A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 3

After angel mass, the scholars returned to Michaelhouse, where they slept until dawn heralded the second service of Christmas Day – Shepherd’s Mass. Bartholomew dozed fitfully, partly because the mellowing effects of the wine had worn off, but also because he was not unaffected by the excited anticipation that pervaded the town. There was an atmosphere of celebration and eagerness, especially among children, whose eyes shone bright in the candlelight, and the air was thick with the smoke of early fires as people began their culinary preparations. Stews and specially hoarded foods were being readied, while cakes and fruit were brought out from storage.

As they walked, Bartholomew felt something brush his face, and looked up to see flecks of white sailing through the air, swirling around the scholars’ robes and settling on cloth-clad shoulders. They darkened the charcoal-grey sky further still, but brightened the streets where they began to settle, whitening the dull brown muck of previous falls.

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, glowering at the sky as though the flakes were a personal insult. ‘It is not supposed to snow until January at the earliest. We have suffered calamity after calamity since the Death – hot summers, where the grain baked to dust in the fields, wet autumns that brought floods, and now early snows.’

‘I remember snow at Christmas when I was young,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not as unusual as everyone claims.’

‘It is unusual,’ declared Suttone, who had been listening to the discussion, and who never allowed an opportunity to pass without mentioning his ever-increasing obsession with impending death and destruction. ‘The weather has grown more fierce because of the plague.’

‘It has not,’ said Bartholomew, becoming weary of explaining that while diseases might well be affected by the climate, the reverse was impossible. ‘The weather is determined by winds and tides, not by sickness.’

‘The weather is determined by God,’ corrected Suttone severely. ‘Is that not so, Kenyngham?’

‘You just said it was caused by the plague,’ countered Bartholomew immediately.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Langelee mildly. ‘You can save this sort of thing for the debating halls. And you are all wrong, anyway. In the words of Aristotle, both the plague and the bad weather are things that just happen, and no amount of reasoning and philosophising will help us understand why.’

‘Those do not sound like Aristotle’s sentiments to me,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that Langelee was seriously mistaken. ‘He was a philosopher, and his life was spent speculating about things that have no obvious explanation. He never claimed that because there was no immediate answer we should not try to think of some.’

‘He did other things, too,’ said Langelee, enigmatically vague. ‘But I do not have time to teach you about them now. Here we are at the church. Silence, if you please.’

Having had the last word, he led his scholars inside St Michael’s, where the temperature was even lower than the frigid chill of outside. As the first glimmers of sunlight filtered through the windows, dulling the gleam of gold from the candles, the ceremony began.

Shepherd’s Mass was an important event, and the church was full. The scholars from Ovyng, Physwick, St Catherine’s and Garrett hostels were there, along with the folk who lived in the parish of St Michael. These were a mixed bag, ranging from the families who occupied the seedy shacks that lined the river, to some of the wealthiest merchants in the town. Since benches were provided only for the old or sick, the rest of the parishioners were obliged to stand together in the nave.

Obvious barriers were apparent. The rich were at the front, where they could see what was happening; their servants stood behind them, forming a human wall to prevent them from coming into contact with the rabble who massed at the back of the church. With some trepidation, Bartholomew looked for Philippa, but she was not there. He did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Sheriff Morice stood near the rood screen. He looked smug and affluent, and a redness in his cheeks suggested that he had not bothered to wait for the end of mass before imbibing a little breakfast ale to drive away the chill of early morning. By contrast, the folk from the riverbank huts were pinched and white, some with a cadaverous look that indicated starvation might well claim them before winter relinquished its hold.

Although the men, women and children at the rear of the building were jammed elbow to elbow and scarcely had room to stand, one member of the congregation had plenty of space. This was Robin of Grantchester, the town’s surgeon. He was short and slightly hunched, with dark, greasy hair and a mournful expression that did little to inspire confidence in those unfortunate enough to fall prey to his dubious skills. His clothes were caked in old blood, none of it his own, while the knife bag he carried at his side clanked ominously with his every movement.

Halfway through a psalm, Bartholomew became aware that Michael had stopped chanting, and was glowering towards the nave with an expression that caused more than one person to shift uneasily. However, the real object of his glare was blissfully unaware that if looks could kill then his soul would already be well on its way to the next life. Harysone was present, holding a wide-brimmed hat in his hands and looking very imposing in his black cloak and matching gipon. Bartholomew could see the pale gleam of his long teeth from the chancel, and was reminded of one of the mean-eyed rats that lived near the river.

‘What does he want?’ hissed Michael venomously. ‘He has no right to be here.’

‘He has every right to be here,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘He is doing nothing wrong.’

