calls her memory,’ said Eve in an undertone, regarding the novice disparagingly. ‘Her memories of yesterday are hazy, let alone from four months ago.’
‘Are you gentlemen returning to the town?’ asked Matilde in a slow, croaking voice, fiddling with the ring on her finger to indicate that she wanted to speak to them. ‘If so, I have a message to send to my kinsman. Would you be so kind as to deliver it for me?’
‘I suppose so,’ sighed Michael ungraciously. ‘Hurry up, if you want to write it. We have a great deal to do today and we cannot wait for long.’
‘I do not write,’ said Matilde, in the tone of voice that suggested she considered literacy akin to some disgusting vice. ‘I will whisper my message and you can deliver it personally.’
‘I will do no such thing,’ replied Michael haughtily, playing his part well. ‘You can mutter any message you have into the ear of my friend here. He is a physician, and much more used to the ramblings of old women than I am. He will carry your message.’
‘And God bless you, too, Brother,’ retorted Matilde as she eased herself off the bench with a great show of making it look like a painful and laborious business.
Tysilia watched her with open curiosity. ‘She is fat,’ she declared uncompromisingly. ‘Fat women are ugly, and the Death should have taken them all.’
‘Tysilia!’ exclaimed Dame Martyn, genuinely aghast. ‘You really must keep such hostile thoughts to yourself. It is not becoming.’
‘I will never be fat,’ continued Tysilia, tearing off another lump of ham with her sharp white teeth, like a carnivorous reptile. ‘Men tell me I am a goddess, with my fine slim limbs and my smooth skin.’
‘Beauty fades,’ said Eve softly. ‘And then what will you have left?’
‘My mind,’ said Tysilia proudly.
‘Is she serious?’ asked Bartholomew of Matilde, as she made her clumsy way towards him, so they could speak without being overheard.
Matilde leaned close to him, and pretended to be reciting her message. ‘I still have no idea whether she is the cleverest woman in the country or the most stupid. But I overheard Eve Wasteneys and Dame Martyn talking about those meetings this morning. I am fairly sure they are telling you the truth when they say they do not recall which other men were involved.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Because they were trying very hard to remember, and they could not. I think they wanted something with which to bargain, so you would leave them alone. I am not surprised that Dame Martyn recalls nothing; she is drunk most of the time. Meanwhile, Eve is so busy trying to keep the convent from falling about her ears that she is too overwhelmed to recall things like the names of men who visited the convent months ago.’
‘But this was not months ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They told us last time that some of the meetings were comparatively recent.’
‘A week or ten days,’ confirmed Matilde. ‘Although the first ones were held in late November. But they came cloaked and hooded, and the nuns deliberately did not pay them too much attention, because these men clearly did not want to be identified.’
‘I bet they did not,’ said Bartholomew.
‘That is why Eve and Dame Martyn honestly do not know the identities of these people, other than the few who stand out physically – Lincolne because of his size and funny hair; Kenyngham because he had forgotten to cover his face; and Pechem because only Franciscans wear grey. Incidentally, the earlier gatherings were better attended than the more recent ones.’
‘Why? Because to be caught at one might be dangerous?’
‘The nuns do not know. They were concerned that dwindling attendance might cause Walcote to stop holding them, which would have meant the loss of four groats.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘Does anyone have the slightest idea as to who you are?’
‘Of course not,’ said Matilde, her eyes gleaming through her mass of painted wrinkles. ‘And I am thoroughly enjoying myself, so do not worry. Even if I were not trying to help you, Tysilia would present an interesting and amusing problem. She is the most brazen of thieves. She stole a pendant from me last night – a worthless bauble as it happens, but mine nevertheless. She took it when she thought I was asleep.’
Bartholomew was horrified, visions of Matilde being smothered with pillows or knifed as she slept rushing through his mind. ‘She wanders unsupervised at night? But she may harm you when you are least suspecting it.’
‘No,’ said Matilde with a confident smile. ‘I will lock the door tonight. She will not hurt me. But you should go now, or they will wonder what we are talking about.’
‘You say your nephew is Robin of Grantchester, Mistress Horner?’ asked Bartholomew loudly, stepping away from her. Matilde’s eyes opened wide with horrified amusement when she heard he had chosen the unsavoury town surgeon as her fictitious relative. ‘I shall see that he has your message this morning.’
Rain continued to fall heavily as Bartholomew and Michael walked back to Cambridge; by the time they arrived, they were soaked. Michael was disappointed that Matilde had nothing to report, and was not particularly comforted by the notion that Dame Martyn and Eve Wasteneys had actually been telling the truth when they said they could not recall which men had had business with Walcote. He claimed he would rather they had been lying, because then there would have been a chance of learning the identities of the men involved.
‘There is still Pechem of the Franciscans to interrogate,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Eve Wasteneys claims he was one of these mysterious midnight guests.’
‘He is visiting the Franciscan house at Denny and will not be back until tomorrow,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘He seems to be elsewhere every time I ask for him. I wonder if that is significant. Still, unless he plans to evade me for ever, I shall run into him sooner or later.’
‘Then we should talk to Kenyngham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would never lie. He will tell us who the others were.’
Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘Really, Matt. Do you think that had not occurred to me? But Kenyngham is locked away in the Gilbertine Friary, engaged in some kind of prayerful fast for Lent. He is due to finish tomorrow, but until then, the Gilbertines will not interrupt him.’
‘That sounds like Kenyngham. Now that he is relieved of his duties as Master of Michaelhouse, he can fast and pray as much as he likes.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is a wretched nuisance when I need his help so urgently. I tried every way I could think of to inveigle my way into the Gilbertines’ chapel, but they were immovable. I have the feeling they regard him as a saint in the making. If it were anyone but Kenyngham, I would question such religious fervour as suspect behaviour.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘For a monk, you are remarkably intolerant of men whose lives are ruled by their religious beliefs.’
‘Everything in its place, Matt,’ replied Michael. ‘I am extremely tolerant, actually. What I am
‘Like Timothy and Janius, you mean?’
‘Especially Janius. I like them both, but their fanaticism unnerves me. It is dangerous to believe God controls everything to the point where you think what people do is irrelevant.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘Some of my patients are the same. Sometimes I wonder whether it is just so that they will not have to make difficult decisions or come to terms with things they find painful.’
‘We could be burned in the Market Square for having this kind of conversation,’ said Michael, jabbing his friend playfully in the ribs with one of his powerful elbows. ‘To say we believe God is not directly responsible for everything that happens, and that humans have a choice, would be considered heresy by some.’
‘Only because they have not thought it through,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If
