A Killer in Winter

Langelee nodded to them to begin their performance, and a hush fell over the room as they lined up. They were a shabby pack of individuals, whose costumes had seen better days and whose faces were heavily painted. There were two men and two women, all wearing red tunics, grubby yellow leggings and scarlet and gold chequered hats. Clippesby’s assessment had been accurate: the two men and one woman could juggle after a fashion, but the performance of the other female, who stood apart and played the whistle with one hand and a drum with the other, was jerky and irregular, as though she could concentrate on a rhythm or on producing the correct notes, but not on both at the same time.

Her eccentric tunes did nothing to help her colleagues. They missed their cues, and the floor was soon littered with fallen missiles. Abandoning juggling, they turned to tumbling, which consisted of cartwheels that threatened to do serious injury to their spectators, and the kind of forward rolls that even Michael could have managed. Everyone was relieved when Agatha arrived, flour dusting her powerful forearms and boar fat splattered across her apron.

‘Tell the Master the meat is done, and that folk should come and get it while it is hot,’ she whispered to Bartholomew.

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not safe here with all these flailing legs and arms. I do not want to be setting broken limbs for the rest of the day.’

‘I do not like them,’ said Agatha, gazing belligerently at the hapless jugglers. ‘I have never seen such a paltry display of tumbling.’

‘They do leave a bit to be desired,’ agreed Edith. ‘I am surprised Master Langelee hired them. They are called the Chepe Waits, and were the very last troupe to be offered employment in the town this year. Michaelhouse has done a great kindness by taking them in; the weather is so foul at the moment that anyone without a roof will surely perish before dawn.’

‘Let us hope we have a roof to wake up to,’ said Agatha grimly. ‘And that this uncivilised brood has not stolen it from over our heads. I told the Master that I did not want them in my College, but he said it was too late, because he has already paid them. I suppose he chose them because they are inexpensive.’

‘Perhaps that is why they are called the Chepe Waits,’ suggested Bartholomew, unable to resist the obvious.

Agatha gazed at him blankly for a moment before understanding dawned and she released a raucous screech of laughter that silenced conversation in the rest of the room as though a bucket of water had been dashed over its occupants. If Agatha was surprised to find herself the sudden centre of attention, she did not show it. She glanced around imperiously.

‘Boar’s done,’ she announced. ‘And the burnt bits have been scraped off the pies.’

‘You heard the lady,’ said Langelee, beaming around at his guests. ‘Dinner is served.’

Bartholomew was not at all amused to discover that his colleagues had contrived to seat Philippa next to him during the feast, and soon became exasperated by their tactless nods, winks and jabs to the ribs. Having Giles Abigny on the other side was not much of a consolation, either, since his old friend made little attempt to converse and seemed intent on imbibing as much of Michaelhouse’s wine as Cynric would pour him. Bartholomew remembered Abigny as an amiable and amusing drunk, who had been the instigator of many a wild celebration of nothing. But the years had turned him morose, and he sank even lower into the pit of self-pity when he was inebriated. Bartholomew braced himself for a trying afternoon.

The boar made its appearance, complete with rosemary twined about its feet and an apple in its mouth. It was ‘sung in’ by a reduced version of Michael’s choir, which could nevertheless muster sufficient volume to drown all but the most boisterous conversation. Agatha had prepared other seasonal foods, too – mutton, veal, cheese, apples and souse. Bartholomew disliked the pickled pig feet and ears that comprised ‘souse’, and was surprised when Philippa offered to eat his share.

She ate his share of Christmas frumenty – hulled wheat with spices that had been boiled in milk – and cakes, too, and devoured even more sugar comfits than Michael. Bartholomew wondered whether her healthy appetite derived from unhappiness, and tried to imagine what life would be like with the stout, aggressive fishmonger who sat on her other side. He found he could not, and was mystified – and a little hurt – that Philippa should have abandoned him in favour of such an unattractive specimen. He supposed the lure of wealth held more appeal than he had appreciated.