A Killer in Winter (42 page)

Her face was haunted, and Abigny leaned across to take her hand in his. ‘Your finances and your dreams are your business,
Philippa. You do not have to share them with others.’

‘It is better they know the truth,’ she said tiredly, indicating Bartholomew and his family. ‘I do not want them speculating,
and coming up with answers that show me in a poorer light than even I deserve.’ She took a deep breath and turned to Edith,
apparently finding it easier to address her than the others. ‘I did not know what to do with myself when I first heard the
news about Walter. I could not imagine what would become of me – and Giles – just because Walter had elected to go skating.’

‘You said he would never have done that,’ prompted Bartholomew, when she fell silent.

‘I still think he would not. He was too cautious to have ventured out on to weak ice. I suppose I shall never know why he
did it. But then, when I heard he was still alive, I felt a sudden relief, as though I had been reprieved. He
opened his eyes and looked at me, and I am sure he read the fear and apprehension for my future in my face. He said two words:
“Temple” and “you”.’

‘Temple?’ asked Edith, curiously. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It is the name of our home,’ said Philippa. ‘Temple House – because
it has arches on the front like the Temple Church in Fleet. Those words told me that the house was mine, that he had made
provision for me in his will. I am not penniless after all.’

Bartholomew gazed at her. So that was the reason for the change in her behaviour between when she first learned about Turke’s
accident and his death. She had gone from being a penniless widow with no future to the owner of a large and substantial home.
He recalled their discussion at the Christmas feast, when she had mentioned the splendid house that bore resemblance to the
Temple Church with its columns and round-headed windows.

‘So that explains all this odd behaviour?’ asked Stanmore, relieved. ‘You were trying to maintain a grief that you do not
genuinely feel?’

Philippa looked pained. ‘Now you think me a hypocrite. I loved Walter in my own way, and I will miss him. And I shall respect
his memory and do all a good widow should do. But I am not devastated by his death. However, I shall need to act my part until
we have buried him and allowed his Fraternity friends to say their farewells.’

‘You should have told us,’ said Edith, sounding hurt. ‘We can be trusted not to tell people that you are looking forward to
a brighter future now Walter is gone.’

‘You said you did not understand the meaning of Walter’s final words,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound accusing. ‘But
you did.’

Philippa gave a wry smile. ‘Do you think I should have told you I had just received the happy news that I am the owner of
the best house on Friday Street while my husband’s corpse was still warm? That would not have been appropriate!’

‘Neither was changing from debilitating grief to cool
efficiency in a matter of moments,’ muttered Bartholomew. He spoke aloud, wishing she had chosen to be honest sooner. It
would have saved a good deal of agitation for Stanmore. ‘So, Walter did not mention Dympna, and my theories associating him
with Norbert are wrong?’

‘The only time I have ever heard that name was when Mayor Horwood mentioned it at the feast,’ replied Philippa. ‘He thought
Dick Tulyet might be its leader.’

‘Dick?’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. Was that the link between Dympna and Norbert – that the beneficiary of one loan was
Tulyet’s cousin? But Tulyet would not have asked Michael to investigate if he had been responsible for Norbert’s death, surely?
‘Did Horwood say anything more about this guild?’

‘Not that I recall,’ replied Philippa. She shivered and edged closer to the fire. ‘I had forgotten how cold it can be in this
little town. I am not surprised Gosslinge succumbed to the weather.’

‘When I was re-examining Gosslinge, I found something trapped in his throat,’ said Bartholomew, watching as Edith fussed around
Philippa with a woollen blanket. ‘I think he choked, rather than died of the cold. Was he in the habit of putting things in
his mouth?’

‘Yes,’ said Abigny immediately, nodding in surprise. ‘His mouth was never empty, now that you mention it. There was always
something poking out – a blade of grass or a sliver of wood for picking his teeth. He had restless jaws that always liked
to be working on something.’

‘He sounds like Brother Michael,’ said Edith with a giggle. She prodded Abigny with her foot and indicated he was to roll
the dice again. The conversation was at an end. Philippa huddled closer to the fire, and continued to stare into the flames,
while Stanmore went to fetch more wood. Bartholomew watched her while he sipped his wine, thinking that for someone who had
just been relieved of a tiresome husband and presented with a fine house, she still seemed preoccupied. He was certain there
was something she had
still not told them, and recalled Matilde’s words – that there was something sad about Philippa. He wondered what it could
be, and why she had not unburdened herself of that secret, too.

It was too late, too cold and too dark for Bartholomew to return to Michaelhouse once the evening was over – the traditional
games of cross and pile, raffle, hasard and queek had been played, the seasonal food eaten and the spiced wine drunk – so
he accepted a bed in Stanmore’s attic. Once again, his dreams teemed with confused images and conversations, most of them
featuring Philippa. He lay, half awake and half asleep, watching patterns made by the firelight move across the ceiling, and
tried to make sense of the information he had gathered.