‘He has come to see whether we have discovered the man he killed,’ determined Michael. ‘Look! He keeps glancing across at the albs.’

‘Actually,’ said Bartholomew, for the first time fully appreciating why the monk detested Harysone so, ‘he is looking at Matilde.’

Matilde, unofficial leader of the town’s prostitutes, was the most attractive woman in Cambridge, as far as Bartholomew was concerned. Possessing a natural beauty that needed no potions or pastes to enhance it, her hair always shone with health and her face was pure and unblemished, like an alabaster saint’s. Men had been complaining for years now that they had been unable to secure her personal services, and it appeared that she had abandoned her life of merry pleasure among those wealthy enough to afford her, to devote her time to the town’s women – prostitutes or downtrodden, homeless or afraid.

That morning, she wore her best blue cloak, which caught the mysterious colours in her eyes and made them even more arresting than usual. Her dress was cut close in the latest fashion, revealing her slender, lithe body, and the way Harysone was ogling her with his moist, glittering eyes made the physician want to march down the aisle and punch him.

But Bartholomew was not Matilde’s only friend present that morning. The physician saw Harysone crane backward, then forward, then fold his arms with a sullen expression. Several of Matilde’s ‘Frail Sisters’ had clustered around, shielding her from Harysone’s lascivious gaze. Moments later a couple of their menfolk began to jostle the unwelcome visitor. Finding himself crowded between a rough bargeman and a burly carpenter, Harysone took a step towards the porch. Carpenter and bargeman followed, until Harysone had been neatly herded to the door. Yolande de Blaston, the carpenter’s wife, just happened to open it and, with a nudge from one of her sturdy elbows, Harysone was gone.

‘Good,’ said Michael with satisfaction. ‘Now I can concentrate on my prayers.’

Bartholomew said nothing, although he felt enormous relief that Matilde had been rescued from the man’s open lust. He glanced at her, and saw that she was wholly unaware of the service that had just been performed on her behalf; her attention was fixed devoutly on the altar.

Eventually, it was time for Michael’s choir to make its appearance. Bartholomew knew that the monk had been practising with his motley collection of singers for weeks, and that improvement had occurred with frustrating slowness. Most enrolled only because Michaelhouse provided free ale and bread after services, and the applicants’ musical ability was never considered. Despite his bluster and sharp tongue, Michael was a compassionate man, who declined to refuse membership to the desperate souls for whom choir was the only way of ensuring a regular meal. Consequently, it was the largest body of singers in Cambridge, and had a reputation for volume.

It comprised men and boys from the poorest houses in the town, with a smattering of scholars to justify its name of the Michaelhouse Choir. The tenors included Dunstan and Athelbald, Bartholomew’s riverside patients, although Dunstan was too ill to be present that day. Among the basses were Isnard the bargeman and Robert de Blaston the carpenter, who had removed Harysone from the church.

While Kenyngham and Suttone muttered sacred words and moved sacred vessels, Michael’s choir took deep breaths to provide a little entertainment for the watching scholars and townsfolk. As they girded themselves up for music, a murmur of nervous apprehension rippled through the congregation.

Before people could think of leaving, Michael raised his arms and the sound began. A boy’s voice broke the silence, singing the vox principalis high and clear, so that the notes soaring around the rafters seemed to come from the throat of an angel. The boy was joined by a vox organalis, and the voices fluted and wrapped around each other, producing a harmony that was exquisite. The congregation exchanged glances of startled pleasure, and Bartholomew saw Michael look pleased with himself. The two singers were Clippesby and the Franciscan novice Ulfrid, and Bartholomew felt a surge of pride that Michaelhouse should possess such talent.

But then the solos ended, and it was time for the chorus. It began with the basses, a grumbling mass of indistinguishable words, which comprised several notes produced simultaneously, although Bartholomew was fairly certain there was only supposed to be one. The tenors joined in, although they stopped after a few moments when frantic signalling from Michael indicated they were early. Conversely, the children did not start singing at all, and he was obliged to sing their part himself until they realised they had missed their cue. To make up for their tardiness, they sang more quickly, and had soon outstripped the basses and were surging ahead.

The piece moved into a crescendo when the voices suddenly and unexpectedly came together, and the singers felt they were on familiar ground. Michael waved his arms furiously in an attempt to make them sing more softly, but the choir were having none of that. They knew their words and their notes, and they were determined that everyone should hear them. The sound was deafening, and the friars celebrating the mass grew distracted and flustered. Kenyngham poured wine into the wrong vessel, and Suttone knocked a paten off the altar, sending it clattering across the flagstones – except, of course, that the choir drowned any sound it might have made.

