Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

The expression on Michael’s face made the student sit again, very quickly, and Quenhyth saw he had gone too far. In the hall, no one spoke or moved, as every scholar and servant waited to see what Michael would do. The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. Eventually, Michael started chewing again.

‘I am eating,’ he repeated. ‘And, as I have already informed you, nothing interrupts that which I hold sacred. If you are so convinced of the Waits’ guilt, then you can rummage through their possessions.’

Quenhyth gazed defiantly at him, then stalked out. Deynman gave a cheer, which was quickly taken up by the others in the hall, and Bartholomew was surprised at how unpopular Quenhyth had become. He was not hated, as Norbert had been, but he was despised, and no opportunity was allowed to pass that enabled his fellow students to express that feeling.

‘I am not sure that was good advice, Brother,’ he said to Michael, walking to the window to watch Quenhyth stalk across the yard. ‘No one wants his belongings pawed through, and your challenge may well see Quenhyth in more trouble than he can handle. Frith and Jestyn are rough men, while Makejoy and Yna can probably hold their own in a fight, too.’

Michael waved a knife dismissively. ‘They will let Quenhyth nowhere near their things. And anyway, he knows I did not mean it literally. He is not entirely stupid.’

‘He should have become a fishmonger, like his father,’ said Suttone disapprovingly. ‘He is much more suited to dealing with dead fish than with living people.’

‘I had forgotten he hails from a fishy family,’ said Michael, his mouth full of bread.

‘His father knew Turke and Fiscurtune,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘They were in the Fraternity of Fishmongers together. Quenhyth knows Philippa, too, and has visited her once or twice at Edith’s house.’

While they ate, and the Lord of Misrule entertained himself by ordering various students to stand on their heads and recite ribald ballads, Bartholomew told Michael all that had transpired the previous night concerning Philippa and Abigny, and mentioned Clippesby’s claim that Robin the surgeon was a member of the altruistic money-lending group. The monk was thoughtful.

‘You were always suspicious of the fact that Philippa declined to acknowledge her previous association with the Waits. Now you learn that not only does she remember them, but she knows their names. However, you must bear in mind that when she first saw them, it was at the Christmas feast, where they had that row with Langelee about whether they should be fed. I would not blame any respectable lady for declining to admit she had hired them under those circumstances.’

‘We do not know that was the first time she saw them,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘In fact, it was almost certainly not. Philippa had a room in the King’s Head before going to Edith’s house – and that was where the Waits stayed while they looked for an employer.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, she had planned to be gone from Cambridge quickly, and probably thought it would not matter whether she was truthful about them or not. Then the snow prevented her from leaving, and she was stuck with her lie for longer than she anticipated. What do you think? Should we follow her when she goes to her lover?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

‘Why not? Are you not interested to learn who has captured her heart?’ Michael snapped his fingers in sudden understanding. ‘I know why you are reluctant! You think that if she is meeting a secret lover in a location like the Gilbertine Friary, then it is likely to be someone she met during her previous life here in Cambridge. That means it is someone she knew while she was courting you, and you do not want to learn you were jilted long before she went to London.’

‘That is not the reason at all,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘I just do not think that sort of behaviour is courteous. It can have no bearing on our investigation, and we would merely be satisfying a salacious urge to pry.’

‘You are wrong,’ declared Michael immediately. ‘Of course it has a bearing on the case! A woman with a lover is far more likely to rid herself of an unwanted husband than one without. Who could it be? A master from another College? It will not be a Michaelhouse man – there are only Kenyngham and William left from the old days, and I do not see her indulging in a clandestine affair with either of them. Although William has always been a dark horse …’

‘You cannot believe everything Clippesby says, Brother. Philippa may well be meeting someone, but that does not necessarily imply an affair. That was an assumption on his part. Horses and rats are not reliable sources of information.’

‘I was also busy last night, while you were enjoying your sister’s hospitality,’ said Michael, changing the subject as he reached for more bread. ‘I have learned more about Fiscurtune, the man Turke murdered.’

‘How?’ Bartholomew was surprised. ‘Did you meet someone who knew him?’

Michael nodded. ‘And you and I are going to see him together, as soon as we have finished this excellent breakfast.’

Bartholomew wanted to know there and then what Michael had discovered, but the monk was annoyingly secretive, and refused to divulge anything. After Gray had concluded the meal with a clever imitation of one of Langelee’s careless Latin graces, they drew on cloaks, Bartholomew looped his medicine bag over his shoulder, and he and Michael left the College to walk in the direction of the Great Bridge. At first, the physician could not imagine who they were going to see, and then it became clear. He smiled with pleasure.

‘Matilde! She has her network of informants, and we are going to see what she knows.’

‘No,’ said Michael, grinning at his friend’s disappointment. ‘We are going to visit Dick Tulyet – for two reasons. First, he happened to mention to me last night that he once met Fiscurtune in Chepe. And second, Mayor Horwood seems to believe that Dick is a member of Dympna, so I thought we should ask him about it.’

‘We did ask, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, glancing resentfully up the lane where Matilde’s cosy house was located. ‘When we first learned Norbert received letters from Dympna, Dick told us, quite categorically, that a woman called Dympna could have nothing to do with Norbert’s death and that we should look elsewhere for our answers.’

‘I know,’ said Michael. ‘And so I am inclined to believe Horwood was right, and that Dick knows more about Dympna than he was prepared to tell. But luck is with you, my friend, because here comes Matilde. You will see her after all.’

Matilde was a shaft of bright light in a dowdy scene. The loose plaits of her hair shone with health, her clothes were clean, neat and colourful, and her face had the complexion of smooth cream. Bartholomew thought she made everything around her look shabby and soiled. When she saw the physician, her face lit with a smile of welcome.

‘I have barely seen you since Dunstan died,’ she said reproachfully. ‘It would have been nice to share a cup of wine and exchange fond memories of him.’

‘I have been busy,’ said Michael, assuming that he was included in the comment. ‘Although I have little to show for it. Norbert’s killer still walks free, while there are all manner of questions surrounding the deaths of Turke and Gosslinge.’

Matilde nodded. ‘Edith mentioned that Oswald believed at first that Philippa had hastened their ends. Then he learned that most of Philippa’s curious behaviour relates to the fact that she wanted to celebrate her widowhood, but could not. However, there is more to it than that.’

‘Meaning?’ demanded Michael peremptorily.