A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 10

‘You do not seem to be wooing your widow with much skill,’ said Clippesby critically, watching Philippa enter the Stanton Chapel to kneel by Turke’s coffin. Suttone was with him, waiting for the morning mass to begin. It was peaceful in the church, which still smelled of the greenery that bedecked it. ‘She is angry with you. If you want to attract her to your bed, you need to flatter and cajole her, not send her away like a swarm of angry bees.’

‘I am not wooing her,’ snapped Bartholomew, irritably. ‘We do not even like each other.’

‘That is a sign of love,’ said Suttone knowledgeably. Bartholomew regarded him warily, and wondered why a pair of celibate friars thought they were in a position to advise him about romance.

‘Antagonising her is a risky strategy, nonetheless,’ Clippesby preached. ‘Women are complex creatures, and sometimes do not grasp that bad temper is really an expression of love. I have seen more than one promising affair fail because of such misunderstandings, especially in the world of cats.’

‘You should take her a lump of marchpane,’ suggested Suttone. ‘Women like sweet things, and marchpane should have her swooning in your arms.’

‘He does not want her swooning,’ said Clippesby practically. ‘It is better she is conscious, so she can appreciate the full extent of his manly charms. I shall lend him my best shoes tonight. And my second-best cloak. Then he will look the part for lovemaking.’

‘I have some scented oils he can douse himself with,’ said Suttone, addressing Clippesby. ‘And we can ask Cynric to buy him some tincture of borage in the Market Square. Master Langelee tells me that borage encourages amorous feelings and gives a man plenty of strength for his exertions. She will soon be begging him to take her to the marriage bed.’

‘Gentlemen, please!’ begged Bartholomew, too appalled by their images of courtship to ask why the Master and the Carmelite friar should have had such a conversation in the first place. ‘Why are you so intent that I marry? It is because you want me to resign my fellowship, so that Michaelhouse no longer offers a secular subject like medicine? Or are your jealous eyes on my room? I am not particularly attached to it. We can change, if you like.’

‘That is not why we are trying to help,’ said Suttone, offended. ‘We are thinking of your happiness.’ He slipped a fatherly arm around the physician’s shoulders, and his voice became gentle. ‘You see, Matthew, whatever Michael and Langelee tell you, there is no future in your affair with Matilde. She will never consent to marry you. She mentioned it to Yolande de Blaston. Yolande told Prior Pechem of the Franciscans at one of their sessions, and Pechem told William. So, you see, we are only trying to find you an alternative.’

‘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.’

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.

‘I mentioned days ago that I thought she carried a sad secret with her. She was sorrowful even before Turke died. I still think I am right: there is something in Philippa’s life that is causing her considerable anguish. She is not good at hiding it.’

‘A lover?’ suggested Michael casually.

Matilde was thoughtful. ‘Possibly. But not one who makes her happy. Her sour expressions and irritable temper are not signs of a woman riding on a whirlwind of glorious infatuation.’

‘You do not like her, do you?’ said Michael, regarding her closely.

‘No,’ said Matilde bluntly. ‘I cannot imagine what made you fall for her, Matthew. She is everything you profess to dislike: obsessed with wealth and appearances, and difficult to draw into conversations that do not include hairstyles, jewellery or food prices.’

‘She was not always like that,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘She was lively and funny, and we talked for hours about many things – philosophy, foreign countries, music, medicine …’

‘Who did the talking?’ asked Matilde coolly. ‘I cannot imagine her holding forth about Galen’s theories pertaining to the colour of urine or the architecture of Italy. But your betrothals are none of my affair, although I am glad for both of you that that one failed.’

She walked away, leaving the two men staring after her. ‘You should ask Matilde to marry you,’ recommended Michael. ‘She may accept, and she keeps a good cellar. I would not mind visiting you in her house.’

‘Rumour has it she does not want to marry anyone,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the whispers that had reached him via the Mayor, the Franciscan Prior, Father William and finally Clippesby and Suttone.

Michael shook his head in amused contempt. ‘You know nothing about women, Matt! Let me give you an analogy. Lombard slices are my favourite pastry. If I were to tell you that I would never touch one again, what would you do? You would buy me a dozen, to induce me to rethink my position. That is what Matilde is doing: she is saying she will not do something so that you will persuade her to do otherwise. Also, the poor woman has been waiting a long time for you. You cannot blame her for wanting folk to think it is her refusals that are preventing the match, rather than the fact that you have not bothered to ask.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Do you think she would agree?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But perhaps not. Who knows? You may have dithered too long, even for her. However, I can offer you one piece of advice: if you do become betrothed, do not allow another fiancée to disappear to London without you.’

Bartholomew was deep in thought as he walked with Michael towards Tulyet’s house near the Great Bridge. When he happened to glance up from watching where he was placing his feet in the treacherous muck, he spotted a familiar figure making its way towards them. For a brief moment he thought it was Philippa, but it was Abigny.

Philippa and her brother were of a similar height, and both had abandoned the flowing locks of youth for the more conventional styles of middle age – Abigny’s cropped short and Philippa’s coiled in plaits. Both possessed cloaks with hoods, like most winter travellers, and neither was in the habit of walking fast. However, Abigny’s plumed hat made him distinctive, whereas Philippa favoured a goffered veil – yellow when she had arrived, but dyed black since Turke’s death. The goffered style comprised a half-circle of linen draped over the head with a broad frill along the straight edge framing the face. Philippa and Abigny wearing their preferred headgear could not be mistaken for each other, but Philippa and Abigny with their cloaks’ hoods raised or their hats exchanged might.

The physician thought back to the time of the plague. Philippa and her brother had changed places then, too, fooling folk for several days. Could they be doing the same thing a second time? He recalled Stanmore commenting on the amount of time Abigny spent outside. Was it actually Philippa in disguise? No one would look too closely, because it was common knowledge that she declined to leave the house on Milne Street without an escort. Bartholomew saw that was probably just a ruse, designed to ensure no one would suspect her of going out at all.

