A Killer in Winter

‘More than Frith has,’ determined Michael firmly. ‘If Morice does release them, he will be in for a bitter dispute with the University. He will not want that.’

‘Tulyet would not want that,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Morice does not care. And there is a lot you can do with the kind of bribe it would take to free four people from such serious charges.’

‘Look, Matt,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing the physician’s arm and pointing. ‘It is Philippa, and she is heading in the direction of the Gilbertine Friary. She is going to meet her lover, just as Clippesby told us she would.’

‘How do you know it is her?’ asked Bartholomew, eyeing the huddled figure doubtfully. ‘It is just someone wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up.’

‘It is her – she is wearing those elegant but impractical shoes she always dons when the snow lies thick on the ground. Shall we follow her?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I have just watched a man die, and I am in no mood for chasing widows through the Gilbertines’ stables. Besides, I am cold.’

‘You are not cold,’ determined Michael. ‘And you must want to see the man Philippa loves?’

‘I have had enough of Philippa, Turke, Gosslinge, Giles, Ailred and everyone else associated with this nasty case. We have solved your murders, Brother: Turke killed Norbert, Ailred and Frith killed Turke, and Gosslinge died because he tried to eat something he did not want someone else to have. That is all we need to know.’

‘Well, I am going,’ said Michael. He nudged the physician in the ribs and his voice became wheedling. ‘Come on, Matt. It will be interesting.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Teaching starts tomorrow, and I have lectures to prepare. You go, if you must. I will see you in Michaelhouse later.’

They parted company at the end of Small Bridges Street. Bartholomew turned to walk along Milne Street towards the College, while Michael left the town through the Trumpington Gate, dodging this way and that as he dogged Philippa’s footsteps along the road that led past the Hall of Valence Marie, Peterhouse and the King’s Head. Bartholomew watched him zigzag back and forth like a huge black crow, and smiled. It was good that Philippa was concentrating on walking and did not glance behind her, or she would have spotted the monk’s clumsy manoeuvres in an instant.

The physician walked slowly, thinking about Godric’s tears of grief when he heard Ailred was dead. Although shocked by his principal’s confessions, Godric insisted the recent changes in Ailred’s behaviour were an aberration, and said there must have been a bad alignment of celestial bodies to induce him to act in such a manner. Bartholomew thought about Turke, too, and his careless attitude towards the people he had killed. However, the physician gained no satisfaction from the knowledge that he had been right about why Turke had ventured near the Mill Pool the day he had died. It was not the kind of case where jubilation was in order.

The snow was still melting rapidly, and what had once been a pretty white carpet was now ugly brown sludge. Since the ice was thawing more slowly than the snow, the drains were still blocked, and filthy, slushy water stretched from one side of the High Street to the other in a foul lake. It was calf deep in places, and lumpy with pieces of rubbish, dead birds, straw, animal manure, fragments of ice and sewage. It was like walking through a cold porridge of filth and excrement.

Michaelhouse was alive with activity when Bartholomew returned. The snow had been dug away, so it was once again possible to enter the north wing. He went to his own room and threw open the window shutters, to fill the chamber with the milder air from outside and dispel the dank chill that pervaded it. He discovered a thin layer of ice coating the walls, where mildew and running damp had frozen solid, while there were slippery patches on the floor that reminded him of Ailred and Turke, and their diametric attitudes to ice. He begged some logs from Langelee and lit a fire, prodding it until it blazed furiously. Then he swept the last remnants of snow from the windowsill and shelves, while William shook the ice from the blankets on the bed. Eventually, the room began to look more homely.

Enjoying the luxury of a private fire, Bartholomew closed the shutters and sat at the table with a lamp. He worked on a lecture until the bell chimed for the midday meal, then strolled across the courtyard to join his colleagues in the hall. Michael was not there, but the monk often missed College meals when he was engaged on proctorial duties. Bartholomew was surprised, and a little disgusted, with himself when he realised he was disappointed, for there was a part of him that very much wanted to know the identity of Philippa’s lover.