CHAPTER 10
‘YOU DO NOT SEEM TO BE WOOING YOUR WIDOW WITH MUCH skill,’ said Clippesby critically, watching Philippa enter the Stanton Chapel to kneel by Turke’s coffin. Suttone was with him, waiting for the morning mass to begin. It was peaceful in the church, which still smelled of the greenery that bedecked it. ‘She is angry with you. If you want to attract her to your bed, you need to flatter and cajole her, not send her away like a swarm of angry bees.’
‘I am not wooing her,’ snapped Bartholomew, irritably. ‘We do not even like each other.’
‘That is a sign of love,’ said Suttone knowledgeably. Bartholomew regarded him warily, and wondered why a pair of celibate friars thought they were in a position to advise him about romance.
‘Antagonising her is a risky strategy, nonetheless,’ Clippesby preached. ‘Women are complex creatures, and sometimes do not grasp that bad temper is really an expression of love. I have seen more than one promising affair fail because of such misunderstandings, especially in the world of cats.’
‘You should take her a lump of marchpane,’ suggested Suttone. ‘Women like sweet things, and marchpane should have her swooning in your arms.’
‘He does not want her swooning,’ said Clippesby practically. ‘It is better she is conscious, so she can appreciate the full extent of his manly charms. I shall lend him my best shoes tonight. And my second-best cloak. Then he will look the part for lovemaking.’
‘I have some scented oils he can douse himself with,’ said Suttone, addressing Clippesby. ‘And we can ask Cynric to buy him some tincture of borage in the Market Square. Master Langelee tells me that borage encourages amorous feelings and gives a man plenty of strength for his exertions. She will soon be begging him to take her to the marriage bed.’
‘Gentlemen, please!’ begged Bartholomew, too appalled by their images of courtship to ask why the Master and the Carmelite friar should have had such a conversation in the first place. ‘Why are you so intent that I marry? It is because you want me to resign my fellowship, so that Michaelhouse no longer offers a secular subject like medicine? Or are your jealous eyes on my room? I am not particularly attached to it. We can change, if you like.’
‘That is not why we are trying to help,’ said Suttone, offended. ‘We are thinking of your happiness.’ He slipped a fatherly arm around the physician’s shoulders, and his voice became gentle. ‘You see, Matthew, whatever Michael and Langelee tell you, there is no future in your affair with Matilde. She will never consent to marry you. She mentioned it to Yolande de Blaston. Yolande told Prior Pechem of the Franciscans at one of their sessions, and Pechem told William. So, you see, we are only trying to find you an alternative.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, horrified by the number of people who seemed to be intimately acquainted with his personal life. ‘I had not thought about marrying anyone.’
‘But you refuse to take final vows as a monk or a friar,’ said Clippesby. ‘So, you must be saving yourself for a woman. We just want you to find one who is not too old, has all her limbs and most of her teeth, and a little dowry to help you along.’
‘I am quite happy as I am,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether to be touched or irritated by their meddling concern. ‘I do not need your help in securing myself a woman, anyway. My sister is quite capable of doing that.’
It was meant to be a joke, but Suttone nodded gravely. ‘That is true. Edith is a sensible woman who has your best interests at heart. Well, we shall say no more about it, then. But let us know if you need advice on manly matters. I had a woman once – before I took the cowl – and Clippesby has had two.’
‘One was a horse,’ elaborated Clippesby confidentially. ‘But perhaps you are right about Philippa. Her heart is already promised to another, and competition is always difficult. If you are the only one pursuing a woman, there is a good chance of a favourable outcome. But it would be undignified to fight over her.’
‘I do not think Turke will be doing much pursuing,’ said Bartholomew, looking to where Philippa knelt next to the coffin in the Stanton Chapel. Her posture was stiff, as though she was still angry, and she looked larger than usual, with her fur-lined cloak billowing around her.
‘I imagine not,’ said Clippesby. ‘But I was referring to the other one.’
Bartholomew shot him a puzzled glance. ‘What other one?’
