‘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.’