Langelee swung a censor rather more vigorously than was necessary, directing clouds of throat-searing incense in the choir’s direction in an attempt to silence at least some of them. It did not work, although Bartholomew noticed that the scholars from Ovyng, who were standing uncomfortably close to the choir and were in the line of Langelee’s fire, were tugging at hoods and coughing. Father Ailred’s face was almost purple as he struggled not to choke, while Godric had the folds of his cowl pressed to his face.

But it was over at last – and rather abruptly, as though the singers had suddenly run out of energy – and the church was flooded with a blessed silence. There were sighs of relief all around, and the mass continued. Bartholomew saw tears running down Ailred’s face, but suspected that these were caused by incense-induced coughing, rather than emotion. Godric gazed up at the rafters with his mouth open, although whether he was inspecting the greenery or was dazed from the singing, Bartholomew could not tell. Meanwhile, their students, neatly tonsured and clean for the occasion, stood in a line. All appeared to be healthy and well rested, and it did not seem as if any harboured a guilty conscience over the violent death of Norbert.

When Kenyngham and Suttone had completed the mass, the scholars formed their processions again and made their way back to their colleges and hostels. Michaelhouse went first, followed by Physwick, Ovyng, Garrett and St Catherine’s hostels. It was an impressive sight, with black-, blue- and red-robed scholars walking through the falling snow, led by acolytes and crucifers.

The choir had been promised food and a penny for their labours, and Langelee was gracious as he handed out coins, congratulating various members on their performances. Many of the town children were there, too, since it was a tradition that Michaelhouse provided them with bread on Christmas morning. Bartholomew leaned against the servants’ screen at the back of the hall and watched with satisfaction the sight of the needy eating their fill at the College’s expense.

Once the choir had dined and been sent on their way with Langelee’s diplomatic praise still ringing in their ears, the scholars attended the Mass of the Divine Word, which was the longest of the three Christmas Day offices, and the most peaceful. When it was over, and the scholars were once again marching through the snow, Langelee broke ranks and dropped back to walk with Bartholomew.

‘I keep forgetting something I must tell you.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the tone of the Master’s voice. He was sure whatever Langelee had to say was not something he would want to hear.

‘The feast this afternoon,’ said Langelee. ‘You know it is our custom to invite guests from the parish to help us celebrate?’

‘You have invited my sister and her husband,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You hope they will donate some of their money to the College.’

‘Obviously,’ said Langelee. ‘Oswald Stanmore is a rich man, and it does no harm to remind him that Michaelhouse has deep but empty coffers. But I was not thinking about him.’

‘Sheriff Morice,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You told us a week ago that he was coming. None of us relish the prospect of his company, but we have all agreed to behave and not tell him that he is a corrupt manipulator who took office only to further his own ambition.’

‘Ambition is why most men become sheriffs,’ said Langelee, puzzled that Bartholomew should imagine otherwise. ‘But I am not referring to Morice, either. I have invited Walter Turke. He is a wealthy merchant, and I thought I might persuade him to become a Michaelhouse benefactor. I can assure you I had no idea you were once betrothed to the woman who is now his wife. All that happened a long time before I came here.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling. He wondered whether he might still be able to hire a horse, so that he could ride away into the snow and avoid what would doubtless be a wretchedly awkward experience. A noisy public feast was certainly not the venue he had envisaged for his impending reunion with Philippa.

‘I am sorry,’ said Langelee, sounding genuinely contrite. ‘I would not have invited him had I known your predicament. When Stanmore told me he had a rich fishmonger staying with him, it just seemed natural to invite him to our feast.’

‘Philippa married a fishmonger?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘I thought you knew,’ said Langelee, embarrassed.

‘I knew Turke was a merchant, but I assumed he was something more …’ Bartholomew cast around for the right word ‘… more distinguished than a peddler of fish.’

‘Distinguished be damned! The Fraternity of Fishmongers is a powerful force in London, and Turke is its Prime Warden. But just because he made his fortune in fish does not mean to say that he deals with it directly. He will have apprentices for beheading and gutting, and that sort of thing.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that merchants at the top of their professions concentrated on the commerical, rather than the more menial, aspects of their work. It was likely Turke had not touched a scaly body in years, and the image of Philippa living in a house that reeked of haddock and sprats, which had sprung unbidden into his mind, was almost certainly wrong.

‘Never mind Turke,’ said Michael, entering into their conversation. ‘What about Philippa? She is the one Matt is itching to see. Did you invite her?’

‘I hardly think that–’ began Bartholomew indignantly.