‘She will not remain a widow for long,’ replied Clippesby airily. ‘That is why Suttone and I thought you should try for the prize. But she has been spending a lot of time with this other man, so perhaps you are already too late, and we are wasting our time.’
‘That is her brother,’ said Suttone. ‘He always escorts her, because she dislikes being unaccompanied. I heard her complaining about it when I was saying a mass for Turke. Abigny wanted to go on some errand of his own and she would not let him.’
‘But she often walks alone,’ said Clippesby, surprised. ‘Ask any of the ducks or geese. They are not fooled by dark cloaks and plumed hats.’
‘You mean she disguises herself?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what the Dominican was telling him. Clippesby was often extremely observant, and was frequently in possession of valuable information; Bartholomew knew from experience that just because Clippesby claimed an animal or a bird as his source did not necessarily mean that the snippet should be disregarded. It was part of Clippesby’s insanity that he talked to – and received replies from – animals, spirits and even plants. Unfortunately, his interpretations of what he had seen or heard were often in error, and it took careful questioning to sort fact from supposition.
‘She has a distinctive walk,’ replied Clippesby. ‘Her boots are too big, so she limps.’
‘Limps?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And wears a brown feathered hat? That sounds more like Giles to me.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Suttone in an undertone to Bartholomew.
‘She goes to the stables behind the Gilbertine Friary at least once a day,’ Clippesby went on, unperturbed by Bartholomew’s scepticism. ‘The horses are growing quite used to her now, and inform me that she always greets them politely.’
‘The Gilbertine Friary?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling. Was that why she had snapped at him when he had inadvertently mentioned the friary to her in passing? ‘She enters the stables, rather than the friary itself?’
‘Of course,’ said Clippesby, as though the physician were stupid. ‘How could she greet the horses otherwise? They are not allowed in the friary: the Gilbertines do not want a mess on their floors. Philippa meets her lover – your rival – in the hay. There is never anyone there, because people cannot travel on horseback now that the snow has locked us all in the town together.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how Philippa had managed to secure herself a Cambridge beau so quickly. He rubbed a hand through his hair. Or was the man an outsider – perhaps one of the Waits whose names she had conveniently recalled a few moments before?
‘The horses could not tell,’ said Clippesby. ‘But if you want to find out, you should visit the Gilbertine stables and lie in wait for them. Of course, it could be a member of Dympna. You know who I mean – the group that lends money for good causes?’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You know about Dympna? But we have only recently learned of its existence, and it has been a major question in this case from the beginning.’
‘I do not know what it is,’ said Suttone resentfully. ‘No one told me.’
‘I did not know it was important,’ said Clippesby to Bartholomew. ‘Michael does not discuss his investigations with me, so I never know what I can do to help. I have offered him my services in the past, but he has always declined.’
‘That is probably because you are insane,’ Suttone explained gravely.
‘It should not make any difference,’ objected Clippesby, hurt. ‘But I know about Dympna, and have done for months. I learned about it from the King’s Head horses. They hear a good deal, of course,
residing in a place where there are so many travellers. They told me Robin of Grantchester is a member, but he is excluded when major decisions are made.’
Bartholomew regarded him with open scepticism. ‘Robin of Grantchester? I do not think so! Why would a group of well-meaning men invite Robin to be a member? You know what he is like. He is not even honest.’ But even as he spoke, he recalled that it had been Robin who had brought Dunstan his supplies – the supplies that William said had come from Dympna. Perhaps Clippesby was right after all.
‘The horses do not know the answers to everything,’ said Clippesby impatiently. ‘You will have to ask Robin himself. But I should go. I promised the Sheriff’s donkey I would drop by today.’
He left abruptly, without waiting for the office to begin, and Bartholomew and Suttone stared after him in silence. His habit swung around his ankles, and the hair around his tonsure stood up like a spiky, irregular crown. He was wearing a boot on one foot and a shoe on the other, and Bartholomew noticed a ferret poking from his scrip.
‘He is a strange fellow,’ said Suttone unnecessarily. ‘He is quite serious about these conversations with beasts and birds, you know. He really believes they speak to him.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the truly frightening thing is that his discussions with animals sometimes make a lot more sense than the ones I have with people.’
