A Killer in Winter (19 page)

Bartholomew felt guilty about joining a room full of celebrating scholars while the woman he had loved was so fresh in her
grief, but there was nothing he could do to help her, and it seemed a pity to curb his enjoyment because of the death of a
man he had barely known. Resolutely, he pushed the fishmonger from his mind, and tried to give his full attention to the events
unfolding in the hall. With some trepidation the Fellows took their places. The students were already there, and there was
an atmosphere of tense anticipation among them. Rather unwisely, considering his unpopularity with the undergraduates, Father
William had ordered two of his students to help him up the stairs, keen not to miss anything.

‘I do not approve of this ceremony,’ he boomed, sitting
on a bench with his damaged leg propped in front of him as he ate stewed turnips and cold meat left over from the feast.
‘Why can we not elect a Boy Bishop, instead? That would be much more in line with the teachings of the Church, and is what
the scholars at Valence Marie do.’

‘There is no difference, as far as I can see,’ said Kenyngham. ‘A Boy Bishop is just as likely to cause mischief as is a Lord
of Misrule. It is only the name that is different, not the activity.’

‘But a Boy Bishop is obliged to give a sermon in the church,’ argued William. ‘And a church is the best place for these lads
at this time of year.’

‘You would not say that if you heard some of the sermons,’ said Suttone, picking up the remains of an eel and gnawing along
its backbone with his large teeth. ‘Believe me, William, it is best to keep this sort of thing well away from the sacred confines
of God’s houses.’

‘Let us proceed,’ said Langelee, addressing the waiting students. ‘Who are your candidates?’

‘Gray and Quenhyth,’ called the Franciscan Ulfrid, a mischievous grin creasing his face.

Quenhyth was immediately on his feet, his face flushed with outrage. ‘I will not be party to such a disgraceful spectacle!
I have no time for stupid pranks and only want to study. You can leave me out of this!’

‘Silly boy,’ muttered Michael, shaking his head in reproof. ‘He should have accepted the nomination, and taken the opportunity
to avenge himself on those who have plagued him since September.’

‘Quenhyth is a dull boy,’ said Suttone, spitting eel bones on to the table, where they landed with a light pattering sound.
‘He talks about his lectures and his reading, but nothing else.’

‘He is unwise,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By standing down, he has effectively ensured that Gray is elected. And Gray will make his
life a misery over the next twelve days.’

‘Gray had better not try to make
my
life a misery,’ said
William threateningly. ‘I will not be harassed by a group of boys.’

‘You have no choice,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘You must bide by any decisions the Lord makes, while at the same time promising
no retribution in the future. You know this; we have been through it before.’

William growled something incomprehensible, and snapped his fingers for Cynric to fetch him some wine. The gesture did not
go unnoticed by Gray, and neither did Cynric’s long-suffering grimace. Bartholomew was certain William would soon pay for
his abrupt treatment of the servants.

‘I nominate me,’ said Deynman, loudly and rather unexpectedly. For a moment, no one spoke, and everyone in the hall stared
at the lad whose limited intelligence would never see him pass his disputations.

‘You cannot nominate yourself,’ said Gray eventually. ‘It is not done.’

‘Who says?’ demanded Deynman, uncharacteristically pugilistic. ‘Just because it has not been done before does not mean that
it cannot be done now. And anyway, you were Lord of Misrule last year, and I do not want you again. This year it should be
me.’

Several of the students began to cheer his audacity, while Gray looked as black as thunder. ‘But I have made arrangements,’
he said in a low, angry voice. ‘I will ensure that no one will ever forget my last Christmas at Michaelhouse: my reign will
be remembered for decades to come.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in alarm. ‘I do not like the sound of that. It does not bode well for us Fellows, of that you can
be sure.’

‘I do not care about the Fellows, only that we still have a College at the end of it,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘Gray’s idea
of a memorable time might be to set the place alight and dance in the flames.’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of the student who had been with him since the plague. ‘He knows there are
limits. I cannot say the same for Deynman, however, so you had better hope Gray wins the election.’

