastefully. ‘I do not like him. His teeth are too long.’

‘You are a woman of discerning taste,’ said Michael cheerfully. ‘I do not like him, either.’

‘I will walk with you,’ said Matilde, handing Bartholomew her basket to carry. It was heavy, and he looked under the coverings to see why. There was a slab of ham, a pudding made with currants and spices, and bread. There were apples, too, albeit wrinkled and shrunken, and a bottle containing figs soaked in what was probably honey. That would cost a small fortune, he thought.

‘I admire a woman with an appetite,’ said Michael, one hand snaking towards some fruit. ‘You are right to carry victuals with you: you never know when hunger might strike.’

‘They are not for me,’ said Matilde, laughing as she pushed the monk away. ‘They are for the old men who live on the river bank – Dunstan and Athelbald. If I ate this kind of fare every day, I would be the size of Philippa Turke.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at her. ‘Why do you mention her?’

She gave him an innocent smile. ‘Only because Edith tells me you and Philippa were once sweethearts – betrothed, no less. I had no idea you liked large women, Matthew.’

‘I like any women,’ said Michael comfortably, as though the comment had been directed at him. ‘Fat, thin, tall, short. They are all God’s creatures, and I treat them accordingly.’

‘Philippa was different when we were courting,’ said Bartholomew defensively, before Michael could delve too deeply into his personal preferences in Matilde’s presence. Although he could not explain why, he always felt uncomfortable when Michael made lewd comments in front of the woman he admired, and something made him want to protect her from them, despite the fact that her former profession had probably left her more than adequately equipped to deal with the likes of Michael. ‘She has changed in more ways than just her size.’

‘It must be odd to see her again after so many years,’ said Matilde expressionlessly. ‘I imagine you were delighted to learn she was here.’