All at once Bartholomew knew Clippesby was right: it was not Abigny who ran the errands around the town, but Philippa. He knew perfectly well Abigny was not exaggerating when he complained about the pain in his feet, and the physician realised with disgust that he should have guessed days ago that the clerk had not been traipsing endlessly around in the cold and the wet. His feet simply would not have allowed him to do it.

‘Giles,’ he called, attracting his old room-mate’s attention. ‘Where is Philippa?’

‘In the church with Walter,’ replied Abigny, wincing. ‘These feet are no better, Matt. Do you have no stronger cure to offer me?’

‘Only the recommendation that you stay in and keep them warm and dry.’

‘I have been staying in,’ snapped Abigny, pain making him irritable. He glanced at the physician furtively, realising he had just said something he should not have done.

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘It is not you who has been seen all over the town. What has Philippa been doing?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ Abigny tried to push his way past.

Bartholomew grabbed his arm. ‘Who has Philippa been meeting? Why does she feel the need to sneak around in disguise, rather than going openly to meet her friend?’

Abigny sighed heavily, while Michael listened to the exchange in astonishment. ‘I am no good at this kind of thing,’ said the clerk tiredly. ‘It is a pity, because I might be offered a better post at the law courts if I were more expert at lying and subterfuge. The King likes men with those skills.’

‘So?’ demanded Bartholomew, not to be side-tracked. ‘What do you say to my questions?’

‘I say you should ask Philippa. They are not my secrets to reveal. I have my failings, but breaking confidences is not among them.’

‘Then you can reveal some secrets of your own,’ said Michael. ‘You met a man called Harysone in the King’s Head. Why?’

Abigny gazed at him in astonishment. ‘That is none of your business! What did you do? Follow me there, after I met you near the Trumpington Gate?’

‘Yes,’ replied Michael bluntly. ‘And Harysone is a suspect in a murder enquiry, so it is not casual inquisitiveness that makes me ask you about him: my questions are official.’

‘I went to buy his book,’ replied Abigny, evidently alarmed by Michael’s veiled threats. ‘It is about fish, and I thought it would make a suitable gift for the Fraternity of Fishmongers in Walter’s memory. It is packed in my saddle-bag at Edith’s house. I can show you, if you like.’

‘You bought Harysone’s scribblings?’ asked Michael in disgust. ‘To commemorate Turke?’

‘Why not?’ flashed Abigny. ‘There is a certain justice in purchasing a volume of dubious scholarship as a tribute to a dubious man. Walter would have hated the errors in it, and it will give me no small satisfaction to see the thing forever bearing his name in the Fishmongers’ Hall.’

‘What about Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject. ‘I do not believe you know nothing about that. Pechem and William would not have answered your questions if they thought you were asking out of idle curiosity.’

Abigny rubbed his hands over his face, then gave a rueful smile. ‘I thought I had deceived you successfully about that. You seemed to believe me at the time.’

‘We did not,’ said Michael. ‘It takes a far more accomplished liar than you to fool the University’s Senior Proctor.’

‘You were not there – it was a discussion between Matt and me,’ Abigny pointed out coolly. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘You were right to assume I knew more about Dympna than I revealed. However, my knowledge dates from the Death, when the charity was established. I was a founding member, but resigned when I left Cambridge and have heard nothing from it since. That was why I pestered William for information. It really was “idle curiosity”, as you put it.’

‘Why him?’ asked Michael.

‘I heard in the King’s Head that Dympna had financed some repairs to the Franciscan Friary. I thought William might be able to tell me more about it. Of course, he could not, and neither could Pechem. It was never an open charity, but it has become much more secret since I left. I suppose it is to safeguard itself against too many claims for its funds.’

‘Tell us what you do know,’ ordered Michael. ‘It may help.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Abigny. ‘Dympna started during the Death, when men were healthy one moment and dead the next. Wealthy folk gave friars gold for the poor, hoping their charity would save them from infection. Dympna was founded using these benefactions, so the money could be fairly and properly distributed. You see, once or twice, mistakes were made, and unscrupulous folk made off with funds they should not have had. Including Michaelhouse, I might add.’

‘Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael, astonished. ‘We never made a claim from Dympna.’

‘Thomas Wilson did, though,’ replied Abigny. ‘You will recall he was Master during the Death and was greedy and corrupt. He inveigled funds from Dympna that he should not have been given, and they went directly into his own coffers. You must have heard the stories about how rich he was when he died.’

Bartholomew knew all about Wilson’s ill-gotten wealth. He and Michael had recovered some of it a couple of years ago, but not before men had died over it.

‘Is that all Dympna is?’ pressed Michael. ‘A charity?’

Abigny raised his hands, palms upward. ‘It was a charity five years ago, but who knows what it is now? That was why I asked William about it, and why I have made several journeys around the town, even though my feet pain me. I am curious to know what it has become.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

Abigny smiled. ‘Because I feel honoured to be one of its original members. It is a worthy cause, and I hope it thrives for many years. But standing in the cold is agony for me. You must come to Milne Street, if you wish to talk further. Good morning.’

‘Is he telling the truth now, do you think?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, as the clerk hobbled away.

‘He is telling the truth about his sore feet. And as for the rest – I have no idea.’

Dick Tulyet was pleased to see Bartholomew and Michael, and invited them into the warm chaos of his house on Bridge Street. His energetic son was racing here and there with a wooden sword, an item that Bartholomew thought was far too dangerous a thing to place in the destructive hands of the youngest Tulyet. The child was in constant trouble, much to the consternation of his sober and law-abiding parents.

Tulyet led Bartholomew and Michael to the room he used as an office, where he slipped a bar across the door, explaining that young Dickon would dash in and disturb them if it were left unlocked. The ear-splitting sounds of the boy’s battle calls echoed from the solar, where his mother and a couple of servants tried to keep him quiet until his father’s visitors left. The Tulyets would never have another child, and both treated the boy far more tenderly than was warranted for such a brutish little ruffian. Dickon was rapidly becoming a tyrant, and Bartholomew’s heart always sank when he was summoned to tend the brat’s various minor injuries – cuts and bruises usually acquired by doing something he had been told not to do.

‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pouring himself a cup of wine from the jug that stood on the windowsill before settling comfortably on a cushioned bench. ‘What does that mean to you, Dick? Mayor Horwood intimated you know something about it.’

‘Is this relevant to Norbert’s death?’ asked Tulyet warily. ‘Only I would rather not discuss it, if there is a choice.’

‘Dympna sent a number of notes to Norbert, summoning him to meetings in St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘You already know this, because I told you. Then a note from Dympna was discovered inside the corpse of a man called Gosslinge. So, I think information about this strange group could well be relevant – if not to Norbert’s murder, then to Gosslinge’s death.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet reluctantly. ‘We swore an oath that we would not speak about Dympna without due cause, but the murder of my cousin is due cause. I think no one would take issue with that. I shall tell you about Dympna, but please do not make anything I say public.’

‘You claimed you knew nothing about it on Christmas Day,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You told me I would waste my time if I investigated Dympna.’

‘The latter statement is true, but the former is not,’ replied Tulyet evenly. ‘I denied knowing a woman called Dympna – and that is correct – but I did not say I knew nothing about it. And I genuinely believed that enquiries into Dympna would bring you no closer to Norbert’s killer, that it would lead you to waste time. It seems I was wrong.’

‘You were,’ affirmed Michael testily.

‘But I do not see how! Norbert did petition Dympna for funds, but apart from a single message refusing his application, Dympna had no correspondence with him. I cannot imagine where these other missives came from.’

‘Let us go over what we know,’ said Michael. ‘Dympna is a charitable group that helps people in need. We know it supplied funds to the Franciscan Friary, for example.’

Tulyet nodded. ‘It was founded during the Death, but I was made a member later, when I became Sheriff. Originally, gifts of money were made to the needy, but it soon became clear that Dympna would run dry if that practice continued. It was decided to make loans instead, so that larger and more useful sums could be offered. By the time I joined, most of Dympna’s transactions involved loans; there are very few gifts these days.’

‘So, Dympna is just a money-lending fraternity,’ said Michael dismissively.

‘Not at all. Moneylenders make profits from interest. But Dympna does not charge interest, nor does it demand repayment by specific dates.’

‘Then why do people repay you at all?’

‘Because Dympna does not help just anyone. Each case is carefully considered, and the honesty and integrity of the applicant is assessed. We would not lend money to someone we could not trust to pay us back. So, for example, we made loans to pay irate builders at Bene’t, when the College suddenly found itself without the funds to pay for work already completed; and we made one to allow the Carmelites to buy new habits when a fire robbed them of most of their clothes.’

‘And the recipients always pay you back?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘Always, but never with interest – unless they choose to make a donation for our future work. The Carmelites were generous in that respect, although there was no pressure on them to do so.’

‘Who are the other members of Dympna?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet hesitated, but then seemed to reach a decision. ‘There are four of us. But you must never reveal our identities. If that happens, and everyone learns who we are, we will be overwhelmed with demands for help, and our funds will dissipate like mist in the summer sun. Then Dympna will be dissolved, and the town will lose something good.’

‘Who?’ pressed Michael. ‘You, and three others?’

‘Master Kenyngham is one, and Robin of Grantchester is another.’

‘Robin?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished that Clippesby had been right, and even more astonished that a disreputable fellow like Robin should be chosen to serve an altruistic organisation.

‘Kenyngham?’ asked Michael at the same time. ‘I suppose that should not surprise me. He is exactly the kind of man to engage in kindly acts and keep his beneficence a secret.’

‘Robin is not, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why did you select him to help?’

‘Many of the people he treats die or become very ill,’ explained Tulyet. ‘They often need Dympna to pay for healing potions or to allow their families to bury them. Robin keeps us informed of who might require such assistance.’

‘I should have guessed this ages ago,’ said Bartholomew, putting together facts in his mind. ‘All the evidence was there, but I did not make the connections. We were told that Robin has been associated with various acts of charity recently – by Ailred, among others. It was also Robin who brought food for Dunstan after Athelbald died.’

‘That was not Dympna,’ said Tulyet. ‘Each transaction must be agreed by all four members, but we have not met for several weeks now. Dympna did not help Dunstan. As I said, we seldom make gifts, only loans. We would not have lent money to Dunstan, because dying men are unlikely to pay us back. Robin must have arranged that out of the goodness of his heart.’

‘I do not think so!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the notion.

‘Kenyngham, then,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is generous and compassionate. So is Father Ailred of Ovyng. I am lucky to have two such honest and kindly souls to work with.’

‘Ailred is the last member?’ said Michael. ‘Now, that is interesting! What was his reaction when Norbert’s classmates said he had received messages from Dympna, Matt? Can you remember? Indignant? Thoughtful? Concerned?’

‘He told us we should look elsewhere for answers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just like Dick.’

Tulyet winced. ‘What else could I do? Dympna has done a great deal of good in the town. Ailred feels as I do – that we should do all we can to protect it, so it can continue to help the needy.’

‘Robin lent Ailred a backgammon board and pieces,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I was surprised at the time that they knew each other well enough for borrowing and lending, but now I see exactly how that came about: they are colleagues.’

‘Robin is hardly our colleague,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘But he serves his purpose, and we have no complaints about the way he discharges his responsibilities.’

‘We shall speak to him and the other two members later,’ vowed Michael. ‘But where do you keep Dympna’s money?’ He looked around him, as though he expected a large chest filled with coins to manifest itself.

‘I cannot tell you – not because I am refusing to cooperate, but because I do not know. It moves between members, so no outsider will guess where it is and steal it – a chest of coins is a tempting target for thieves. It is Kenyngham’s turn to be keeper at the moment.’

‘Kenyngham?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘You entrust all that gold to a man who cares so little for worldly possessions? What if he forgets where he has stored it?’

