A Killer in Winter

‘Right,’ replied Langelee, shooting the Gilbertine a bewildered look for his innocence. ‘But you cannot have Matilde, Matt, so you had better make do with this Philippa instead.’

‘I do not want to “make do” with Philippa,’ said Bartholomew. He noticed that his colleagues were exchanging meaningful glances and was suddenly exasperated with them. ‘What is wrong with you all today?’

‘We are only trying to help,’ said Langelee, offended. ‘If you wed a respectable lady, like Philippa, we can make sure that you still do a little teaching for us. Unfortunately for you, Matilde is not the marrying type, you see. She came to Cambridge to escape constant matrimonial offers, and it is common knowledge that she likes her freedom. So, we have decided to find you another woman.’

‘But I do not want another woman,’ objected Bartholomew. He saw the Fellows interpret this to mean he had set his heart on Matilde and hastened to put them right. ‘I do not want anyone.’

‘So, you will be taking major orders, then?’ asked Clippesby, wide eyed. ‘Will you become a monk or a friar?’

‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And I can find my own women, thank you.’

‘You have not done very well so far,’ said Langelee bluntly. ‘Women who pass through your hands like ships in the night offer no satisfaction. You need a wife. Or are you intending to keep Matilde as a lover and retain your Fellowship at the same time? I suppose that would work, as long as you are discreet.’

‘It is no one’s business what-’ began Bartholomew angrily.

‘I will fetch mint from the herb garden for you to chew,’ interrupted Clippesby helpfully. ‘She will notice that when you kiss her.’

‘Kiss her?’ echoed Kenyngham, aghast. ‘But she is a married woman!’

‘It is not unknown for marriages to be annulled, Father,’ said Langelee meaningfully, having dissolved an awkward liaison himself not long ago. ‘Do not look so shocked. I am sure you lusted over married matrons in your youth.’

‘I can assure you I did not!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, simultaneously appalled and indignant. ‘I am-’

‘Here she comes,’ said Clippesby, in what amounted to a bellow as there was a polite knock on the door. ‘Ready yourself, Matt. Try to look alluring.’

Bartholomew shot him an agonised glance as the porter opened the gates to admit the first guest. Fortunately, it was only Robin of Grantchester. The dirty surgeon had been to some pains to make himself presentable: he had washed his hands. He wore lilac-coloured hose, a dirty orange tunic and a green, old-fashioned cloak that had probably not been new when King Edward II had been murdered in 1327. Bartholomew was surprised that the surgeon had been invited to Michaelhouse, since it was highly unlikely the College would persuade him to part with any of his meagre fortune. Michael evidently felt the same. He turned to Langelee as student ‘cup-bearers’ hastened forward to greet Robin with a goblet of wine.

‘What is he doing here? He will never help Michaelhouse. He is not wealthy – you must have seen the state of his house on the High Street.’

‘But rumour has it that he arranged a substantial interest-free loan for the Franciscans,’ said Langelee. ‘And he was involved in lending money to Valence Marie to develop their library.’

‘Robin?’ asked Michael, eyeing the dirty surgeon in disbelief. ‘You jest, man!’

‘I do not,’ said Langelee. ‘He did not donate the money personally, but he certainly had a hand in the organisation. Ask Pechem of the Franciscans.’

‘Our Master has misunderstood something,’ said Michael, as Langelee went to do his duty as host. ‘Robin as a philanthropist, indeed! I have never heard such an unlikely tale!’

The second person to arrive was Sheriff Morice, dressed in finery fit for a king. He had evidently been spending some of the money he had accrued from his corrupt practices, because all his clothes were new. The predominant colour was blue, with silver thread glittering in the frail afternoon light. His plump and dowdy wife hung on his arm like a large brown leech. Morice spotted Michael and sauntered across the yard to speak to him.

‘My investigation into Norbert’s death is going well,’ he remarked, his eyes cold and calculating. ‘I have several culprits in my prison awaiting interrogation.’

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Michael smoothly. He nodded in the direction of the gate as more guests arrived. ‘But here comes Dick Tulyet. I am sure he will be delighted to know that you are close to a solution. Dick! Welcome! Morice here has just informed me that he has all but solved Norbert’s murder.’

Tulyet grimaced. ‘I hear your cells are full, Morice, but the patrons of the King’s Head are not the culprits. They were all drunk the night Norbert was killed, and I doubt any could even draw their daggers, let alone kill with them.’

Morice sneered. ‘But they hear rumours. One will tell me what I want to know. I will find your killer, Tulyet, and the Senior Proctor will not.’ He strutted towards Suttone, who fluttered about him like an obsequious crow.