But Gray did not win the election. The students were amused by the fact that Deynman had issued a direct challenge to Gray,
who was a bully, and the vote for Deynman was almost unanimous. Gray was furious, and slouched on his bench with a face that
could curdle milk.

‘Good,’ said Deynman, rubbing his hands together. ‘Give me your tabard, Master Langelee. I shall wear it until Twelfth Night,
so that everyone will know that
I
am in charge.’

‘Very well, but you had better not spill anything on it,’ said Langelee, reluctantly handing over the garment. ‘I want it
back clean.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Deynman carelessly, indicating that Langelee would be unlikely to be able to wear the item again. He
turned to address his new ‘subjects’. ‘There are some things I should make clear. First, you have to do anything I say … ’

‘Within reason,’ cautioned Ulfrid warily. ‘You cannot ask us to do anything dangerous or too nasty. For example, I refuse
to be the one to remove Father William’s habit and wash it.’ The chorus of cat-calls and laughter made William gape in astonishment.
Ulfrid hastened to explain to the bemused Fellows. ‘That was on Gray’s list of things to do during the Twelve Days. It is
something that should happen, but none of us wants the task.’

‘Brother Michael can do it,’ said Deynman. ‘He is big, strong and used to unpleasant sights.’

‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement,’ said Bartholomew hastily, anticipating that Michael would refuse to undertake
such a gruesome task, which might result in all manner of chaos. ‘If William will relinquish it willingly, then Michael can
take it to Agatha—’

‘I will not have that filthy thing in my laundry,’ came Agatha’s voice from behind the servants’ screen, where she had been
listening and probably enjoying herself – at least, until she had been mentioned in connection with William’s
infamous robe. ‘The bonfire is the best place for that.’

‘I will buy a new one,’ said Deynman generously. ‘And then no one need touch it. That is my second command: William’s vile
habit shall never again make an appearance in Michaelhouse.’

‘Now just a moment,’ began William indignantly. ‘This is a perfectly serviceable garment. I admit it is marred by one or two
stains—’

Whatever he had planned to say was drowned by laughter. The students hefted their new leader on to their shoulders and carried
him to the conclave, which they evidently intended to wrest from the Fellows for the next few days. Gray followed them, a
thoughtful expression on his face. His train of thought was obvious to anyone who knew him: Deynman was fond of Gray, and
would listen to anything he suggested. So, while Gray might not be Lord of Misrule himself, being the friend of one was the
next best thing. Gray would have his power after all.

‘You cannot take the conclave!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, his usually benign face filled with dismay. ‘It is where the Fellows
go in the evenings.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The Gilbertine was not a man who usually cared much about personal comforts. Indeed,
Bartholomew would not have been surprised if Kenyngham had failed to notice that the conclave was unavailable, so immersed
was he in spiritual matters.

‘The Fellows can use the hall instead,’ said Deynman carelessly, struggling out of his friends’ grasp and walking towards
the friar. If he was annoyed to have his authority contested quite so soon after his election, he did not show it. ‘That is
what this season is all about – changing things and breaking customs.’

‘But I might want to go into the conclave,’ protested Kenyngham, becoming distressed.

‘Do not worry, Father,’ said Deynman kindly, after glancing questioningly at his friends to ensure he had their support. Everyone
liked the Gilbertine, and there were nods
and smiles all around. ‘
You
can come in any time you like. The other Fellows are banned, though.’

Kenyngham raised a blue-veined hand as he muttered a blessing. Deynman gave him a conspiratorial wink, then followed his colleagues.
Several stumbled over the loose board as they went, unused to the conclave floor’s irregularities.

‘What was that about?’ Bartholomew asked Kenyngham, as they walked together across the hall to the spiral staircase that led
to the yard. ‘You do not usually care about such things.’

‘I find the conclave more peaceful than the hall.’

‘You will not if it is full of celebrating students,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he felt the friar was not being entirely
honest with him.