Tulyet laughed. ‘He is not that absent-minded. But we know accidents happen – it would be unfortunate if the keeper died, and no one knew where the box was hidden. So, the keeper always tells one other member as a safeguard. He must have told Ailred, because I do not know, and we do not let Robin near the actual money. The temptation might prove too much.’

‘How long has it been with Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Three weeks, perhaps. Ailred had it before him. Why? Are you saying that Norbert’s death has something to do with the chest being passed from Ailred to Kenyngham? That Ailred stored it somewhere in Ovyng, where Norbert lived?’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘The timing certainly fits, because Norbert has been dead for twelve days now, and he started to receive letters from “Dympna” about a week before he died. That is roughly three weeks in total. Do you really have no idea where Kenyngham keeps it?’

Tulyet’s face creased in a frown of concentration. ‘I imagine it is with the Gilbertine friars. I expect you would have noticed a chest in Michaelhouse.’

‘How big is it?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to envisage potential hiding places.

‘It is a walnut chest, perhaps the length of my forearm, and about two hand widths deep.’

‘I know where it is,’ said Bartholomew, smiling as he recalled various incidents that should have warned him sooner that something was amiss. ‘The conclave.’

‘It is not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘The conclave’s contents comprise benches, a table, two chairs and some rugs. There are no walnut-wood boxes there, because we would have noticed.’

‘About three weeks ago – the time the chest passed to Kenyngham – the floorboards in the conclave became uneven,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have all stumbled over them, and William hurt himself quite badly. I suspect that is where Kenyngham has stored Dympna.’

‘I do not see Kenyngham prising up floorboards to make himself a secret hiding place,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘He is not sufficiently practical.’

‘That is probably why the floor is now uneven,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, he did tell Langelee that he worked with wood before he became a friar. Remember?’

Michael gnawed his lower lip. ‘I do, now you mention it. And I recall his odd reaction when he learned the students planned to use the conclave for the duration of the Twelve Days. He was appalled, and that surprised me because he does not normally care about such things. He was not concerned about his personal comfort, as we all assumed: he was worried about access to his chest.’

‘And once I saw him working on some documents,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the first night he had been driven by cold to spend the night in the conclave. ‘I asked him what he was doing, and he declined to tell me. Doubtless that was Dympna’s business, too.’

‘We shall look into it, and recommend the thing be moved to the Gilbertine Friary,’ said Michael. ‘I do not want our students unearthing it – especially this week, when we have a Lord of Misrule to make stupid suggestions about how it should be spent.’

‘You say Dympna refused to lend Norbert money?’ asked Bartholomew of Tulyet, wanting to bring the discussion back to the student’s murder.

‘He did not meet our two basic criteria – that the money is for a worthy cause and that it will be repaid. Where are these messages? May I see them? I may recognise the writing.’

‘All destroyed,’ said Michael. ‘I have searched Norbert’s possessions on at least three occasions, and found nothing.’

‘Perhaps Godric was lying about them,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Ailred said he has peculiar ideas about love-letters and suchlike.’

‘Norbert received them,’ said Michael firmly. ‘The other Ovyng lads saw them too, remember?’ He turned to Tulyet. ‘And you are sure Kenyngham, Ailred or Robin have not written to Norbert in Dympna’s name?’

‘I am sure Dympna gave nothing to Norbert. We discuss every loan made – no one person is allowed to act alone, because that would leave us open to charges of corruption.’

‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had the chest, and Norbert lived in his hostel. There is a connection here. Perhaps Norbert found the chest and stole from it, so Ailred sent messages demanding it back. Or perhaps Ailred made an exception for Norbert, because he was a member of his hostel.’

‘Made an illegal loan, you mean?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully. ‘Ailred is an honest fellow. I do not see him breaking our rules – especially for Norbert, who would have spent the money on his own pleasures.’

‘Well, we shall have to ask Ailred himself,’ said Michael, draining the wine in Bartholomew’s goblet as he prepared to leave. ‘And we shall ask him about the murdered Chepe fishmonger John Fiscurtune, too, since I have reason to believe he and Ailred were related.’

Bartholomew and Tulyet gazed at him in astonishment, and Michael’s face became smug when he saw he had startled them.

‘Fiscurtune?’ asked Tulyet. ‘The man Turke killed, whom I told you last night that I had met many years ago?’

Bartholomew had forgotten Michael’s mention of a previous association between Tulyet and the dead fishmonger. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Tulyet spread his hands to indicate he knew little of interest.

‘I met Fiscurtune before the Death, in the market at Chepe. He sticks in my mind for two reasons: first, because he was unforgivably rude, and second, because he was totally devoid of teeth. Fortunately, an excess of gums rendered his speech indistinct, so most folk could not understand him. But I am not surprised someone tired of his offensive manners and murdered him.’

‘We should see Ailred, Matt, and ask him about Fiscurtune. I think he has met the fangless fishmonger far more recently than Dick has done.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Tulyet, surprised. ‘Fiscurtune had no association with Cambridge as far as I know. He has certainly not been here recently, because I assure you I would have noticed him.’

‘I came across the information last night, when Matt was visiting Edith,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘I trawled through some University documents and discovered that Ailred hails from near Lincoln – not Lincoln itself, but a small village just outside it.’

‘We know that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is no secret: he is very proud of the fact that he is a Lincolnshire man.’

‘The name of his manor is Fiscurtune,’ announced Michael momentously.

‘It is a common name,’ warned Tulyet. ‘I imagine any village with some kind of fishing industry may have taken the Saxon word “fisc” for fish, and added “tun” for village or manor. You cannot connect Ailred with your dead fishmonger on that evidence alone.’

‘I do not believe in coincidences,’ said Michael pompously and untruthfully. ‘Anyway, when I learned where Ailred spent his early years, I visited Sheriff Morice, who gave me permission – for a price – to refer to the taxation lists compiled in the days of the Conqueror. They are a good source of information about places in obscure parts of the kingdom.’

‘Lincolnshire is not obscure,’ said Bartholomew, amused by Michael’s description.

‘Morice asked for money before he let you see Domesday?’ asked Tulyet, horrified. ‘It is just as well he is not investigating Norbert’s death, because I do not want to be presented with a bill for his labours, as well as with a killer!’

