Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘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 stopp
ed 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 marchpa
ne 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.’