A Killer in Winter

‘We were hired to perform for Walter Turke in London,’ said Makejoy. ‘We juggled and sang at a feast he held for his fellow fishmongers. It was Gosslinge who told us where we could change and provided our food.’

Bartholomew stared at her, his mind whirling. ‘When was this?’

Frith blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘June or July, I suppose.’

‘Who hired you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Turke himself?’

‘His wife,’ replied Frith. ‘She sat next to you at the Christmas feast.’

Bartholomew frowned in puzzlement, recalling that when he had discussed the Waits with Philippa she had announced, quite categorically, that she did not like such people and never employed them. As the two of them had been struggling to find things to talk about, her recognition of folk she had met before surely would have been a godsend as a conversational gambit. Yet she had not mentioned her previous encounter with them. Why? Had she forgotten them? Was their performance an unpleasant memory that she had suppressed?

Her brother’s reaction had been equally odd: Abigny had claimed he disliked jugglers, and had left Langelee’s chambers as soon as they had arrived, then had excused himself when they had approached the high table later in the hall. And Turke? They had jostled him and spilled his wine, but he had declined to make a fuss. What did that say about his relationship with the Waits? That he knew them but was loath to admit it to people he wanted to impress? That he declined to indulge in an undignified squabble with menials? Bartholomew supposed the Waits could be lying about being hired by the Turke household, but he saw no reason why they should.

‘Did you speak to Gosslinge, here in Cambridge?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Frith bitterly. ‘I asked him if he would recommend us to potential employers, since it was proving difficult to find a situation for the Twelve Days. We had offered ourselves to virtually every merchant in the town, you see, but they had already made other arrangements and had no need for us. But Gosslinge refused to help.’

‘Now we shall have marchpanes,’ declared Deynman, standing again and deluging Suttone with wine as he waved his goblet around. There was a chorus of laughter, while the morose Carmelite surveyed the red stains on his robes with weary resignation.

‘That pale wool is an impractical colour for a habit,’ said Deynman defensively, blushing with embarrassment. He was not a naturally rebellious lad, and his antics so far had been tame compared to the stunts that Gray had arranged the previous year. However, Gray was sitting near to his friend at the high table, and Bartholomew saw it would not be long before matters took a turn for the worse. Gray was clearly plotting something. He leaned towards Deynman and was constantly muttering in his ear.

Wynewyk and Clippesby emerged from behind the servants’ screen carrying a huge tray on which sat a huge marchpane image, dressed in blue and white cloth. It was the Virgin Mary. It was fairly large, reaching mid-thigh height, and its face was swathed in a veil. It was not uncommon for Michaelhouse to buy carved marchpanes for the Christmas season, but none had been so finely wrought as this one. Students, Fellows and servants alike watched its progress through the hall in awed silence, and even the Waits were impressed – Frith began a stately march on pipes and tabor to accompany it. Clippesby and Wynewyk set the image on the high table and stepped away.

‘Good,’ said Deynman approvingly. ‘But we cannot see the detail on her with all these clothes and veils. Let us take them off.’

‘For the love of God, no!’ cried Suttone, leaping forward to prevent such a sacrilege. ‘What are you thinking of, boy? You go too far!’

Deynman faltered, unsettled by the vehemence of Suttone’s protest, while the silence in the hall was so thick that Bartholomew could hear an insect buzzing in one of the windows. Gray gave Deynman a none too gentle prod in the ribs to prompt him.

‘But we must,’ said Deynman, agitated. ‘It is part of the performance.’

‘I will not stand by and see you haul the vestments from our Blessed Virgin,’ declared Suttone, drawing himself up to his full cadaverous height. ‘Lord of Misrule you may be, but I will not permit heresy to take place in my College. What would the Bishop and Head of my Order say when they learn what sort of revelries Michaelhouse condones?’

Gray came slowly to his feet. ‘You will not permit it, Father? How will you stop us?’

Suttone was taller and probably stronger than Gray, but it did not take much to intimidate the friar from his pedestal of self-righteousness; he was a coward at heart. He appealed to his colleagues. ‘Come to my aid,’ he pleaded. ‘You know I am right and this cannot be allowed. And tell Gray to sit down, Matthew. I do not like him glowering at me like a tavern brawler.’