He watched Kenyngham head towards his room, then went to his own chamber, intending to leave Michaelhouse before Deynman had
time to flex his new muscles of power and ask him to do something inconvenient or silly. The other Fellows had the same idea,
and there was a concerted dash for the gate. Bartholomew decided to visit Dunstan, partly because he wanted to see whether
there was anything he could do to help the old man, but partly because he hoped Matilde might be there. As he walked along
the river bank towards the crumbling huts, he thought about Turke, and wondered what the death of her husband would mean for
Philippa and her comfortable life on London’s Friday Street.

T
HERE WERE MORE CELEBRATIONS IN MICHAELHOUSE THAT
night, with the Lord of Misrule sitting in Langelee’s seat for the St Stephen’s Day supper. Predictably, the Fellows had
been instructed to serve, while Deynman was surrounded by his friends at the high table. Agatha, of course, was considered
far too venerable to sit with the rabble, so she was placed at Deynman’s right hand, looking pleased with herself as she swilled
back plentiful quantities of wine.

The atmosphere was light-hearted and jovial, and everyone seemed to be enjoying himself – although one or two Fellows were
grim faced. This merely increased the students’ amusement. Warned by Langelee that the College wine supplies were low and
would not support a season of continuous drinking, Deynman had solved the problem with large sums of money. The cellars had
been restocked, and the kitchens received a welcome boost of new and interesting victuals.

‘Now we shall have the Chepe Waits,’ decreed Deynman, standing and waving a slopping cup to give emphasis to his instruction.
‘And everyone has to talk while he is eating – English or French, not Latin. We will have no silence or Bible-reading at any
meal for the next two weeks.’

‘Twelve days,’ corrected Suttone grimly, struggling with a bowl of leeks. ‘Let us not lose count, please. William knew what
he was doing when he broke his leg – at least he is not being submitted to this kind of indignity.’

‘He is also unable to protect himself,’ said Michael, striding past him bearing a platter loaded with meat. His hands and
mouth were greasy, and it was clear that he had
been working on the ‘one-for-you-and-one-for-me’ principle. ‘Because he could not move, those students were able to rip that
habit off him and replace it with a new one. As you can imagine, he complained bitterly.’

Bartholomew could imagine. ‘His leg is not broken, you know,’ he said in a low voice to the monk. ‘If I were to remove the
splint, he would be able to walk perfectly well.’

‘Leave the splint where it is, if you please,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I want William incapacitated while I am investigating
Norbert’s death. I do not want him “helping”. And anyway, you know he hates the Misrule season. It is better for everyone
if he stays in his room.’

‘I am surprised the Chepe Waits are still here,’ said Clippesby, arriving with a bowl of nuts. ‘Frith had a fight with Agatha,
and they have all been questioned by the Sheriff about a theft from the King’s Head. I thought they would have been dismissed.’

‘Apparently, the King’s Head victim declined to take the matter further,’ said Michael, helping himself to a thick slice of
pork before flinging a considerably smaller one on to Cynric’s trencher. ‘Did you want that, Cynric? If not, throw it across
to Quenhyth; he needs a bit of flesh on his bones. So, the Waits were released without being charged. I cannot help but wonder
whether they bribed Morice to drop the investigation.’

‘Frith outwitted Deynman shamelessly this morning,’ said Suttone, doling out leeks into the bowls that were shared by two
people on the high table, and four people in the body of the hall. ‘He threatened to leave Michaelhouse immediately unless
Deynman signed a statement promising to hire the troupe for the entire Misrule season. The boy was dismayed at the prospect
of being unable to supply entertainment for his “court”, and quickly agreed to Frith’s terms.’

‘That was a low trick,’ said Bartholomew, angered partly by Deynman’s gullibility, but mostly because the Wait had used Deynman’s
dull mind to get what he wanted. He
had not been impressed by the entertainers’ talents or their manners, and he had intended to advise Deynman to dismiss them.
Now it seemed he was too late.