‘It is your fault for resigning,’ retorted Michael unsympathetically. ‘But I learned from Domesday that Fiscurtune boasts three and a half fisheries.’

‘Fisheries,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Fiscurtune was a fishmonger, and so was Turke. Now we learn that Ailred hails from a village with fisheries. Perhaps there is a connection here.’

‘Fiscurtune village is small,’ Michael went on. ‘So, assuming I am right, and the murdered John Fiscurtune and Ailred hail from the same settlement, then it follows that they must have known each other. Indeed, I feel they knew each other rather well. Was there any physical resemblance between Fiscurtune and Ailred, Dick?’

‘Fiscurtune had no teeth,’ said Tulyet apologetically. ‘It changed his face so much it is impossible to say.’ His expression became thoughtful. ‘However, now that I think about it, I do vaguely recall Fiscurtune mentioning a kinsman who was the head of a Cambridge hostel.’

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Michael with immense satisfaction.

Bartholomew walked briskly towards Ovyng Hostel, urging Michael to hurry. He sensed that Ailred had the answers to many questions, and wanted to speak to him as soon as possible. Michael puffed along behind him, growing more breathless and red-faced with every step. The thaw was continuing apace, and the town was a morass of sticky slush and sloppy, ice-spangled puddles. Snow was dropping from roofs in clots, and Bartholomew paused for a few moments to excavate a cat that was buried by a sudden fall. It clawed him when it was freed, and raced down one of the darker runnels, as if mortified by its sodden fur and bedraggled appearance.

‘There is Robin of Grantchester,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a hunched figure that was making its way uncertainly down the High Street. ‘Robin!’

The surgeon leapt in alarm and started to run. It was an instinctive reaction, and something he often did when someone hailed him. It usually meant he had lost a patient and was afraid the deceased’s family were out for revenge.

‘Oh, it is you,’ said Robin, relieved when he saw it was Bartholomew who had caught his arm and arrested his desperate flight. ‘I thought it was a relative of Dunstan and Athelbald.’

‘Why would they chase you? You did not treat them – I did.’

‘They are both dead, and people tend to associate me with deaths, even though I am not usually there when they happen.’ Bartholomew knew that was true: Robin’s patients died of fright, pain or poisoned blood days or hours after he had finished his grisly business with his rusty knives. ‘Fifteen years ago I extracted a nail from Dunstan’s hand. I thought his kinsmen might believe that brought about his demise.’

‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pronouncing the name with relish. ‘Tell me about Dympna.’

Robin’s small eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about? I know no one of that name.’

‘It is a money-lending charity,’ said Bartholomew, watching Robin shift and turn uneasily, like a cornered rat. ‘And you are one of its four members.’

‘Clippesby,’ said Robin in disgust. ‘I had a feeling he was eavesdropping when I confided in Helena. She is my only true friend, and I often talk to her when I am lonely or have enjoyed a little wine and wish for a companion who will listen without interrupting.’

‘She sounds like a saint,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not know her.’

‘My pig,’ said Robin. ‘A man needs friendship, and there is none better than that offered by an animal. They are loyal and do not judge you. Clippesby feels the same way, and likes to spend time with the horses in the stables of the Gilbertine Friary, near my house. Doubtless he heard me confiding in Helena then.’

‘And he assumed the disembodied voice came from the horses,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘I wondered why information from his animal friends is so often accurate. It is not because the animals speak to him, but because he overhears other people’s conversations.’

‘It is almost impossible to know he is there,’ said Robin disapprovingly. ‘He sits still and quiet for so long you think you are alone, and then he hears your innermost secrets.’ A horrified expression twisted his face. ‘He did not mention Mayor Horwood’s goat, did he? I would not like that bandied about the town!’

‘Fortunately not,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘But what can you tell us about Dympna? Did it ever make a loan to Norbert?’

‘Of course not,’ said Robin scornfully. ‘The money is used for pious and deserving cases, not for folk who will spend it on themselves. I have my own ideas about recipients, of course, but the other members seldom listen to me. They never lend money to the cases I bring before them.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

Robin effected a careless shrug. ‘I suppose they think the causes I support might benefit me personally, although I am an honest and compassionate man, and would never do such a thing.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, in a way that indicated he held his own views on the matter of Robin’s honesty and compassion. ‘Why have you never mentioned your involvement with this worthy charity before? You must realise that helping the sick and desperate is a thing to be proud of?’

‘I would love people to know that I have been working for years to alleviate pain and suffering,’ said Robin resentfully. ‘But the others pay me a retainer on the understanding that I will lose it if I mention Dympna to anyone. Money is money, and not to be refused. So, I obey their rules, and the only person I tell is Helena. I suppose I will be deprived of that income now you know about Dympna.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘We can be discreet.’ Bartholomew noticed he did not say he would be discreet.

Robin went on, in full flow now the secret he had kept so well was out. ‘I am a member, but I do not know how much money Dympna owns. The other three tend to exclude me from the financial discussions, and I am only involved when they ask for a list of my current patients or when they want me to deliver something for them.’

‘Like food and fuel to Dunstan?’ asked Bartholomew.

Robin nodded. ‘And gold for the Carmelites’ new robes, or to help that potter through the inconvenience of a lost foot. I arranged for Bosel the beggar to borrow a cloak for the winter, and I did most of the organising when the Franciscans needed a new roof. It is me who tells folk they will only be lent money if they do not tell anyone how it came about.’

‘You did not ask Dunstan not to mention Dympna,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You left the food, fuel and Yolande de Blaston, then went home.’

‘That was different,’ replied Robin. ‘Dunstan was the town’s most active gossip when Athelbald was alive, but that changed the instant he died. I doubt Dunstan even knew I was there. There was no point mentioning the fact that the food and fuel came courtesy of Dympna.’