Breakfast that day was not a relaxed occasion. Quenhyth had lost the leather scrip he used to carry his pens and ink, and was making it clear he thought the Waits were responsible. Langelee informed the student that even vagrants were unlikely to set their sights on such a meagre prize, and declined to bow to Quenhyth’s demands that the jugglers’ belongings should be searched immediately. Deynman quickly became bored with Quenhyth’s complaints, and offered to buy him another scrip, but Quenhyth was implacable.
‘The Senior Proctor must take action,’ he announced, rising to his feet and pointing a bony finger at Michael. ‘A crime has been committed.’
The monk, sitting in the body of the hall between Bartholomew and Suttone, was unmoved. ‘I am eating, and you know I allow nothing to interfere with such an important task.’
‘But this is a crime,’ insisted Quenhyth, unrepentant. ‘The Waits have broken the law, which means that you are a traitor to the King because you are refusing to uphold the laws he has made.’
The expression on Michael’s face made the student sit again, very quickly, and Quenhyth saw he had gone too far. In the hall, no one spoke or moved, as every scholar and servant waited to see what Michael would do. The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. Eventually, Michael started chewing again.
‘I am eating,’ he repeated. ‘And, as I have already informed you, nothing interrupts that which I hold sacred. If you are so convinced of the Waits’ guilt, then you can rummage through their possessions.’
Quenhyth gazed defiantly at him, then stalked out. Deynman gave a cheer, which was quickly taken up by the others in the hall, and Bartholomew was surprised at how unpopular Quenhyth had become. He was not hated, as Norbert had been, but he was despised, and no opportunity was allowed to pass that enabled his fellow students to express that feeling.
‘I am not sure that was good advice, Brother,’ he said to Michael, walking to the window to watch Quenhyth stalk across the yard. ‘No one wants his belongings pawed through, and your challenge may well see Quenhyth in more trouble than he can handle. Frith and Jestyn are rough men, while Makejoy and Yna can probably hold their own in a fight, too.’
Michael waved a knife dismissively. ‘They will let Quenhyth nowhere near their things. And anyway, he knows I did not mean it literally. He is not entirely stupid.’
‘He should have become a fishmonger, like his father,’ said Suttone disapprovingly. ‘He is much more suited to dealing with dead fish than with living people.’
‘I had forgotten he hails from a fishy family,’ said Michael, his mouth full of bread.
‘His father knew Turke and Fiscurtune,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘They were in the Fraternity of Fishmongers together. Quenhyth knows Philippa, too, and has visited her once or twice at Edith’s house.’
While they ate, and the Lord of Misrule entertained himself by ordering various students to stand on their heads and recite ribald ballads, Bartholomew told Michael all that had transpired the previous night concerning Philippa and Abigny, and mentioned Clippesby’s claim that Robin the surgeon was a member of the altruistic money-lending group. The monk was thoughtful.
‘You were always suspicious of the fact that Philippa declined to acknowledge her previous association with the Waits. Now you learn that not only does she remember them, but she knows their names. However, you must bear in mind that when she first saw them, it was at the Christmas feast, where they had that row with Langelee about whether they should be fed. I would not blame any respectable lady for declining to admit she had hired them under those circumstances.’
‘We do not know that was the first time she saw them,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘In fact, it was almost certainly not. Philippa had a room in the King’s Head before going to Edith’s house – and that was where the Waits stayed while they looked for an employer.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, she had planned to be gone from Cambridge quickly, and probably thought it would not matter whether she was truthful about them or not. Then the snow prevented her from leaving, and she was stuck with her lie for longer than she anticipated. What do you think? Should we follow her when she goes to her lover?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly.
‘Why not? Are you not interested to learn who has captured her heart?’ Michael snapped his fingers in sudden understanding. ‘I know why you are reluctant! You think that if she is meeting a secret lover in a location like the Gilbertine Friary, then it is likely to be someone she met during her previous life here in Cambridge. That means it is someone she knew while she was courting you, and you do not want to learn you were jilted long before she went to London.’
‘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.’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 37
