Ailred shook his head crossly. ‘I am not thinking of anyone specifically. I am only saying you are wasting time with Dympna when you could be investigating the real culprit.’
‘You did not try very hard to discover the identity of the person Norbert met,’ said Michael to Godric, sounding accusatory and ignoring the principal’s advice. ‘It could not have taken much skill to catch her, once she was inside.’
‘It took more than we had,’ said Godric ruefully. ‘We are not experienced at that kind of thing. We were just being nosy – to see what kind of wench would be attracted to Norbert. Had we known it would lead to a line of enquiry relating to his murder, we would have tried harder.’
Michael pursed his lips. ‘So, none of you stabbed Harysone, and none of you can tell me about Dympna?’ He sighed. ‘Then I suppose I shall bid you goodnight.’
Bartholomew and Michael walked to the hovels on the river bank, feeling frozen snow crunch under their feet. For the first time in many days, the evening was clear, and millions of stars glittered overhead in a spectacle of indescribable beauty. The beauty had its price, however, and the temperature had plummeted even further. Sudden cracks rent the air when water expanded into ice and split walls, wood and stone, and the still night air was thick with smoke from hearths.
Michael sat with Dunstan, holding his hand and allowing him to reminisce about his brother, while exaggerating the quality of Athelbald’s singing. Bartholomew banked up the fire so its heat filled the single room, then made sure the blankets were tucked around Dunstan’s thin shoulders. He tried again to persuade the old man to stay at Michaelhouse, but Dunstan claimed his brother’s soul was still in the house, and said he would not leave until it had gone.
They had not been there for long before there was a perfunctory knock on the door and Matilde entered. Bartholomew felt a lurch of pleasure when he saw her, standing tall and graceful in the centre of the shabby hut. She wore her cloak of bright blue with the silver clasp, and her feet were clad in stout, practical boots. Robert de Blaston was with her, flapping his arms and stamping in an attempt to warm himself. Bartholomew recalled that Matilde had taken the carpenter and his brood into her house when it became apparent that their own home was unsafe, and had probably saved their lives by doing so. Matilde greeted the scholars, then indicated Blaston, who had declined to enter the crowded hut.
‘Rob insisted on accompanying me, because you know what this town can be like for a lone woman after dark. I wanted to make sure Dunstan was settled for the night, but it seems you have already done that. How is Philippa?’
Bartholomew was startled by the abrupt question. ‘Well enough, I suppose. Her husband is being embalmed and prepared for travel, so I imagine she will go home when the weather breaks.’
‘Good,’ said Matilde. She blushed when she realised how that sounded. ‘I mean it is good for her to complete this grim business and be about her life. She will be obliged to search for new suitors soon and will want to make a start.’
‘Will she be courting you, Doctor?’ asked Dunstan. But his eyes lacked the mischievous sparkle such teasing usually brought, and his voice was lustreless and flat.
‘I do not think she is in a hurry to remarry,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Matilde was waiting for his answer. ‘She will not think it seemly for a widow to be soliciting husbands until a decent amount of time has passed.’
‘That depends on what Turke left her in his will,’ said Matilde practically. ‘She may have time for a leisurely approach, but then she may be obliged to begin the hunt immediately.’
‘I hope she does not hunt around here,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I do not think she would make a good wife for Matt. She has changed since we first met, and I cannot say I like her as much as I did. Besides, I do not think she would welcome my visits to her home or offer me the best food in her larder.’
‘I do not think she would appreciate visits from Matthew’s other friends, either,’ said Matilde meaningfully. ‘And I would miss his company terribly.’
‘You need not worry,’ said Bartholomew, amused by their flagrant self-interest. ‘I doubt I am any more Philippa’s idea of the perfect husband now than I was five years ago. We are not as easy in each other’s company as we were, and she is often irritable.’
‘She is not a happy woman,’ agreed Matilde. ‘And it is not because she has lost her husband. Her sadness goes deeper than that, and has lasted for more than a few days.’
‘She was not sad at the feast,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by Matilde’s assertions. ‘And that was before Turke died. She is not the woman I remember – who laughed a good deal – but she did not seem despondent. Just older and wiser, like all of us.’