‘She accepted the invitation,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘I have not met her yet, and it will be interesting to see the woman who captured Bartholomew’s heart.’ He clapped a sympathetic hand on the physician’s shoulder. ‘But I appreciate this might be difficult for you – unrequited love and all that. If you would rather absent yourself, then I shall grant you dispensation to do so. It is only fair, since it is my fault that you are faced with this awkward situation.’

‘I would like to absent myself,’ said Suttone in a gloomy voice behind them. ‘I do not want to spend all day watching the antics of acrobats.’ The last word was spoken with such distaste that Michael started to laugh. It was as though the Carmelite regarded entertainers in the same light as the town’s Frail Sisters.

‘All Fellows are obliged to attend College feasts, and malingering is not permitted,’ reprimanded Langelee sharply. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But I can tell her you are indisposed – that you ate something that set a fire in your bowels, and that you cannot stray far from the latrines.’

‘That image should reawaken her romantic feelings for you,’ said Michael gleefully.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, although Langelee’s offer was tempting. ‘I have to meet her sooner or later, and today is as good a time as any. You can keep the fiery bowel excuse for another occasion. Who knows when I may need it?’

Michaelhouse was a whirlwind of activity for the rest of the morning, and Bartholomew offered his services to Agatha, hopeful that keeping himself occupied would take his mind off the impending meeting with Philippa. He carried tables and benches from the storerooms, rolled casks of wine from the cellar to the hall, and even lent his skilful hands and eye for detail to repairing a marchpane castle that had suffered a mishap in the kitchens. But he was wrong: the chores Agatha set him occupied his body, but left his mind free to ponder all it liked. Meanwhile, Michael went to pursue his enquiries into the death of Norbert, although his glum expression when he returned indicated that he had not met with success.

‘Well?’ asked Bartholomew, as he joined the monk in the middle of the freshly swept yard. ‘Is Norbert’s killer in your cells?’

Michael gave a disheartened sigh. ‘My beadles have been unable to trace anyone who will admit to dicing with Norbert in the King’s Head and, although Meadowman dug through all that snow outside Ovyng, he has not found the weapon that killed Norbert.’

‘I imagine not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Knives are not only expensive, but can often be traced back to their owners. I doubt the killer would just have dropped one near his victim. It would be tantamount to leaving a note with his name on it.’

‘That is not always true,’ said Michael. ‘But it would have given me a starting point. I spent much of the morning searching the room where Norbert slept, hoping that one of these notes from Dympna might be there.’

‘I take it you found nothing?’

Michael grimaced in disgust. ‘Godric insists that Dympna sent Norbert several messages over the last few days, but not one was among his possessions. Meanwhile, Ailred confided that Godric is a romantic soul, who probably made a mistake when he took vows of celibacy, and that Dympna might be a figment of a lustful imagination.’

‘I thought all Ovyng’s students had seen these letters. They must have been real.’

Michael’s expression was weary. ‘Ovyng’s friars are relatively well mannered, and tended not pry into Norbert’s affairs. They knew he had missives, and one or two – like Godric – glimpsed the name Dympna and a few numbers scrawled on to a parchment. But no one ever took the opportunity to study the things properly.’

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 Langelee. ‘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.’

‘I thought your parents left you a fortune.’

‘A fortune does not last long in the hands of a man with fickle friends and a fondness for women. I squandered my inheritance, and when I was eventually obliged to find work I discovered I had forgotten – or had never learned – my lessons here. Walter bought me a post, as part of his wooing of Philippa, but it is not a very good one.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, a little disconcerted by Abigny’s blunt confidences.

‘I doubt it,’ said Abigny. ‘I go to the law courts every day and file records no one will ever want again. Then I go home to Turke’s house for my bed and my meat, and spend my evenings watching him turn my sister into a bore.’

‘Is she happy?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing to where Philippa was listening to Clippesby’s ramblings with an expression that combined disbelief and unease. He supposed someone should rescue her, for he knew that conversations with Clippesby could be daunting to those unused to them.

‘In general. Walter is not a dashing physician with black curls and a merry laugh, but he is enormously wealthy, and well placed to wrangle token employment for indolent brothers.’

Bartholomew felt Abigny should either earn himself the kind of high-paying post that he obviously thought he needed or marry his fiancée before she saw what she was letting herself in for. Seeing a man wallow in such self-pity was not pleasant, and he was half inclined to suggest Abigny should pull himself together.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked instead, good manners prevailing. ‘If you dislike being with Walter and Philippa in their home, their absence should have given you some freedom.’

‘It was tempting, believe me. But Philippa represents much that is good in my life, and if she wants to make a pilgrimage to Walsingham in the depths of winter, then it is my duty to travel with her and ensure she comes to no harm.’ He gave a sudden grin, and for a moment Bartholomew glimpsed the rakish scholar he had once known. ‘Remember my skill with the sword, Matt? I was in the thick of many a brawl with the town’s apprentices.’

