Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, horrified by the number of people who seemed to be intimately acquainted with his personal life. ‘I had not thought about marrying anyone.’

‘But you refuse to take final vows as a monk or a friar,’ said Clippesby. ‘So, you must be saving yourself for a woman. We just want you to find one who is not too old, has all her limbs and most of her teeth, and a little dowry to help you along.’

‘I am quite happy as I am,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether to be touched or irritated by their meddling concern. ‘I do not need your help in securing myself a woman, anyway. My sister is quite capable of doing that.’

It was meant to be a joke, but Suttone nodded gravely. ‘That is true. Edith is a sensible woman who has your best interests at heart. Well, we shall say no more about it, then. But let us know if you need advice on manly matters. I had a woman once – before I took the cowl – and Clippesby has had two.’

‘One was a horse,’ elaborated Clippesby confidentially. ‘But perhaps you are right about Philippa. Her heart is already promised to another, and competition is always difficult. If you are the only one pursuing a woman, there is a good chance of a favourable outcome. But it would be undignified to fight over her.’

‘I do not think Turke will be doing much pursuing,’ said Bartholomew, looking to where Philippa knelt next to the coffin in the Stanton Chapel. Her posture was stiff, as though she was still angry, and she looked larger than usual, with her fur-lined cloak billowing around her.

‘I imagine not,’ said Clippesby. ‘But I was referring to the other one.’

Bartholomew shot him a puzzled glance. ‘What other one?’

‘She will not remain a widow for long,’ replied Clippesby airily. ‘That is why Suttone and I thought you should try for the prize. But she has been spending a lot of time with this other man, so perhaps you are already too late, and we are wasting our time.’

‘That is her brother,’ said Suttone. ‘He always escorts her, because she dislikes being unaccompanied. I heard her complaining about it when I was saying a mass for Turke. Abigny wanted to go on some errand of his own and she would not let him.’

‘But she often walks alone,’ said Clippesby, surprised. ‘Ask any of the ducks or geese. They are not fooled by dark cloaks and plumed hats.’

‘You mean she disguises herself?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what the Dominican was telling him. Clippesby was often extremely observant, and was frequently in possession of valuable information; Bartholomew knew from experience that just because Clippesby claimed an animal or a bird as his source did not necessarily mean that the snippet should be disregarded. It was part of Clippesby’s insanity that he talked to – and received replies from – animals, spirits and even plants. Unfortunately, his interpretations of what he had seen or heard were often in error, and it took careful questioning to sort fact from supposition.

‘She has a distinctive walk,’ replied Clippesby. ‘Her boots are too big, so she limps.’

‘Limps?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And wears a brown feathered hat? That sounds more like Giles to me.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Suttone in an undertone to Bartholomew.

‘She goes to the stables behind the Gilbertine Friary at least once a day,’ Clippesby went on, unperturbed by Bartholomew’s scepticism. ‘The horses are growing quite used to her now, and inform me that she always greets them politely.’

‘The Gilbertine Friary?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling. Was that why she had snapped at him when he had inadvertently mentioned the friary to her in passing? ‘She enters the stables, rather than the friary itself?’

‘Of course,’ said Clippesby, as though the physician were stupid. ‘How could she greet the horses otherwise? They are not allowed in the friary: the Gilbertines do not want a mess on their floors. Philippa meets her lover – your rival – in the hay. There is never anyone there, because people cannot travel on horseback now that the snow has locked us all in the town together.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how Philippa had managed to secure herself a Cambridge beau so quickly. He rubbed a hand through his hair. Or was the man an outsider – perhaps one of the Waits whose names she had conveniently recalled a few moments before?

‘The horses could not tell,’ said Clippesby. ‘But if you want to find out, you should visit the Gilbertine stables and lie in wait for them. Of course, it could be a member of Dympna. You know who I mean – the group that lends money for good causes?’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘ You know about Dympna? But we have only recently learned of its existence, and it has been a major question in this case from the beginning.’

‘I do not know what it is,’ said Suttone resentfully. ‘No one told me.’

‘I did not know it was important,’ said Clippesby to Bartholomew. ‘Michael does not discuss his investigations with me, so I never know what I can do to help. I have offered him my services in the past, but he has always declined.’

‘That is probably because you are insane,’ Suttone explained gravely.

‘It should not make any difference,’ objected Clippesby, hurt. ‘But I know about Dympna, and have done for months. I learned about it from the King’s Head horses. They hear a good deal, of course, residing in a place where there are so many travellers. They told me Robin of Grantchester is a member, but he is excluded when major decisions are made.’

Bartholomew regarded him with open scepticism. ‘Robin of Grantchester? I do not think so! Why would a group of well-meaning men invite Robin to be a member? You know what he is like. He is not even honest.’ But even as he spoke, he recalled that it had been Robin who had brought Dunstan his supplies – the supplies that William said had come from Dympna. Perhaps Clippesby was right after all.

‘The horses do not know the answers to everything,’ said Clippesby impatiently. ‘You will have to ask Robin himself. But I should go. I promised the Sheriff’s donkey I would drop by today.’

He left abruptly, without waiting for the office to begin, and Bartholomew and Suttone stared after him in silence. His habit swung around his ankles, and the hair around his tonsure stood up like a spiky, irregular crown. He was wearing a boot on one foot and a shoe on the other, and Bartholomew noticed a ferret poking from his scrip.

‘He is a strange fellow,’ said Suttone unnecessarily. ‘He is quite serious about these conversations with beasts and birds, you know. He really believes they speak to him.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the truly frightening thing is that his discussions with animals sometimes make a lot more sense than the ones I have with people.’

Breakfast that day was not a relaxed occasion. Quenhyth had lost the leather scrip he used to carry his pens and ink, and was making it clear he thought the Waits were responsible. Langelee informed the student that even vagrants were unlikely to set their sights on such a meagre prize, and declined to bow to Quenhyth’s demands that the jugglers’ belongings should be searched immediately. Deynman quickly became bored with Quenhyth’s complaints, and offered to buy him another scrip, but Quenhyth was implacable.

‘The Senior Proctor must take action,’ he announced, rising to his feet and pointing a bony finger at Michael. ‘A crime has been committed.’

The monk, sitting in the body of the hall between Bartholomew and Suttone, was unmoved. ‘I am eating, and you know I allow nothing to interfere with such an important task.’

‘But this is a crime ,’ insisted Quenhyth, unrepentant. ‘The Waits have broken the law, which means that you are a traitor to the King because you are refusing to uphold the laws he has made.’