‘Dick Tulyet said the funds for Dunstan did not come from Dympna,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Of course they did,’ replied Robin waspishly. ‘I have no money to throw away on dying men, while Kenyngham and Ailred are friars, who have little in the way of worldly goods. Perhaps the two of them acted quickly and did not have time to consult Tulyet.’ His smile became malicious. ‘Now he will know what it is like to belong to a group that does not bother to solicit his opinion!’

‘Ailred was certainly aware of Dunstan’s case,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We mentioned it when we were at Ovyng, and he knew all about it.’

‘We have taken up enough of your time, Robin,’ said Michael. ‘Thank you for your help. And give our regards to Helena.’

Bartholomew and Michael continued towards Ovyng, where both scholars felt they would have better answers from Ailred than those they had squeezed from Robin. It was obvious that Robin was not involved in the more important decisions, and that Tulyet had been correct in saying he had been invited to join only as a way for the group to know which of the townsfolk had hired his services and so might be candidates for Dympna’s charity. Robin received payment for his membership, indicating that the others knew he was the kind of man whose help and silence needed to be bought.

Bartholomew’s feet were sodden by the time they reached Ovyng, and his toes ached from the icy water inside his boots. Michael’s face was flushed and sweaty, and he removed his winter cloak and tossed it carelessly over one shoulder; part of it trailed in the muck of St Michael’s Lane. He knocked loudly and officially on Ovyng’s door. It was eventually opened by Godric.

‘You took your time,’ said the monk accusingly. ‘We have come to speak to your principal.’ He pushed past the friar, and Bartholomew followed, surprised to find the main room of the hostel empty. The hearth was devoid of even the most meagre of fires, and the room felt colder than the air outside. It smelled stale, too – rancid fat mixed with boiled vegetables and dirty feet. Godric had been given the tedious task of rewaxing the writing tablets the students used for their exercises. The size of the pile on the table suggested that Godric would be labouring for some hours to come.

‘Father Ailred is not here,’ said Godric sullenly, stating the obvious. ‘He has gone out and taken the others with him. Except me. I am obliged to remain here.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘What have you done to displease him? Gambling? Taverns?’

‘Telling you he went out when he claims he stayed in,’ said Godric resentfully. ‘At least, I am sure that is the real reason. The official one is he thinks my humours are unbalanced, and that I should stay inside until they are restored.’

‘Do you feel unwell?’ asked Bartholomew. The friar looked healthy enough, despite his unshaven and pale cheeks. But most people in Cambridge had a seedy sort of appearance during winter, when days were short and chilly and shaving was an unpleasant experience involving icy water and hands made unsteady by shivering.

‘I am cold and hungry, because we have no money for fuel and not much for food. But other than that I am well. I think Ailred is angry with me for telling you the truth about his evening out. I should never have allowed you to bully me into talking about it in the first place. He was furious.’

‘Was he, indeed?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘And why would that be? What is he hiding?’

‘I do not know; I was not with him,’ replied Godric petulantly. ‘And anyway, he says he was in, and I am mistaken about his absence.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked Michael. ‘Or will he later say he was here all the time and you have been mistaken about that, too?’

This coaxed a rueful smile from Godric. ‘He is skating on the river. Ice skating.’

Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘You mean fooling around, like children? That does not sound like a suitable activity for the principal of a hostel.’

‘Ailred says ice is a gift from God,’ said Godric. ‘He does not like cold weather particularly, but he adores ice. He says it is Heaven’s playground, and has all our students out at the First Day of the Year games near the Great Bridge.’

‘I thought the ice there was breaking up,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Apparently not,’ said Godric. He jerked a thumb at the window. ‘Although it will not be long if this thaw continues.’

‘Do you know where he was born?’ asked Michael.

Godric seemed startled by the abrupt change of subject, but answered anyway. ‘Lincoln. Surely you must have heard him waxing lyrical about the place?’

‘He comes from a village near Lincoln,’ corrected Michael. ‘Not Lincoln itself, although our records say he had his education from the school in the city.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Godric, frowning as he remembered. ‘I think his home was called Fisheby or Fiscurtone or some such thing. Why do you ask?’

‘Does he have family?’ asked Michael. ‘A brother or cousins? Male relatives of any kind?’

Godric shook his head. ‘Not that I know. But we Franciscans are supposed to renounce earthly ties once we take final vows, so it is possible he has put his kinsmen behind him.’

‘Damn,’ swore Michael softly. ‘I was hoping you would know whether he was related to a man named John Fiscurtune, who was murdered in London last year.’

‘If he was, then he never mentioned it,’ said Godric.

‘Do you know whether he has any association with fishermen or fishmongers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I recall him gutting fish very expertly when we were here once.’

‘Other than the name of his home manor?’ asked Godric. ‘He always catches more trout from the river than anyone else, and he prefers fish to meat. But that is all.’

‘It may be enough,’ said Michael, nudging Bartholomew in the ribs. ‘But we should have this discussion with Ailred himself. Come, Matt. Let us see this Franciscan on his skates.’

Bartholomew and Michael took their leave of Godric, and struggled back through the melting drifts in the direction of the Great Bridge. At last they reached the river, which curved around the western side of the town and looked like another road, with its frozen surface and recent dusting of snow. However, all manner of filth lay strewn across its surface – sewage, animal manure, inedible items from the butchers’ stalls, fish entrails, rotting vegetables, and some items Bartholomew dared not identify, although he suspected they had once belonged to a dog.

Because it was a winter Sunday, and a day when many folk enjoyed a day of rest, there was a large gathering of people near the Great Bridge and on the water meadows that lay to either side of it. The fields were prone to flooding in spring, and so were mostly devoid of houses – although a few desperate folk had erected shacks along the edges. The meadows were used for grazing cattle in the summer, but now they were blanketed in snow and were the venue for the town’s traditional First Day of the Year games.

Sheriff Morice had seized control of the event, and was sitting astride his handsome grey stallion, watching the proceedings from the vantage point of the bridge itself. He was surrounded by his lieutenants, a gaudy and frivolous group who, like Morice, were more interested in making money than in promoting law and order. The townsfolk seemed to be enjoying the games, although there was none of the excited anticipation associated with the annual campball.