Bartholomew smiled back. ‘Do not chance your arm now. Since Michael has become Senior Proctor fines for fighting are quickly imposed and zealously enforced.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Abigny, laughing softly. ‘Who would have thought that fat, sly monk would have inveigled himself into such a position of power? He has done well for himself.’

‘I give up!’ Edith came up to them, her face dark with anger. ‘I have been trying to keep the peace between them since the first evening they met, when Walter was condescending about Oswald’s trade. But if they want to squabble in front of Master Langelee, then I can do no more to keep them apart.’

Abigny vacated the stool, and gave her hand a squeeze as he helped her to sit on it. ‘You have managed admirably so far. Walter is an argumentative man, and that you have kept him and Oswald from each other’s throats for four days is nothing short of a miracle.’

‘If Oswald does not like Walter, why did you invite him to stay in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew practically.

Edith sighed impatiently at her brother’s inability to see that there were complex social waters to be navigated when invitations were issued. ‘Because we knew Philippa – and Giles – from your betrothal. When we met by chance on the High Street and Walter asked us to recommend a decent tavern, I had no choice but to offer him the use of my own home.’

‘I tried to save you,’ said Abigny. ‘I suggested you would have no room because of various relatives who were staying. It would have been easy to agree, and to direct us to the Brazen George.’

Edith smiled. ‘It was good of you to try to get us off the hook. But manners dictate that Walter, Philippa and you should stay with us. However, I wish I had known then that Oswald and Walter would argue constantly. Walter is a difficult man.’

‘We will be on our way tomorrow,’ said Abigny comfortingly. ‘And I will make sure it is at first light – before Walter is awake enough for squabbling.’

‘Thank you,’ said Edith sincerely. She looked up, as more people began to force their way into the already crowded room.

‘Jugglers,’ said Abigny in surprise, as he saw the newcomers. He began to back away. ‘You must excuse me. I dislike this kind of thing.’ He left the chamber with an abruptness that verged on the rude.

Edith watched him go with raised eyebrows. ‘How odd! I thought he enjoyed professional entertainers. He was always a young man ready for singing and dancing.’

‘He is no longer a young man,’ Bartholomew pointed out, leaning against the wall as he watched the entertainers Langelee had hired elbow their way through the throng. Agatha apparently needed more time for the boar to cook, and was searching for ways to keep minds off growling stomachs. The jugglers’ progress towards the Master was unmannerly, and Turke’s face turned an angry red when one jostled him hard enough to make him spill his wine. The juggler regarded Turke challengingly, as though daring him to make a scene, then sneered disdainfully when the fishmonger looked away and began mopping at the stain on his gipon.

Langelee nodded to them to begin their performance, and a hush fell over the room as they lined up. They were a shabby pack of individuals, whose costumes had seen better days and whose faces were heavily painted. There were two men and two women, all wearing red tunics, grubby yellow leggings and scarlet and gold chequered hats. Clippesby’s assessment had been accurate: the two men and one woman could juggle after a fashion, but the performance of the other female, who stood apart and played the whistle with one hand and a drum with the other, was jerky and irregular, as though she could concentrate on a rhythm or on producing the correct notes, but not on both at the same time.

Her eccentric tunes did nothing to help her colleagues. They missed their cues, and the floor was soon littered with fallen missiles. Abandoning juggling, they turned to tumbling, which consisted of cartwheels that threatened to do serious injury to their spectators, and the kind of forward rolls that even Michael could have managed. Everyone was relieved when Agatha arrived, flour dusting her powerful forearms and boar fat splattered across her apron.

‘Tell the Master the meat is done, and that folk should come and get it while it is hot,’ she whispered to Bartholomew.

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not safe here with all these flailing legs and arms. I do not want to be setting broken limbs for the rest of the day.’

‘I do not like them,’ said Agatha, gazing belligerently at the hapless jugglers. ‘I have never seen such a paltry display of tumbling.’

‘They do leave a bit to be desired,’ agreed Edith. ‘I am surprised Master Langelee hired them. They are called the Chepe Waits, and were the very last troupe to be offered employment in the town this year. Michaelhouse has done a great kindness by taking them in; the weather is so foul at the moment that anyone without a roof will surely perish before dawn.’

‘Let us hope we have a roof to wake up to,’ said Agatha grimly. ‘And that this uncivilised brood has not stolen it from over our heads. I told the Master that I did not want them in my College, but he said it was too late, because he has already paid them. I suppose he chose them because they are inexpensive.’

‘Perhaps that is why they are called the Chepe Waits,’ suggested Bartholomew, unable to resist the obvious.

