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?’
‘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 La
ngelee. ‘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.
The second man was Giles Abigny, who had once been Bartholomew’s room-mate. Gone were the flowing yellow locks and the mischievous smile of the student in his twenties. Abigny in his thirties was crop-haired, sombre and wore the drab garments of a law-court clerk – a blue over-tunic, called a cote-hardie, with buttoned sleeves, and a dark mantle with a metal clasp on the right shoulder. His brown hat was high crowned, and was decorated with a feather that had seen better days. He was heavier, too, indicating that he spent rather more time at the dinner table now than when he had been younger. He clasped Bartholomew’s hand warmly, and promised that they would talk later, once they were settled and comfortable.
The woman who accompanied Turke, however, was not Philippa. She was Turke’s wife; it was evident in the proprietorial way in which he handled her. She was as tall as Philippa had been, but much larger. Her expensive clothes could not hide the fact that she was both pear shaped and the owner of several chins. Her hair was completely concealed under a matronly wimple, and her skin was blemished and tired, although some attempt had been made to disguise the fact with chalk paste. She was, in short, middle aged, overweight and unattractive.
Bartholomew recalled Edith’s words – that she had not wanted him to ‘find out like this’. The truth became painfully clear: Philippa was no longer Turke’s wife, and the man had remarried. Edith had not wanted Bartholomew to learn that Philippa was dead by meeting the next Mistress Turke. The physician felt a surge of sadness for the young woman with the golden hair and blue eyes, who had gone to London in search of a better life than he could offer her. He hoped she had found happiness before she had died.
‘Hello, Matt,’ said the woman, approaching him with a smile. ‘Do you not remember me? I am Philippa.’
Langelee was about to lead his guests across the yard and into the hall, when Agatha strode up to him and announced in a loud whisper that the boar was ‘still bloody’ and that the meal would not be ready for some time. Rather than wait indefinitely in the hall until the beast rotating over the kitchen fire was cooked to Agatha’s exacting standards, Langelee decided to take the guests to his own quarters. Gray and Quenhyth were dispatched to stoke up the fire and remove any soiled linen that might be lying around, while Langelee procrastinated in the yard until Gray’s hand appeared in the window to let him know that the chambers were presentable.
It was a colourful group that crowded into the two rooms, with the merchants and Sheriff adding yellows, greens and blues (and Robin’s lilac and orange) to the scholars’ ceremonial reds. The atmosphere was tense, however. Morice seemed uneasy with his predecessor in such close proximity, while Tulyet barely acknowledged that Morice was there, giving the impression he felt little but contempt for the man.
Robin of Grantchester looked hopelessly out of place. He stood near the hearth drinking steadily and eyeing the wine goblet as though he might take it with him when he left. Bartholomew tried exchanging pleasantries, but abandoned his efforts when Robin accused him of attempting to steal his professional secrets. Refraining from retorting that Robin had no secrets of any kind that Bartholomew would want to know, the physician backed away, gesturing to Suttone that he should
entertain the man. Suttone obliged, and Bartholomew heard him informing the surgeon that the Death would soon return to Cambridge, and that he had better be prepared for it. This grim news was met with some pleasure by Robin, who had made a lot of money the last time the plague had raged.
Meanwhile, it was painfully obvious that Oswald Stanmore did not like the merchant to whom he had opened his house that Christmas. Edith tried hard to keep the peace, interrupting with a change of topic whenever one man looked set to offend the other and keeping the discussions lighthearted and uncontroversial. Abigny sat on a stool in a corner and watched them with cynical amusement, while Philippa was offered Langelee’s best chair, which faced the fire and effectively absolved her from the general conversation. Clippesby crouched at her feet, like a lap-dog, and told her about the final confession the boar had made before it was dispatched to become the centrepiece for the feast. Bartholomew was grateful to Clippesby, because the musician’s deranged chatter meant that he was not yet obliged to talk to Philippa himself. Instead he went to speak to Abigny.
‘Giles,’ he said warmly. ‘We have not had news from you for years. What have you been doing since the plague?’
‘The plague years were good times,’ said Abigny fondly. ‘I was carefree then – with only myself to worry about.’
‘Are you married, then?’ asked Bartholomew politely.
Abigny shook his head. ‘But I am betrothed, and will be wed this summer.’
‘Then you should not stay away from her too long,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour. ‘Or you may find that she has grown tired of waiting and has abandoned you for a fishmonger.’
Abigny shot the physician a rueful smile. ‘I was sorry when Philippa told me she had broken her trust with you. Believe me, I would rather have a scholar for a brother than a fish merchant. At least my home would not smell of eels.’
‘You live with them?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.
Abigny’s smile was bitter. ‘You should have warned me to pay more attention to my studies, Matt. When I came to seek employment in London, I found my knowledge lacking. I had no choice but to throw myself on the mercy of my brother-in-law.’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 11