The Waits, assured of employment for the foreseeable future, were complacent. Their tumbling was less energetic, and they
dropped their balls and sticks with greater frequency than before. They looked dirty, too, and neither of the ‘women’ had
shaved. One had dispensed with the annoyance of his yellow wig, and the resulting combination of large bosom, balding head
and bewhiskered face was not attractive. They did not bother with a lengthy performance, either, and it was not long before
Frith announced they were going to rest. They retreated behind the servants’ screen, and Bartholomew arrived in time to catch
Jestyn drinking from one of the wine jugs.

‘That is not for you,’ he said coolly, taking the receptacle from the entertainer’s hands. ‘And it is rude to drink from the
jug, anyway.’

‘I was thirsty,’ said Jestyn, unrepentant. ‘I am I hungry, too. What is there to eat?’

‘They have already had their meal,’ said Michael, coming to refill his meat tray. ‘They cannot be hungry again already.’

‘How would you know what we feel?’ demanded Frith insolently.

‘You had better keep a civil tongue, or I shall see you throw no more balls and coloured sticks in Michaelhouse,’ said Michael
sharply.

‘We have been hired for the whole festive period,’ said Frith gloatingly. ‘We have an agreement with Deynman, and we will
only leave if
he
dismisses us. What you think is irrelevant.’

‘Do not be so sure about that,’ said Michael with cold menace. Frith regarded him silently for a moment, and apparently realised
it would not be wise to antagonise a man like Michael. He recanted, forcing a grin on to his unwholesome face.

‘Take no notice of us, Brother. We have been in rough
company for so long that we have forgotten our manners. I am sorry if I offended you. We mean no harm.’

‘We do not,’ agreed one of the women. She had dispensed with false beard and moustache in the interests of comfort, although
her hair was still gathered under her cap in the manner of a young man. She was a robust lady, with a prominent nose and a
pair of shrewd green eyes. She wiggled her hips and effected a mischievous grin ‘My name is Matilda, but my friends call me
Makejoy. Would you like me to show you why, Brother?’

‘He is busy,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to do all the work while Michael frolicked behind the screens with the likes of
Makejoy. He could tell from the expression on the monk’s face that he was interested. ‘Come on, Brother. There are people
waiting for their food.’

‘In a moment,’ said Michael, perching a large rump on one of the trestle tables and folding his arms. He was clearly in no
hurry to resume his labours. ‘I have questions for these good people.’

‘What kind of questions?’ demanded Frith, instantly wary. ‘If you are referring to that theft at the King’s Head, then yes,
we were in the tavern that night, and no, we did not take the gold. The Sheriff agreed there was not enough evidence to make
a case against us, so do not think you will succeed where he failed.’

‘Gold?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘Would this be the gold Cynric saw you counting?’

The Waits exchanged uneasy glances. ‘No one saw us count anything,’ said Jestyn unconvincingly.

‘Really?’ asked Michael sweetly. ‘You sleep in the room above the stables. Were you aware that it adjoins the servants’ quarters,
and that a previous master drilled a series of spy-holes in the walls to allow a watchful eye to be kept on visiting strangers
such as yourselves?’

‘We must have been counting the coins Deynman gave us,’ said Jestyn quickly. ‘He threw us a handful after our performance
last night.’

‘He gave you silver, not gold, and I can assure you Cynric knows the difference. Now, I shall say nothing of this to Morice,
but there is a price: I want some information.’

Bartholomew was amused by Michael’s tactics. He suspected that Morice knew perfectly well the Waits were guilty of theft,
and, since even a hint of criminal behaviour was normally sufficient for the wrongdoer to be expelled from the town – or worse
– it was obvious that Morice had been persuaded to overlook the matter. The physician wondered how much of the stolen gold
had been left in the Waits’ possession once Morice had taken his share.