Agatha gazed at him blankly for a moment before understanding dawned and she released a raucous screech of laughter that silenced conversation in the rest of the room as though a bucket of water had been dashed over its occupants. If Agatha was surprised to find herself the sudden centre of attention, she did not show it. She glanced around imperiously.

‘Boar’s done,’ she announced. ‘And the burnt bits have been scraped off the pies.’

‘You heard the lady,’ said Langelee, beaming around at his guests. ‘Dinner is served.’

Bartholomew was not at all amused to discover that his colleagues had contrived to seat Philippa next to him during the feast, and soon became exasperated by their tactless nods, winks and jabs to the ribs. Having Giles Abigny on the other side was not much of a consolation, either, since his old friend made little attempt to converse and seemed intent on imbibing as much of Michaelhouse’s wine as Cynric would pour him. Bartholomew remembered Abigny as an amiable and amusing drunk, who had been the instigator of many a wild celebration of nothing. But the years had turned him morose, and he sank even lower into the pit of self-pity when he was inebriated. Bartholomew braced himself for a trying afternoon.

The boar made its appearance, complete with rosemary twined about its feet and an apple in its mouth. It was ‘sung in’ by a reduced version of Michael’s choir, which could nevertheless muster sufficient volume to drown all but the most boisterous conversation. Agatha had prepared other seasonal foods, too – mutton, veal, cheese, apples and souse. Bartholomew disliked the pickled pig feet and ears that comprised ‘souse’, and was surprised when Philippa offered to eat his share.

She ate his share of Christmas frumenty – hulled wheat with spices that had been boiled in milk – and cakes, too, and devoured even more sugar comfits than Michael. Bartholomew wondered whether her healthy appetite derived from unhappiness, and tried to imagine what life would be like with the stout, aggressive fishmonger who sat on her other side. He found he could not, and was mystified – and a little hurt – that Philippa should have abandoned him in favour of such an unattractive specimen. He supposed the lure of wealth held more appeal than he had appreciated.

Once memories of the slender lady he had known were expunged from his mind, Bartholomew began to see some of the old Philippa in the woman who sat gorging herself at his side. Her voice had not changed and her facial expressions were familiar, and he found himself recalling things about her that he had forgotten. He remembered walking in the water meadows by the river, and eating hot chestnuts on another Christmas Day, laughing when they scalded their fingers and burned their tongues.

‘You have changed,’ he said. ‘I barely recognised you.’ He stopped short of total honesty by confessing that he had not recognised her at all.

‘I was slimmer,’ she said, leaning back to allow Cynric to fill a bowl with rich beef stew. ‘But I was unhappy then, locked away in that convent.’

‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He had always believed their courtship had been a whirlwind of delight for both of them.

‘Not with you,’ she added hastily, sensing that she might have offended him. ‘But under the eagle eyes of that abbess. Then there was the Death hanging over us. We knew it was coming, but all we could do was wait to see who would live and who would die. It was not pleasant.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, thinking his first years at Michaelhouse – until the plague arrived and Philippa left – had been among the happiest of his life. He had just completed his medical training, and was finally free to put all he had learned into practice. It had been an exhilarating and fascinating time, and his dalliance with Philippa had only added to the pleasure.

‘I hope you are not angry with me,’ she said, digging into the stew with a large horn spoon that she produced from the pouch she carried at her side. ‘I know it must have been a shock, to learn I had decided to bestow my affections on another man.’

‘It was,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, thinking it would be rude to say otherwise. In truth, he barely recalled what he had felt when her terse missive informing him of her marriage had arrived. By that time, she had been gone for more than a year, and he had been busy with his teaching and patients. He remembered thinking he had not missed her as much as he should have done, and that he should have visited her in London. He had been upset when the letter came, but could not recollect whether it was because he had lost a woman he had loved or because it was rather insulting to be treated in so cavalier a manner. He decided to change the subject.

‘Do you have children?’

‘Walter has three sons from a previous marriage – his first wife, Isabella, died during the Death. Our physician has been calculating horoscopes to tell us when to try for babies, but I think his arithmetic is lacking.’ She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I do not suppose …?’

‘Do you live near the fish markets?’ asked Bartholomew, hastily seizing on another topic before she demanded that he spend the rest of the day deciding when Walter should avoid apples or eat fiery spices to turn him into a rampant and potent lover. He disliked producing horoscopes, and there was something about their randomness that made him certain they were worthless anyway.

‘Friday Street,’ she said, reaching for a dish of lemon butter. ‘It is a very pleasant road, and our house is the best one. It is old – dating back to the Conqueror – but I like it. It was the house that made me choose Walter over John Fiscurtune, who owned a smaller home nearby. Fiscurtune had also asked me to marry him.’

