‘His father knew Turke and Fiscurtune,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘They were in the Fraternity of Fishmongers together. Quenhyth knows Philippa, too, and has visited her once or twice at Edith’s house.’
While they ate, and the Lord of Misrule entertained himself by ordering various students to stand on their heads and recite ribald ballads, Bartholomew told Michael all that had transpired the previous night concerning Philippa and Abigny, and mentioned Clippesby’s claim that Robin the surgeon was a member of the altruistic money-lending group. The monk was thoughtful.
‘You were always suspicious of the fact that Philippa declined to acknowledge her previous association with the Waits. Now you learn that not only does she remember them, but she knows their names. However, you must bear in mind that when she first saw them, it was at the Christmas feast, where they had that row with Langelee about whether they should be fed. I would not blame any respectable lady for declining to admit she had hired them under those circumstances.’
‘We do not know that was the first time she saw them,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘In fact, it was almost certainly not. Philippa had a room in the King’s Head before going to Edith’s house – and that was where the Waits stayed while they looked for an employer.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, she had planned to be gone from Cambridge quickly, and probably thought it would not matter whether she was truthful about them or not. Then the snow prevented her from leaving, and she was stuck with her lie for longer than she anticipated. What do you think? Should we follow her when she goes to her lover?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly.
‘Why not? Are you not interested to learn who has captured her heart?’ Michael snapped his fingers in sudden understanding. ‘I know why you are reluctant! You think that if she is meeting a secret lover in a location like the Gilbertine Friary, then it is likely to be someone she met during her previous life here in Cambridge. That means it is someone she knew while she was courting you, and you do not want to learn you were jilted long before she went to London.’
‘That is not the reason at all,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘I just do not think that sort of behaviour is courteous. It can have no bearing on our investigation, and we would merely be satisfying a salacious urge to pry.’
‘You are wrong,’ declared Michael immediately. ‘Of course it has a bearing on the case! A woman with a lover is far more likely to rid herself of an unwanted husband than one without. Who could it be? A master from another College? It will not be a Michaelhouse man – there are only Kenyngham and William left from the old days, and I do not see her indulging in a clandestine affair with either of them. Although William has always been a dark horse …’
‘You cannot believe everything Clippesby says, Brother. Philippa may well be meeting someone, but that does not necessarily imply an affair. That was an assumption on his part. Horses and rats are not reliable sources of information.’
‘I was also busy last night, while you were enjoying your sister’s hospitality,’ said Michael, changing the subject as he reached for more bread. ‘I have learned more about Fiscurtune, the man Turke murdered.’
‘How?’ Bartholomew was surprised. ‘Did you meet someone who knew him?’
Michael nodded. ‘And you and I are going to see him together, as soon as we have finished this excellent breakfast.’
Bartholomew wanted to know there and then what Michael had discovered, but the monk was annoyingly secretive, and refused to divulge anything. After Gray had concluded the meal with a clever imitation of one of Langelee’s careless Latin graces, they drew on cloaks, Bartholomew looped his medicine bag over his shoulder, and he and Michael left the College to walk in the direction of the Great Bridge. At first, the physician could not imagine who they were going to see, and then it became clear. He smiled with pleasure.
‘Matilde! She has her network of informants, and we are going to see what she knows.’
‘No,’ said Michael, grinning at his friend’s disappointment. ‘We are going to visit Dick Tulyet – for two reasons. First, he happened to mention to me last night that he once met Fiscurtune in Chepe. And second, Mayor Horwood seems to believe that Dick is a member of Dympna, so I thought we should ask him about it.’
‘We did ask, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, glancing resentfully up the lane where Matilde’s cosy house was located. ‘When we first learned Norbert received letters from Dympna, Dick told us, quite categorically, that a woman called Dympna could have nothing to do with Norbert’s death and that we should look elsewhere for our answers.’
‘I know,’ said Michael. ‘And so I am inclined to believe Horwood was right, and that Dick knows more about Dympna than he was prepared to tell. But luck is with you, my friend, because here comes Matilde. You will see her after all.’
Matilde was a shaft of bright light in a dowdy scene. The loose plaits of her hair shone with health, her clothes were clean, neat and colourful, and her face had the complexion of smooth cream. Bartholomew thought she made everything around her look shabby and soiled. When she saw the physician, her face lit with a smile of welcome.
‘I have barely seen you since Dunstan died,’ she said reproachfully. ‘It would have been nice to share a cup of wine and exchange fond memories of him.’
‘I have been busy,’ said Michael, assuming that he was included in the comment. ‘Although I have little to show for it. Norbert’s killer still walks free, while there are all manner of questions surrounding the deaths of Turke and Gosslinge.’
Matilde nodded. ‘Edith mentioned that Oswald believed at first that Philippa had hastened their ends. Then he learned that most of Philippa’s curious behaviour relates to the fact that she wanted to celebrate her widowhood, but could not. However, there is more to it than that.’
‘Meaning?’ demanded Michael peremptorily.
‘I mentioned days ago that I thought she carried a sad secret with her. She was sorrowful even before Turke died. I still think I am right: there is something in Philippa’s life that is causing her considerable anguish. She is not good at hiding it.’
‘A lover?’ suggested Michael casually.
Matilde was thoughtful. ‘Possibly. But not one who makes her happy. Her sour expressions and irritable temper are not signs of a woman riding on a whirlwind of glorious infatuation.’
‘You do not like her, do you?’ said Michael, regarding her closely.
‘No,’ said Matilde bluntly. ‘I cannot imagine what made you fall for her, Matthew. She is everything you profess to dislike: obsessed with wealth and appearances, and difficult to draw into conversations that do not include hairstyles, jewellery or food prices.’
‘She was not always like that,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘She was lively and funny, and we talked for hours about many things – philosophy, foreign countries, music, medicine …’
‘Who did the talking?’ asked Matilde coolly. ‘I cannot imagine her holding forth about Galen’s theories pertaining to the colour of urine or the architecture of Italy. But your betrothals are none of my affair, although I am glad for both of you that that one failed.’
She walked away, leaving the two men staring after her. ‘You should ask Matilde to marry you,’ recommended Michael. ‘She may accept, and she keeps a good cellar. I would not mind visiting you in her house.’
‘Rumour has it she does not want to marry anyone,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the whispers that had reached him via the Mayor, the Franciscan Prior, Father William and finally Clippesby and Suttone.
Michael shook his head in amused contempt. ‘You know nothing about women, Matt! Let me give you an analogy. Lombard slices are my favourite pastry. If I were to tell you that I would never touch one again, what would you do? You would buy me a dozen, to induce me to rethink my position. That is what Matilde is doing: she is saying she will not do something so that you will persuade her to do otherwise. Also, the poor woman has been waiting a long time for you. You cannot blame her for wanting folk to think it is her refusals that are preventing the match, rather than the fact that you have not bothered to ask.’