Michael took Tulyet’s arm and pulled him aside. ‘Tell me about Dympna – Norbert’s secret lover who wrote him notes. Did you know her? Who is she?’
Tulyet gazed at him. ‘I thought he had many lovers, not just a single person. And how do you know she was called Dympna?’
‘Does this mean that you do not know her?’ said Michael, disappointed.
‘I do not know any woman called Dympna,’ said Tulyet. ‘But you will waste your time if you follow that line of enquiry. Norbert would never have indulged in a relationship with a woman who could write: that would have made him feel inferior, which was something he hated. Dympna will lead you nowhere, Brother.’
While the exchange between Tulyet and Michael took place, Bartholomew was experiencing grave misgivings about the wisdom of meeting Philippa in such a public place. Gradually, Langelee’s suggestion that he spend the afternoon in hiding became increasingly attractive, and he took two or three steps away. But he had dallied too long, and the last guests arrived with a sudden flurry. First, came his sister with her husband at her side. Edith’s black curls contrasted starkly with Oswald Stanmore’s iron-grey hair and beard, and both wore tunics of a warm russet colour. Edith’s cloak was blue, while Stanmore’s was Lincoln green, and together they were a handsome couple. Edith smiled sympathetically at her brother.
‘I tried to prevent Langelee from extending his invitation to our guests, but you know what he is like. He thought Walter Turke might give funds to Michaelhouse, and was oblivious to my hints that he should keep his hospitality to himself. I was hoping she would be gone before you knew she had even been here.’
‘How long has she been with you?’
‘Four nights – since Wednesday,’ replied Edith, ‘although she arrived in Cambridge ten days ago, and was enduring the dubious delights of the King’s Head. In all fairness to her, she was reluctant to stay with us out of deference to your feelings: her husband accepted my offer immediately, however, and that was that. Meanwhile, Cynric has been steering you away from places he thought she might be, while I told her that you are too busy to visit. I am sorry, Matt. I did not want you to find out like this.’
Bartholomew smiled, thinking that the cold weather and his determination to do as much teaching as he could before term ended meant that he had been out very little, and Edith might well have succeeded in preventing a meeting of the two parties had Langelee not interfered.
‘You need not have gone to such efforts on my behalf. I do not mind seeing Philippa again.’
Stanmore finished greeting Langelee, and turned to take his wife’s arm. It was cold in the yard and he wanted to go inside, where there would be a fire in the hearth and hot spiced ale warming over the flames. As Edith moved away, Bartholomew saw the three people who had been behind her, and found himself at a loss for words.
The older of the two men was much as Bartholomew imagined a wealthy fishmonger would look. He had an oiled beard, sharp grey eyes, and every available scrap of his garments was adorned with jewels or gold thread. The buckles on his shoes were silver and his buttons were semi-precious stones. Each time Walter Turke moved, some shiny object caught the light and sparkled.
The second man was Giles Abigny, who had once been Bartholomew’s room-mate. Gone were the flowing yellow locks and the mischievous smile of the student in his twenties. Abigny in his thirties was crop-haired, sombre and wore the drab garments of a law-court clerk – a blue over-tunic, called a cote-hardie, with buttoned sleeves, and a dark mantle with a metal clasp on the right shoulder. His brown hat was high crowned, and was decorated with a feather that had seen better days. He was heavier, too, indicating that he spent rather more time at the dinner table now than when he had been younger. He clasped Bartholomew’s hand warmly, and promised that they would talk later, once they were settled and comfortable.
The woman who accompanied Turke, however, was not Philippa. She was Turke’s wife; it was evident in the proprietorial way in which he handled her. She was as tall as Philippa had been, but much larger. Her expensive clothes could not hide the fact that she was both pear shaped and the owner of several chins. Her hair was completely concealed under a matronly wimple, and her skin was blemished and tired, although some attempt had been made to disguise the fact with chalk paste. She was, in short, middle aged, overweight and unattractive.
Bartholomew recalled Edith’s words – that she had not wanted him to ‘find out like this’. The truth became painfully clear: Philippa was no longer Turke’s wife, and the man had remarried. Edith had not wanted Bartholomew to learn that Philippa was dead by meeting the next Mistress Turke. The physician felt a surge of sadness for the young woman with the golden hair and blue eyes, who had gone to London in search of a better life than he could offer her. He hoped she had found happiness before she had died.
‘Hello, Matt,’ said the woman, approaching him with a smile. ‘Do you not remember me? I am Philippa.’
Langelee was about to lead his guests across the yard and into the hall, when Agatha strode up to him and announced in a loud whisper that the boar was ‘still bloody’ and that the meal would not be ready for some time. Rather than wait indefinitely in the hall until the beast rotating over the kitchen fire was cooked to Agatha’s exacting standards, Langelee decided to take the guests to his own quarters. Gray and Quenhyth were dispatched to stoke up the fire and remove any soiled linen that might be lying around, while Langelee procrastinated in the yard until Gray’s hand appeared in the window to let him know that the chambers were presentable.
It was a colourful group that crowded into the two rooms, with the merchants and Sheriff adding yellows, greens and blues (and Robin’s lilac and orange) to the scholars’ ceremonial reds. The atmosphere was tense, however. Morice seemed uneasy with his predecessor in such close proximity, while Tulyet barely acknowledged that Morice was there, giving the impression he felt little but contempt for the man.
Robin of Grantchester looked hopelessly out of place. He stood near the hearth drinking steadily and eyeing the wine goblet as though he might take it with him when he left. Bartholomew tried exchanging pleasantries, but abandoned his efforts when Robin accused him of attempting to steal his professional secrets. Refraining from retorting that Robin had no secrets of any kind that Bartholomew would want to know, the physician backed away, gesturing to Suttone that he should entertain the man. Suttone obliged, and Bartholomew heard him informing the surgeon that the Death would soon return to Cambridge, and that he had better be prepared for it. This grim news was met with some pleasure by Robin, who had made a lot of money the last time the plague had raged.
Meanwhile, it was painfully obvious that Oswald Stanmore did not like the merchant to whom he had opened his house that Christmas. Edith tried hard to keep the peace, interrupting with a change of topic whenever one man looked set to offend the other and keeping the discussions lighthearted and uncontroversial. Abigny sat on a stool in a corner and watched them with cynical amusement, while Philippa was offered Langelee’s best chair, which faced the fire and effectively absolved her from the general conversation. Clippesby crouched at her feet, like a lap-dog, and told her about the final confession the boar had made before it was dispatched to become the centrepiece for the feast. Bartholomew was grateful to Clippesby, because the musician’s deranged chatter meant that he was not yet obliged to talk to Philippa himself. Instead he went to speak to Abigny.
‘Giles,’ he said warmly. ‘We have not had news from you for years. What have you been doing since the plague?’
‘The plague years were good times,’ said Abigny fondly. ‘I was carefree then – with only myself to worry about.’