‘Old houses are often better than new ones,’ said Bartholomew diplomatically, watching her eat the flavoured fat with her spoon. ‘Since the plague, craftsmen have been in such high demand that many do not care whether their work is good or bad.’

‘Pass the butter,’ came Michael’s aggrieved voice from further along the table, indicating that he was unimpressed by the fact that Philippa had not seen fit to share it.

‘I see you have not changed, Brother,’ retorted Philippa icily, relinquishing the bowl. She turned to Bartholomew. ‘He is still a fat, greedy man.’

Bartholomew decided that the subject of appetites and weight was one he would be wise to avoid with both Philippa and Michael. ‘You were telling me about your house,’ he prompted.

‘Walter made some additions to it, which means we can say it is new,’ she replied. ‘It has pretty columns around the main door and large arched windows, like those of the Temple Church on the River Thames. There are two sleeping chambers on the upper floor, a separate kitchen block, and it has a latrine with a roof.’

Bartholomew was genuinely impressed. Most latrines were open to the elements, which allowed for the dispersal of poisonous miasmas, but made for chilly and unpleasant experiences in inclement weather. ‘How deep is the pit?’ he asked curiously, wondering whether Turke had gone with the recent fashion for a shallower trench that could be emptied regularly, or had opted for a deep one that would be used until full and then sealed.

‘Matthew wants to know how deep is our latrine pit,’ said Philippa to her husband in a voice loud enough to silence the buzz of conversation around her.

‘Could you not think of anything more pleasant to discuss?’ hissed Clippesby disapprovingly behind her back. ‘Why can you not talk about music or art?’

‘The depth is about the height of a man,’ said Turke proudly. ‘And we have it cleaned once a month! I will not have it said that Walter Turke has smelly latrines. I always say that a man who does not pay attention to his latrines is a man who cannot be trusted.’

He shot Stanmore a look that indicated he thought his host’s sanitary arrangements left something to be desired. Stanmore bristled angrily, and was only stopped from making a rude retort by Edith’s warning hand on his arm. Turke ignored the furious cloth merchant and turned to Langelee.

‘How often do you have Michaelhouse’s emptied?’

‘Fairly regularly,’ said Langelee vaguely, not meeting Bartholomew’s eye. He had recently elected to go from twice a year to once, overriding the physician’s objections that it was unhygienic. ‘But I would not recommend lingering in them.’

‘Edith tells me you are on a pilgrimage,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa, deciding that he had better prove Michaelhouse men were capable of discussing subjects nobler than sewage disposal.

‘It is Walter’s pilgrimage,’ said Giles Abigny in a low, angry voice, speaking for the first time since the meal had started.

The physician saw that this topic would be no less contentious than latrines, and sensed that the winter journey was a source of dissent among the three travellers. Fortunately, Langelee was regaling Turke, Edith and Stanmore with a tedious account of how many hazelnuts the orchard had produced that year, and Bartholomew had only Abigny and Philippa to worry about. Nevertheless, he decided that yet another subject was probably necessary in the interests of harmony.

‘It is cold for the time of year,’ he ventured hopefully.

‘It is cold,’ agreed Abigny bitterly. ‘And no time to go traipsing across the country. But Philippa wanted to be the dutiful wife, and I insisted on accompanying her. So, here we all are.’

‘Could Walter’s journey not have waited until spring?’ asked Bartholomew, giving up on diplomacy and deciding to yield to whatever topics his guests wanted to discuss.

‘He needs to atone for a sin,’ said Philippa, clearly reluctant to elaborate. ‘Since it is a serious sin, it was decided he should leave immediately. The saints are more likely to grant him forgiveness if we travel in terrible weather, anyway, and then perhaps they will bless us with a baby.’

‘The fact that Walter has failed you in that area has nothing to do with sin,’ said Abigny nastily. ‘Fiscurtune was murdered in November, and Walter was limp long before that.’

‘Walter’s sin is murder?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, looking over at the merchant, who was helping himself to blancmange, apparently engrossed in Langelee’s hazelnut discourse.

‘It was self-defence,’ said Philippa, casting an uneasy glance at her husband. She seemed relieved that he was listening to Langelee.

‘His victim was a fishmonger called John Fiscurtune,’ said Abigny. ‘Fiscurtune was a loathsome man, but even loathsome men are entitled to keep possession of their lives, and not have them snatched away during gatherings of the Worshipful Fraternity of Fishmongers.’

Bartholomew tried to make sense of Abigny’s claims. ‘Turke killed a colleague at a guild meeting?’

