A Killer in Winter

William pulled a face indicating that while his lips uttered ‘nothing’, his mind was thinking something very different. ‘Your woman will not be impressed,’ he added, when Bartholomew appeared to take him at his word and prepared to leave. ‘And she is newly a widow, so will be looking for a man. You will not ensnare her if you do not make yourself look attractive.’

‘She is not looking for a man,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I am not available, anyway.’

‘So, you intend to continue with Matilde,’ concluded William disapprovingly. ‘I am not sure that is a good idea, Matthew. She may not want you, and it will be difficult to conduct a dalliance for long without it coming to the attention of the Chancellor. Still, I suppose if you are discreet it may work for a while, and you will eventually tire of the whole business of females.’

‘I shall bear that in mind,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, wishing his colleagues would mind their own business when it came to his love life. ‘How is your leg?’

‘This bad weather cannot last much longer, so I do not anticipate being an invalid for too many more days, which is just as well – the undergraduates will run riot if I am gone too long. I am sure there is already vice and debauchery wherever you look.’

‘Not wherever I look,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the season had been remarkably trouble free. The snow helped, keeping would-be revellers indoors and reducing the number of large street fights between gangs of townsmen and scholars. He glanced across at the friar and recognised the crude wooden covers of the book that lay open on his knees. ‘Are you still reading that thing? What is taking you so long?’

‘I have read it several times,’ said William, the light of the fanatic gleaming in his eyes. ‘I am unable to help myself. I have never encountered such bald heresy in all my days – and that includes among the Dominicans!’

‘It must be the work of Satan himself, then,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘But the bits I read were just the ramblings of a misinformed and badly educated eccentric. I did not detect anything particularly heretical.’

‘Oh, no?’ hissed William, sensing a challenge as his large hands scrabbled roughly at the pages. He opened it to a section that, judging by the state of it, had been perused many times before. ‘Then listen to this: “Godd has no Forme – this We all Nowe. However, Sometyms it Has been Nessessary for Him to Adopte a Shape in order to Appear to Man, and He has always Chose Attributes of a Fish to Manifeste Himselph.” Do not tell me that is not heresy! If my leg were not broken, I would burn Harysone in the Market Square myself!’

‘But it goes on to explain,’ said Bartholomew, peering over William’s shoulder to read the text for himself. ‘It says those attributes include a silvery sheen, like the skin of a fish, and an ability to dominate the mighty ocean. Harysone is just using marine images to describe God’s mystery.’

‘He is saying God has scales and lives in the sea.’ William hurled the book from him in revulsion, so it crashed into the wall and left a dent in the plaster.

‘So it will not be going in the Michaelhouse library, then?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

‘You had better go,’ said William, not deigning to answer. ‘Give my regards to Edith, and tell Abigny that the answer to his question is “no”. I had forgotten him in all the fuss over my leg, but I can tell him what he wants to know now.’

‘What was the question?’ asked Bartholomew, flinging his cloak around his shoulders and trying to make his feet comfortable inside his damp boots.

‘He asked me whether Pechem – the head of my Order here in Cambridge – had heard from Dympna recently,’ said William. ‘I told him I would ask, but Pechem said Dympna has been quiet, and has only acted once since the summer.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Dympna?’

‘Dympna,’ said William impatiently. ‘You know.’

‘I do not know. Who is she?’

William seemed confused and a little embarrassed. ‘It seems I have already said too much. I thought you would know Dympna, being a friend of Abigny’s. I see I was mistaken. Damn it all! I should have been more discreet. It is this wretched ice all around me. I cannot think straight with it lurking in every corner.’

In the interests of finding out what he wanted to know, Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that thinking and speaking had nothing to do with the fact that it was cold outside, and that the friar’s apparent indiscretion had more to do with his gruff and loquacious personality.

The physician leaned against the windowsill. ‘I think you had better tell me about Dympna, Father. Norbert received letters from her, asking him to meetings in St Michael’s Church; Walter Turke muttered something that sounded like Dympna before he died; and even Harysone has some association with this mysterious woman. Believe me, Michael will not take kindly to his Junior Proctor withholding information that may help him solve this case.’