However, it also stood to reason that the corrupt Sheriff would be keen for the incident to be buried and forgotten. He would
not be pleased if Michael presented him with irrefutable evidence of the Waits’ guilt. Morice would never allow Frith to reveal
Morice’s own role in the affair, and it was not unknown for people to be stabbed in dark alleys or to disappear completely.
Morice was a dangerous man as far as the Waits were concerned, and Michael had them in a nasty corner by threatening to go
to him.

‘When you first arrived in the town, you stayed at the King’s Head,’ said Michael, fixing Frith with the unwavering stare
he usually reserved for unruly students. ‘Now, there was another guest present at the time called John Harysone. What can
you tell me about him?’

‘Who?’ asked Makejoy nervously.

‘Come, come,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I know the tavern was busy, but you must have noticed Harysone. He is a bearded fellow
with teeth like a horse and an oily, malevolent character.’

‘The one who dresses in black?’ said Frith sulkily. ‘I know nothing about him – only that he hired a private room. We, on
the other hand, slept in the hayloft with other less wealthy patrons.’

‘Did you speak to him?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or see him talking to anyone else?’

‘No,’ said Makejoy. ‘And we would tell you if we had; we
owe nothing to the man, so it does not matter whether we say anything that would land him in trouble. He arrived here the
same time as us – eleven days ago now, because we came on the fifteenth day of December. I noticed him immediately. His long
teeth make eating difficult, you see, so his noonday meal was a curious thing to watch – and I have seen him in the tavern
since.’

‘But you have not exchanged words?’ asked Michael.

Jestyn shook his head. ‘I nodded at him, as fellow travellers do, but he did not acknowledge me. He stared straight through
me, then turned his attention to his duck pie. In fact, he spoke to no one. He declined all company, even that fishmonger’s
wife.’

‘Do you mean Philippa Turke?’ asked Michael. ‘I heard she and her family took a room in the King’s Head before they went to
stay with Stanmore.’

‘We wondered why they had left,’ said Frith. ‘But while they were there, your black-cloaked fellow failed to show them any
of the courtesies usually exchanged between fellow travellers. Perhaps that is why they abandoned the King’s Head – to seek
more pleasant company elsewhere.’

Makejoy frowned thoughtfully. ‘Their servant sat with Harysone, though. Remember?’

‘They shared a table, but did not speak,’ said Frith. ‘It was busy that night, and all the other seats were taken. Harysone
was displeased that he was forced to share, and cut short his meal. He took his wine with him. I remember that, because I
was hoping he would leave it behind.’

‘That would be Gosslinge,’ said Michael in satisfaction. ‘In company with Harysone. You were right, Matt: there is a connection
between them.’

‘They shared a table, but not words,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It does not sound like a meaningful encounter to me.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael, pleased with the discovery nonetheless. He addressed the Waits again. ‘Did you know that Gosslinge
is dead? He died in our church, where
someone relieved him of his clothes. I would not find them if I looked among your travelling packs, would I?’

‘You would not,’ said Makejoy huffily. ‘And I resent the implication that we are thieves.’

‘But you
are
thieves,’ Michael pointed out. ‘We have already established that – it is why you are answering my questions, remember?’ He
heaved his bulk off the table and picked up his tray. ‘However, while I am prepared to overlook a theft from the King’s Head,
I will not be so lenient if anything disappears from Michaelhouse. Do I make myself clear?’

The Waits nodded resentfully and Michael left, taking his meat with him. Bartholomew filled his jug with wine from the barrel.

‘So,’ he said conversationally. ‘You never met Gosslinge or Harysone before you arrived in Cambridge?’

‘We told you: we have never set eyes on Harysone before,’ replied Frith.

Bartholomew straightened. ‘And Gosslinge?’

‘Tell him, Frith,’ said Makejoy, after more uncomfortable glances had been exchanged. ‘If you do not and he finds out, he
will assume we have done something wrong. And we have not.’

‘We knew Gosslinge,’ admitted Frith reluctantly. ‘But when we heard he was dead, we were afraid to tell anyone about it. You
can see why: that monk immediately accused us of stealing his clothes, even though we are innocent.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘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.