Abigny drained his cup, waving it at Cynric to indicate he wanted it refilled. ‘Fiscurtune was caught engaging in dishonest practices, which brought the Fraternity into disrepute. Well, perhaps “dishonest” is unfair: what happened is that he decided to ignore the Fraternity’s regulations when it came to salting. He made several folk ill by experimenting with new – cheaper – techniques of preservation, and the Fraternity wanted him expelled.’

‘Walter argued against the expulsion,’ said Philippa in a low voice, so that she would not be overheard, ‘despite the fact that he and Fiscurtune had hated each other since Isabella died – Walter’s first wife was Fiscurtune’s sister, you see – but he was outvoted. Fiscurtune blamed Walter, which was unfair.’

‘This happened in November,’ Abigny went on. ‘Furious that his former brother-in-law had failed to help him, Fiscurtune stormed into a meeting of the guild and levelled all sorts of charges against Walter. Walter grabbed a knife, they fought and Fiscurtune was stabbed. Walter told the coroner that Fiscurtune armed himself first, and since the coroner is a friend of the Fishmongers’ Fraternity, it is no surprise that Walter was deemed innocent.’ His tone of voice suggested that he strongly disagreed with the outcome.

‘Giles,’ whispered Philippa, glancing at her husband again. ‘You should not drink wine, if you cannot hold your tongue. Do you want to lose your post at the law courts over this?’

‘You are right,’ said Abigny resentfully. ‘I should not criticise my brother-in-law when I owe him so much. After all, Fiscurtune dared to do just that, and look what happened to him.’

‘You mentioned earlier that Fiscurtune asked you to marry him,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa, fascinated by her brother’s drunken revelations. ‘You said you selected Walter because he had a better house.’

‘She should not have chosen either,’ stated Abigny harshly.

‘No?’ demanded Philippa, angry now. ‘You were lucky I picked Walter, Giles, because Fiscurtune would not have bought you your post.’

‘I sense you are bitter about Fiscurtune’s death,’ said Bartholomew to Abigny. ‘Was he a friend?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Abigny indignantly. ‘He was greedy, corrupt and sly: I would never have allowed Philippa to marry him. Comfort and riches have their price, but there is a limit to what one should pay – and Fiscurtune was well beyond it. However, if I sound bitter, it is not because Fiscurtune was murdered, but because Walter used his money and influence to evade justice.’

‘It is the way things are,’ said Philippa tiredly, although Bartholomew sensed she was not entirely comfortable with the situation, either. ‘The fraternities are powerful in London and no Crown official wants to make enemies of them. I hear Cambridge is no different: Sheriff Morice will also find in a man’s favour if his purse is sufficiently deep.’

Abigny looked around him with a shudder of distaste. ‘You should have accepted Philippa’s offer all those years ago, Matt, and come to live with us in London. It is better than Cambridge in all respects.’

‘She never asked me to London,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I did,’ said Philippa indignantly. ‘But you never bothered to answer that particular message. Are you telling me it never arrived?’

‘It did not,’ said Bartholomew. He wondered what might have happened if it had. Would he have left Cambridge and gone to her? Or would he have elected to remain at Michaelhouse? He realised that he did not know, and was surprised to feel relief that the letter in question had apparently been lost in transit.

Philippa regarded him with sombre eyes. ‘Pity. I assumed your silence meant you no longer cared for me. My life – and yours – might have turned out very differently had you replied.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether that was good or bad. ‘This pilgrimage,’ he said, wanting to return to the subject that set questions clamouring in his mind – which were easier to address than the complex gamut of emotions that raged when he thought about his courtship of Philippa. ‘Whose idea was it to go?’

‘Fiscurtune’s kinsmen suggested it,’ said Philippa shortly. ‘But the details are Walter’s business and no one else’s. We should not be discussing it – especially here, in this public place. Anyway, the whole affair will be forgotten as soon as we return from Walsingham.’

Abigny laughed unpleasantly. ‘There are rumours that Fiscurtune’s murder could prevent Walter from being elected Lord Mayor next year. Walter wants the matter dead and buried as soon as possible – which is why he embarked on this ridiculous pilgrimage. However, I feel it takes more than riding a few miles through the snow to atone for cold-blooded slaughter.’

Bartholomew glanced at Turke and saw he was wearing a dagger, attached to a belt at his waist. He hoped Michael, Stanmore or Langelee would not say anything that might prove fatally offensive. He appraised Turke anew, seeing that the man possessed considerable physical strength under all his glitter, and that his hands were strong and calloused, not soft and unused to work, like those of many wealthy men. He sensed that Turke would be a formidable enemy to anyone rash enough to cross him – as the unfortunate Fiscurtune had evidently discovered.