‘Is he telling the truth now, do you think?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, as the clerk hobbled away.
‘He is telling the truth about his sore feet. And as for the rest – I have no idea.’
Dick Tulyet was pleased to see Bartholomew and Michael, and invited them into the warm chaos of his house on Bridge Street. His energetic son was racing here and there with a wooden sword, an item that Bartholomew thought was far too dangerous a thing to place in the destructive hands of the youngest Tulyet. The child was in constant trouble, much to the consternation of his sober and law-abiding parents.
Tulyet led Bartholomew and Michael to the room he used as an office, where he slipped a bar across the door, explaining that young Dickon would dash in and disturb them if it were left unlocked. The ear-splitting sounds of the boy’s battle calls echoed from the solar, where his mother and a couple of servants tried to keep him quiet until his father’s visitors left. The Tulyets would never have another child, and both treated the boy far more tenderly than was warranted for such a brutish little ruffian. Dickon was rapidly becoming a tyrant, and Bartholomew’s heart always sank when he was summoned to tend the brat’s various minor injuries – cuts and bruises usually acquired by doing something he had been told not to do.
‘Dympna,’ said Michael, pouring himself a cup of wine from the jug that stood on the windowsill before settling comfortably on a cushioned bench. ‘What does that mean to you, Dick? Mayor Horwood intimated you know something about it.’
‘Is this relevant to Norbert’s death?’ asked Tulyet warily. ‘Only I would rather not discuss it, if there is a choice.’
‘Dympna sent a number of notes to Norbert, summoning him to meetings in St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘You already know this, because I told you. Then a note from Dympna was discovered inside the corpse of a man called Gosslinge. So, I think information about this strange group could well be relevant – if not to Norbert’s murder, then to Gosslinge’s death.’
‘Very well,’ said Tulyet reluctantly. ‘We swore an oath that we would not speak about Dympna without due cause, but the murder of my cousin is due cause. I think no one would take issue with that. I shall tell you about Dympna, but please do not make anything I say public.’
‘You claimed you knew nothing about it on Christmas Day,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You told me I would waste my time if I investigated Dympna.’
‘The latter statement is true, but the former is not,’ replied Tulyet evenly. ‘I denied knowing a woman called Dympna – and that is correct – but I did not say I knew nothing about it. And I genuinely believed that enquiries into Dympna would bring you no closer to Norbert’s killer, that it would lead you to waste time. It seems I was wrong.’
‘You were,’ affirmed Michael testily.
‘But I do not see how! Norbert did petition Dympna for funds, but apart from a single message refusing his application, Dympna had no correspondence with him. I cannot imagine where these other missives came from.’
‘Let us go over what we know,’ said Michael. ‘Dympna is a charitable group that helps people in need. We know it supplied funds to the Franciscan Friary, for example.’
Tulyet nodded. ‘It was founded during the Death, but I was made a member later, when I became Sheriff. Originally, gifts of money were made to the needy, but it soon became clear that Dympna would run dry if that practice continued. It was decided to make loans instead, so that larger and more useful sums could be offered. By the time I joined, most of Dympna’s transactions involved loans; there are very few gifts these days.’
‘So, Dympna is just a money-lending fraternity,’ said Michael dismissively.
‘Not at all. Moneylenders make profits from interest. But Dympna does not charge interest, nor does it demand repayment by specific dates.’
‘Then why do people repay you at all?’
‘Because Dympna does not help just anyone. Each case is carefully considered, and the honesty and integrity of the applicant is assessed. We would not lend money to someone we could not trust to pay us back. So, for example, we made loans to pay irate builders at Bene’t, when the College suddenly found itself without the funds to pay for work already completed; and we made one to allow the Carmelites to buy new habits when a fire robbed them of most of their clothes.’
‘And the recipients always pay you back?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
‘Always, but never with interest – unless they choose to make a donation for our future work. The Carmelites were generous in that respect, although there was no pressure on them to do so.’
‘Who are the other members of Dympna?’ asked Michael.
Tulyet hesitated, but then seemed to reach a decision. ‘There are four of us. But you must never reveal our identities. If that happens, and everyone learns who we are, we will be overwhelmed with demands for help, and our funds will dissipate like mist in the summer sun. Then Dympna will be dissolved, and the town will lose something good.’
‘Who?’ pressed Michael. ‘You, and three others?’
‘Master Kenyngham is one, and Robin of Grantchester is another.’
‘Robin?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished that Clippesby had been right, and even more astonished that a disreputable fellow like Robin should be chosen to serve an altruistic organisation.
‘Kenyngham?’ asked Michael at the same time. ‘I suppose that should not surprise me. He is exactly the kind of man to engage in kindly acts and keep his beneficence a secret.’
‘Robin is not, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why did you select him to help?’
‘Many of the people he treats die or become very ill,’ explained Tulyet. ‘They often need Dympna to pay for healing potions or to allow their families to bury them. Robin keeps us informed of who might require such assistance.’
‘I should have guessed this ages ago,’ said Bartholomew, putting together facts in his mind. ‘All the evidence was there, but I did not make the connections. We were told that Robin has been associated with various acts of charity recently – by Ailred, among others. It was also Robin who brought food for Dunstan after Athelbald died.’
‘That was not Dympna,’ said Tulyet. ‘Each transaction must be agreed by all four members, but we have not met for several weeks now. Dympna did not help Dunstan. As I said, we seldom make gifts, only loans. We would not have lent money to Dunstan, because dying men are unlikely to pay us back. Robin must have arranged that out of the goodness of his heart.’
‘I do not think so!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the notion.
‘Kenyngham, then,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is generous and compassionate. So is Father Ailred of Ovyng. I am lucky to have two such honest and kindly souls to work with.’
‘Ailred is the last member?’ said Michael. ‘Now, that is interesting! What was his reaction when Norbert’s classmates said he had received messages from Dympna, Matt? Can you remember? Indignant? Thoughtful? Concerned?’
‘He told us we should look elsewhere for answers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just like Dick.’
Tulyet winced. ‘What else could I do? Dympna has done a great deal of good in the town. Ailred feels as I do – that we should do all we can to protect it, so it can continue to help the needy.’
‘Robin lent Ailred a backgammon board and pieces,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I was surprised at the time that they knew each other well enough for borrowing and lending, but now I see exactly how that came about: they are colleagues.’
‘Robin is hardly our colleague,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘But he serves his purpose, and we have no complaints about the way he discharges his responsibilities.’
‘We shall speak to him and the other two members later,’ vowed Michael. ‘But where do you keep Dympna’s money?’ He looked around him, as though he expected a large chest filled with coins to manifest itself.