A Killer in Winter

The rubble was still settling when he arrived, and powdery snow that had been hurled into the air was drifting downward like fine dust. Bartholomew scanned the wreckage in horror, trying to spot anything human. All he could see were smashed beams, piles of mouldy thatch and a broken door on which a child had painted a bright flower. Bartholomew felt sick. He started to move toward the mess, but someone caught his hand and stopped him.

‘It is not safe, Matthew,’ came a woman’s low, pleasant voice.

Michael seized the physician’s other arm when he tried to shake her off. ‘Matilde is right, Matt. Wait until it has settled, then we can go in with ropes and planks.’

Bartholomew stared at Matilde. ‘But Yolande is a friend of yours.’ Yolande de Blaston was one of the town’s more energetic Frail Sisters, with a list of regulars that included the Mayor, a number of burgesses and several high-ranking University men. Her occupation doubtless explained why most of her children looked nothing like her carpenter husband.

‘She is safe,’ said Matilde. ‘She and her family are staying with me, because Robert knew the snow would weaken his roof.’

‘No one was in?’ asked Bartholomew, slow to understand.

She smiled at him. ‘You are a good man to be concerned for a tradesman and his family. But Yolande and her brood are well, and filling my little home with their noise and laughter. I do not know what they will do now, though. They cannot stay with me for ever, nor can they pay the high rents charged in the town.’

‘Yolande should make use of her contacts,’ said Bartholomew, jumping as a beam snapped and the rubble settled further. Dust flew out in a choking cloud. ‘Perhaps the Mayor can help.’

‘You mean she should pressure her regulars into doing something for her?’ asked Matilde, her eyes twinkling in amusement. ‘I am surprised at you for making such a suggestion, Matthew! But it is a good idea. I shall recommend that she acts on it.’

‘There is nothing to do here, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘We should go to the King’s Head, before Harysone decides to go dancing somewhere we cannot find him.’

‘Harysone?’ asked Matilde distastefully. ‘I do not like him. His teeth are too long.’

‘You are a woman of discerning taste,’ said Michael cheerfully. ‘I do not like him, either.’

‘I will walk with you,’ said Matilde, handing Bartholomew her basket to carry. It was heavy, and he looked under the coverings to see why. There was a slab of ham, a pudding made with currants and spices, and bread. There were apples, too, albeit wrinkled and shrunken, and a bottle containing figs soaked in what was probably honey. That would cost a small fortune, he thought.

‘I admire a woman with an appetite,’ said Michael, one hand snaking towards some fruit. ‘You are right to carry victuals with you: you never know when hunger might strike.’

‘They are not for me,’ said Matilde, laughing as she pushed the monk away. ‘They are for the old men who live on the river bank – Dunstan and Athelbald. If I ate this kind of fare every day, I would be the size of Philippa Turke.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at her. ‘Why do you mention her?’

She gave him an innocent smile. ‘Only because Edith tells me you and Philippa were once sweethearts – betrothed, no less. I had no idea you liked large women, Matthew.’

‘I like any women,’ said Michael comfortably, as though the comment had been directed at him. ‘Fat, thin, tall, short. They are all God’s creatures, and I treat them accordingly.’

‘Philippa was different when we were courting,’ said Bartholomew defensively, before Michael could delve too deeply into his personal preferences in Matilde’s presence. Although he could not explain why, he always felt uncomfortable when Michael made lewd comments in front of the woman he admired, and something made him want to protect her from them, despite the fact that her former profession had probably left her more than adequately equipped to deal with the likes of Michael. ‘She has changed in more ways than just her size.’

‘It must be odd to see her again after so many years,’ said Matilde expressionlessly. ‘I imagine you were delighted to learn she was here.’

‘Not exactly. I did not know what to think. She came with her husband, who was undertaking a pilgrimage.’

‘But he is now dead and she is a widow,’ said Matilde. ‘That means that she is free to pursue any potential partner she pleases. Perhaps she will pursue you.’

‘She has grown too large to pursue anyone, I would imagine,’ said Michael, blithely ignoring the fact that he cut no mean figure himself. ‘Still, I suppose she may hanker for the handsome physician who captured her heart when she was in the flower of her youth.’

‘Her husband was very wealthy,’ said Matilde, addressing Bartholomew. ‘So, your Philippa is probably anticipating a rosy future for herself.’

‘She is not “my” Philippa,’ said Bartholomew, a little nettled. ‘And I am sure Turke’s sons will inherit most of his wealth, if not all of it. Indeed, she may be even poorer than me.’