A number of activities were in progress. Butts had been set up, and townsmen were showing off their skills with bows and arrows. Dangerously close to their line of fire was a game of ice bandy-ball, where strong men smacked a small wooden sphere with terrific force, so that anyone in its path could expect serious injury. Meanwhile, an impromptu session of ice-camping had started, using the same leather bag that Agatha had powered into the gargoyle’s maw a few days earlier. It was more a case of ‘snow-camping’ than ice-camping, because the soft surface was slowing the speed of the game. Bartholomew thought this would mean fewer injuries for the participants, although he could not but help notice that it, too, ranged perilously close to the butts.

Nearby St Giles’s was supplying church ale to the spectators, and women stood behind trestle tables, selling slices of the sausage-like hackin. A shrid pie was on display, too, decorated with its traditional pastry baby-in-a-basket. Bartholomew noticed that the women had cut their wedges carefully around the crib, with the result that the baby was left teetering atop a pastry precipice.

A crowd had gathered around a stall where hot spiced wine was being sold for wassailing. Some folk had already toasted the health of too many friends, and had passed out in the snow. Bartholomew hoped they would not be left to freeze to death after the games had finished, but was reassured by the watchful presence of the Austin Canons from the nearby Hospital of St John. He felt a tug on his cloak, and turned to see Sergeant Orwelle, a grizzled veteran who usually manned the town’s gates.

‘Morice is demanding a penny from anyone who wants to play in the games,’ he said with disapproval. ‘That is why there are not as many folk as we expected. Morice says it is because I closed the river, but I think it is because he is charging for something that was free last year.’

‘You closed the river?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because of the thaw?’

Orwelle nodded. ‘I have lived near the water for fifty years, and I know its wiles. The ice stopped being safe this morning, so I gave orders that no games should be played on it today. Morice was furious, because he wanted to hire out skates for ice bandy-ball and ice-camping. He claims my actions have lost him a fortune.’

‘He is not fit to be Sheriff,’ said Michael in disgust, looking angrily at the arrogant man on the grey horse.

‘Why are you here, Brother?’ asked Orwelle. ‘Have you come to try your hand at bittle-battle? I can lend you my club and a ball, so you will not have to pay to hire Morice’s.’

‘Not in the snow, thank you,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘It would ruin my stroke. I am good at bittle-battle; no one can use a long stick to knock a tiny ball into distant holes like me.’

‘How about wrestling?’ asked Orwelle, looking Michael up and down. ‘You are probably good at that, too.’

‘Tilting,’ said Michael, picking the game where the object was to charge a horse at a pivoting bar and knock it hard before it swung back and dismounted the rider. ‘I excel at tilting. But I am not here to win prizes today. Have you seen Ailred from Ovyng? We shall never find him among these crowds.’

‘He left when I closed the river, because he wanted to skate. His students are here, though – in that snowball fight over there.’

Bartholomew looked to where he pointed, and could see Franciscan habits among the swirling crowd heaving icy missiles at anyone in the vicinity. Shrieks and howls filled the air, not all of them delighted ones. The physician could see blood on several faces, and suspected the Sheriff would need to police the event very carefully if he did not want it to turn into something darker and more dangerous. Already apprentices, fresh from the wassail stall, were reeling to join the throng, while scholars were massing on the sidelines, evidently planning some kind of retaliatory strategy.

‘Where did Ailred go?’ asked Michael. ‘Home?’

‘To find some quiet patch of river where he can skate without being warned of the dangers, I imagine,’ said Orwelle disapprovingly. ‘Although, I must say he is extremely good; I have watched him before.’

Bartholomew and Michael abandoned the simmering atmosphere of the Sheriff’s winter games, with Michael passing orders to Beadle Meadowman to keep an eye on the snowball fight and Bartholomew promising the Austin Canons his services, should they be required later. They then made their way along the towpath that ran beside the river.

The river possessed several arms and drains that ran this way and that, comprising an interlacing system of waterways. The King’s Ditch and the river met in the south near Small Bridges, where they formed the Mill Pool. The King’s Mill, which stood nearby, used the power of the swift current to drive its sails and grind its corn, although this could not operate as long as the river was frozen. It stood still and silent, the massive wheel that drove the mill lifted out of the water to protect it from the ice. The Mill Pool itself was sluggish compared to the rest of the river, so it invariably froze first and thawed last in icy weather. It was here that Bartholomew and Michael found Ailred.

The Franciscan had attracted a small but appreciative audience as he demonstrated his skills. His bone skates were fastened to his feet with leather thongs, and the blades had been carefully sharpened, so they hissed and sizzled as they cut across the ice. Others had also been enjoying a little gentle recreation while the ice remained firm, but had ceased their efforts to watch the spectacle provided by the priest. Ailred seemed to soar, rather than skate. He jumped and skipped and danced and turned, and did not seem like the same man who had sat grim-faced gutting fish in Ovyng’s dismal chamber a few days before.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, impressed. ‘Where did he learn to do that?’

‘He is good,’ said Bartholomew in admiration. ‘He makes the others look clumsy.’

‘He is enjoying it, too. Look at his face; he is ecstatic.’

The friar was laughing, encouraging his audience to join him, and rocking with mirth when they attempted to emulate him and failed. He made skating look easy, which Bartholomew knew it was not. It was simple enough if the surface was smooth and the skates well made, but Bartholomew could see the ice was pitted and ridged, and marvelled that the friar did not trip himself. A crowd of admiring children gathered around him, and he began to instruct them. The sound of their delighted chatter rose to where Michael and Bartholomew stood watching, and they were loath to disturb him while the youngsters were enjoying his company.

Eventually, Ailred abandoned the ice, although he was clearly reluctant to do so. His departure was followed by disappointed cries from his new friends, who begged him to stay and ‘play’ with them. Amused to be invited to join a children’s gang, Ailred patted one or two affectionately on the head, then sat on the bank to untie the leather straps that held his skates in place.

‘Those are good blades, Father,’ said Michael, making the Franciscan jump by coming up behind him and speaking loudly. ‘But they look old. You must have had them for some time.’

