‘Who is Henry de Walton?’ Before she could answer, Bartholomew recalled that Robin of Grantchester had mentioned a Henry de Walton who had an inappropriate fondness for the Mayor’s wife. Simeon had described him as a sickly soul with a list of ailments.
‘One of the Fellows,’ replied Adela. ‘A snivelling little man who is always complaining about the state of his digestion – not an attractive subject, you must admit.’
Adela was not the person to be criticising others about their choice of suitable conversational gambits, since her own included ending unwanted pregnancies in horses and equine breeding habits.
‘Do you know the Bene’t Fellows well?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued by the contrast between the picture Adela presented and the one Simeon would have them believe.
‘I most certainly do not,’ said Adela, offended. ‘Scholars are an unsavoury brood, to be avoided at all costs – present company excepted, of course. Caumpes of Bene’t is nice, but he is a Fenman, and so is better than all these foreigners from Hertfordshire, Yorkshire and other distant lands. My father and I would never willingly socialise with the Bene’t scholars, although we are forced to deal with them when we discuss their College’s finances.’
Mayor Horwoode had also been offended by the notion that he hobnobbed with scholars, Bartholomew recalled. He had claimed that he would never invite one to his house.
‘That pathetic de Walton is not fit to be called a man,’ Adela continued. ‘Raysoun and Wymundham murdered indeed! What arrant nonsense!’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Adela regarded him with a puzzlement that equalled his own. ‘You would not ask that if you knew the man. All he thinks about is his health, and he sees danger at every turn. Would you believe that he refuses to mount a horse in case he falls off and bruises himself?’
Bartholomew, who detested riding, did not consider de Walton’s refusal to clamber on to a snorting, prancing animal that was much bigger than himself to be the final word in cowardice. He thought Adela was being overly harsh.
‘I cannot imagine how de Walton came to the conclusion that his colleagues were murdered,’ Adela went on. ‘The workmen at Bene’t say that Raysoun fell while he was drunk, while Wymundham is said to have thrown himself from the King’s Ditch – remorse for having made Raysoun’s last few months on Earth so miserable with his sharp tongue.’
Bartholomew supposed he could tell her what Wymundham had claimed to have heard Raysoun declare with his dying breath, but his gossiping with her would only serve to fan the flames of rumour and untruth. Anyway, it seemed she had already made up her own mind about what she thought had happened, and he did not see why he should convince her otherwise. It would do no one any good, and might even cause harm.
‘I should go,’ she said. ‘If I leave my father for too long, there is always a danger that he will have found me a husband by the time I return. I expect your sister is the same. I know she would like to see you married.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘She is determined to see me with a wife,’ he admitted. ‘But then I would have to give up my teaching, and I do not want to do that yet.’
‘Quite right,’ said Adela. ‘The country needs as many trained physicians as you can give it. Master Lynton is so overwhelmed by summonses from his human patients these days that he can seldom spare the time to see my horses when I need him. He was never too busy before the Death.’
‘Lynton physicks your horses?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But that is what blacksmiths do.’
‘Physicians are better,’ said Adela. ‘They are more careful, and they consult the stars before suggesting a course of treatment.’
Bartholomew laughed in disbelief. ‘So, all these years that Lynton has been berating me for dabbling in surgery, he has been poaching the blacksmiths’ trade?’
‘Horses are sensitive animals, Matthew,’ protested Adela. ‘Not to mention expensive. I do not want any grubby old tradesman tampering with them. But, as I just said, Lynton is invariably too busy for me these days.’ She regarded Bartholomew speculatively. ‘I do not suppose you would be interested in helping on occasion, would you? I pay well.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I know nothing about horses.’
‘Pity,’ said Adela with genuine regret. ‘That will reduce your value as a potential husband.’
‘Will it?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the peculiar twists and turns the conversation took with the eccentric Adela Tangmer. ‘No one has mentioned this before.’
‘No woman wants a man who does not look good in his saddle,’ declared Adela with conviction. ‘It would be like having a mate who does not know how to hunt.’
As a boy, Bartholomew had been given a basic training in such manly skills by his brother-in-law, but suspected that if he ever needed to catch his own food he would quickly starve. He supposed that to Adela, he would be about as poor a catch as she could imagine.
Adela grimaced and continued. ‘My father has become quite tedious about the subject of marriage. I do not want a husband chasing me morning, noon and night to demand his conjugal rights. I have better things to do with my time.’
Adela’s age and appearance made it unlikely that she would be the object of such desperately amorous attentions, although Bartholomew was too polite to say so.
He shrugged. ‘Your father probably wants an heir for his business.’
‘He does, but I am not some old nag to be bred to suit his needs. When I decide to couple with a man, it will be on my terms and in my own time. Do not let your sister grind you down over this, Matthew. You and I should draw strength from each other to fight these match-makers, or you will end up with some empty-headed imbecile and I will be provided with some man who knows nothing about horses and who has skinny legs into the bargain.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Allies, then?’ asked Adela, leaning down to extend a powerful, calloused hand for Bartholomew to shake. ‘Shall you and I stand together against unsuitable matches?’
‘Why not?’ said Bartholomew, taking the proffered hand with a smile. He wondered what his sister would say if she ever learned he had formed such an alliance.
Chapter 6
MICHAEL CHUCKLED AS HE RECLINED ON his bed the following afternoon. The dirty plates and empty goblets scattered around the room suggested that he had regained his appetite with a vengeance, and Bartholomew suspected that the monk was rather enjoying his convalescence.
‘And Agatha threatened to do away with Runham?’ asked Michael, eyes gleaming with merriment as he listened to Bartholomew’s account of what had happened when William had bloodied Runham’s nose and Agatha the laundress had become involved in the fracas.
‘Not in so many words, but she does not like him.’
Michael chortled again. ‘Foolish man! He will never run a successful College without the acquiescence of Agatha. And if he tries to dismiss her, he is dead for certain.’
‘She has been offered a post at Bene’t College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It provides higher pay and better living accommodation, and she is seriously thinking of taking it.’
The humour faded from Michael’s face. ‘Bene’t is poaching our servants?’
‘We do not have many left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘All the porters have gone – including Walter, which is a blessing – and all but one of the cooks, while poor Cynric was dismissed the day after the feast.’
‘We will both miss him,’ said Michael sincerely. ‘But things are getting out of hand, Matt. I am at Death’s door for a few days and I recover to find my College is a different place.’