‘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.’