‘Years,’ said Ailred, flushed and happy from his exertions. ‘I love skating, and had these made specially for me before I became a friar. But what can I do for you? I am sure you did not brave this inclement weather just to watch my little display.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘We came to ask more questions about Norbert – questions that we think might help us find his killer at last.’

‘Really?’ asked Ailred, bending a leg so he could inspect one of his feet. ‘That is good news. You were taking so long I was beginning to fear it would never be solved. Damn! A broken thong!’

‘We are very close to solving this mystery,’ said Michael, although this was news to Bartholomew. ‘We have uncovered a good deal of evidence since you and I last spoke – including the fact that you are a member of Dympna.’

Ailred glanced sharply at him. ‘Who told you that? It is supposed to be a secret. Was it Kenyngham? He is at Michaelhouse, so I suppose he must have decided that loyalty to a member of his College was more important than Dympna.’

‘It was not Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘And our source is irrelevant, anyway. The point is that we know. I am surprised you were among Dympna’s members. Your hostel is not wealthy.’

‘I do not provide the money myself,’ said Ailred, a little testily. ‘That came from people during the plague, who pledged their wealth to benefit others. Many friars were given quite large sums, with instructions to pass it to the poor. But Kenyngham and I decided handing out coins with gay abandon was a short-term solution, and we needed to think more carefully about what we could achieve. So, we established Dympna.’

‘You were an original member?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I was an early member,’ corrected Ailred. ‘The original ones were Kenyngham, Giles Abigny and three Dominicans. The Black Friars died, Abigny left the town, and Kenyngham was obliged to appoint new colleagues. He chose me. Currently, we also have Dick Tulyet, who is discreet, honest and absolutely trustworthy, and Robin, who is not.’

‘Nearly all the Cambridge Dominicans died during the Death,’ said Bartholomew soberly to Michael. ‘Of all the Orders, they suffered the heaviest losses, because they continued to visit the sick and grant them absolution.’

‘They were good men,’ said Ailred sadly. ‘I still remember them in my prayers, and so do those who have been helped by their legacy. Even the Franciscans and the Carmelites pray for them, because they have benefited from Dympna.’

‘Let us return to Norbert,’ said Michael, not much interested in Dympna’s lofty history. ‘You heard Godric say that Norbert had received messages from Dympna, and that he went to meet “her” in St Michael’s. Why did you not tell us about Dympna then? It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

‘I said – several times – that you should not waste your time with Dympna, but you did not listen, and preferred to consider Godric’s interpretations. I tried to stop you from following a futile line of enquiry without betraying Dympna, but you ignored my efforts.’

‘You were Dympna’s “keeper” until recently,’ said Michael, unmoved by the reprimand. ‘Did you lend Norbert money?’

‘No,’ said Ailred shortly. ‘Norbert was not a worthy cause.’

‘Why did he receive messages from Dympna, then?’ pressed Michael.

Ailred looked tired. ‘I did not see these missives, so cannot tell you anything about them, other than to assure you that my Dympna did not send them. Perhaps Godric is right: there is a woman called Dympna who likes to send decadent young men messages begging secret meetings. It is an unusual name, but someone may have christened a daughter after the saint, I suppose.’

‘There is another matter I would like to discuss,’ said Michael. ‘I understand you are from a village near Lincoln.’

‘Yes. I often think about Lincoln, and how much better it is than Cambridge. Its cathedral is the most splendid–’

‘You are from Fiscurtune,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And Fiscurtune is a village that has suffered the recent death of someone who was born there – a relative of yours. James Fiscurtune had the misfortune to be stabbed by a fishmonger named Walter Turke. I find it a curious coincidence that Turke happened to die while he was skating. He is obviously as clumsy as you are talented.’

‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ said Ailred, standing and testing the thong he had just repaired. ‘I know neither Walter Turke nor John Fiscurtune.’

‘Precisely!’ said Michael in triumph. ‘The murdered man’s name was John Fiscurtune, not James. I knew you would hear the correct name and not the one I spoke. You do know him.’

‘I do not,’ said Ailred stiffly, although his denial was unconvincing.

‘You lied to us,’ Michael went on relentlessly. ‘You claimed you were with your students the evening St Michael’s Church was invaded, but you were not. Why did you feel the need for dishonesty? What are you trying to hide from us?’

‘Who told you that?’ asked Ailred, sounding panicky. ‘If you are referring to Godric, then you should know he has not been well. I have ordered him not to join the winter games today, so the warmth of indoors will help him recover his damaged wits.’

‘What is wrong with him, exactly?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if Ailred had thought warmth would heal Godric, then he should have lit a fire. The hostel had been bitterly cold.

Ailred made an impatient gesture. ‘I am not a physician! All I know is he sometimes imagines things. There are other Ovyng scholars besides Godric. Ask them whether I was out that night.’

‘There would be no point,’ said Michael. ‘They have been instructed to say you were in.’

Ailred regarded him with dislike. ‘You are accusing me of grave offences, and you are insulting my integrity. I will not stand here and listen to this.’

‘Then tell the truth,’ said Michael harshly. ‘I know you are lying. Where did you go that night? Was it on Dympna’s business? Or was it some errand of your own?’

‘This is outrageous!’ shouted Ailred, finally angry. ‘I shall complain to the Chancellor about you. I am the principal of a University hostel, and I will not be questioned as though I were a common criminal or one of your secular students caught in some minor mischief.’

‘We are not talking about minor mischief,’ said Michael coldly. ‘We are talking about murder and deceit on an enormous scale.’

Ailred glanced across the river, and bent down, as though to brush something from his gown. Then, before Bartholomew or Michael could do anything to stop him, he had pushed off and was scooting down the river at a furious pace.

‘After him, Matt!’ ordered Michael in a shriek. ‘Do not just stand there!’

Bartholomew jumped on to the ice, but feet were no match for skates, and the physician’s awkward slithering was no match for Ailred’s speed and power. The Franciscan rounded a bend on the river, and was gone from sight.