For the first time in several days, no snow fell during the night. A thick blanket of cloud served to insulate the Earth from
the frigid night sky, and the temperature crept up until it was actually above freezing point. Compared to the conditions
of the past several days, the little town was positively balmy, and Bartholomew felt overdressed and hot as he donned his
various layers of tunics and jerkins the following morning. The warmer air weakened the icy hold of winter, and everything
dripped. For the second day in a row, the streets were full of hissing, sloughing and cracking sounds as melting snow parted
company with roofs, trees, walls and eaves. The ground no longer comprised hard-packed ice, but a lumpy brown slush that was
knee deep in places.

Bartholomew left Stanmore’s house before dawn, and prepared to wade through the thaw to St Michael’s Church. He thought he
was the only one awake, and was surprised to discover Philippa waiting for him, dressed in her black clothes. She wanted someone
to walk with her when she went to say morning prayers for her husband’s soul. She leaned heavily on Bartholomew’s arm, her
hood shielding her face in the manner expected of a woman who had been recently widowed. He noticed her shoes were thin and
dainty
and did little to protect her feet from the icy muck of the High Street. The Philippa of his memories had been a practical
woman, who would have worn boots. He wondered whether this Philippa had donned shoes because they looked better with her elegant
fur cloak, or whether her mind was absorbed by other matters.

He stopped suddenly and turned to face her. They were near St Mary the Great, where hundreds of candles sent a flickering
orange glow through the traceried windows to make intricate designs on the snow in its graveyard. People were gathering to
celebrate the first Sunday after Christmas. She faced him with a wary expression, evidently anticipating what he was about
to say.

‘Those scars on Walter’s legs,’ he said. ‘Why did you not want me to see them?’

Her face darkened. ‘I have already told you. I do not know how he came by those marks, but he disliked them being seen by
others. Of course I did him the service of keeping them from curious eyes when he lay dying. Why do you want to know, anyway?’

‘Because there are questions about his death that remain unanswered,’ said Bartholomew, standing his ground. ‘You say he would
not have gone skating on thin ice, and yet that is how he died. Why? And why did Gosslinge choke to death on a piece of vellum?
Was he trying to eat it? Was he hiding it from someone? Was the vellum what the two intruders in our church were looking for?’

Philippa glared at him. ‘Most of your questions pertain to Gosslinge’s death, not Walter’s. But why do you persist in meddling
when I have asked you to leave us alone? I have already told you that Walter and I were not a happy couple. Is that not enough
for you? Perhaps I should leave Edith and hire a bed in a friary or a convent until the roads clear and I can escape from
this miserable little town.’

‘All the friary guest halls are full, and I doubt you want to revisit St Radegund’s Convent. The only place I know with spare
rooms is the Gilbertine Friary, but their guest
wing is close to the King’s Head, which makes it noisy and sometimes dangerous.’

‘Why do you mention the Gilbertine Friary, specifically?’ she demanded coldly. ‘What is it about that particular institution
that makes you associate me with it?’

‘It is the one with the vacant beds,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he had never mentioned Walter’s legs. ‘Do not abandon Edith.
She will be upset, and then she will be angry with me.’

‘You would deserve it,’ said Philippa, starting to walk again, this time without holding his arm. She skidded on slick ice,
but stubbornly refused his help.

‘I understand you hired the Chepe Waits last summer,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to walk in silence and so trying to make
conversation. The words were only just out of his mouth when he realised this was not a topic entirely without contention
either. It was something else he had suspected her of lying – or at least not being wholly truthful – about.

‘Did I?’ She sounded coolly uninterested as she negotiated her way around a sludge-filled morass that spanned most of the
High Street. It was deep enough for a duck to swim on, and the bird poked under its lumpy surface in search of edibles with
its tail in the air. ‘Walter liked to provide music when colleagues from the Fraternity visited, so I suppose I may have employed
them on his behalf.’

Since she sounded indifferent about the Waits, Bartholomew pressed on, grateful for any topic they could discuss without unpleasantness.
‘Did they steal anything?’ he asked. ‘We have been told they remove things from the houses in which they work, and that they
have amassed a fortune.’

She was surprised. ‘Of course they stole nothing. Walter was very possessive of his property, and would not have tolerated
any kind of theft by Frith and his cronies.’

‘You know his name,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘A few moments ago, you barely recalled hiring them, and now you mention Frith’s
name.’

She gave a gusty sigh, to indicate she was unimpressed with the way he was reading so much into what was a casual discussion.
‘It just came to me,’ she snapped. ‘Frith of Lincoln. And the woman with him is called Makejoy. I thought they seemed vaguely
familiar at the feast, and you have just told me I had hired them. I suppose connections formed in my mind, and the names
were suddenly there. Why are you interested in these Waits? Because they come from Chepe and may have known Gosslinge?’

‘Did they know Gosslinge?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said, becoming exasperated. ‘Chepe is more like a village than part of a
large city, and residents do know each other. Gosslinge liked to go out and meet folk – Giles would say his motives were more
commercial than friendly, but I do not know about that. All I can tell you is that Gosslinge knew a good many people.’

‘What did Gosslinge think about Fiscurtune’s death?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he believe Walter was justified in stabbing him
in Fishmongers’ Hall?’

‘Gosslinge was loyal,’ she said simply. ‘It would not matter what he thought, because he always supported what Walter did
or said. But we are at St Michael’s, and your friends are waiting for you. Goodbye, Matthew.’

‘Y
OU 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.’