‘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.’