Free A Killer in Winter by Susanna Gregory Page A

regarded the lad with weary resignation. Martyn de Quenhyth was always in some kind of trouble, although the physician
     thought that even dealing with Quenhyth’s silly scrapes was preferable to dwelling on his impending encounter with Philippa.
    Quenhyth had arrived in Cambridge the previous September, determined to become a physician. Langelee had accepted him at Michaelhouse
     because he was able to pay the requisite fees, but Bartholomew had been less than impressed, and found Quenhyth arrogant,
     intense and joyless. The lad was no more popular with his fellow students, and was constantly the butt of their practical
     jokes. Bartholomew suspected that the teasing would stop if Quenhyth made an effort to be pleasant, but Quenhyth was just
     not the pleasant type.
    He was tall and gangly, with long, ink-stained fingers that were tipped with gnawed nails. A thatch of brown curls had been
     hacked with a knife to reduce it to the length required of scholars, and his uniform was worn exactly according to the College’s
     prescription. He possessed a mean, thin nose and a pair of pallid eyes that he turned accusingly on a group of his classmates,
     who just happened to have gathered nearby to study a psalter – something that immediately aroused Bartholomew’s suspicions.
     He guessed they had adroitly manoeuvred themselves into a position where they would be able to hear what was happening. Among
     them were Sam Gray, a bright student with a cruel sense of humour, and Rob Deynman, a dull-witted lad who was tolerated at
     Michaelhouse because his wealthy father paid double fees.
    ‘What have you done this time?’ Bartholomew asked of Quenhyth, glancing at Una and hoping it was nothing too indecent. She
     giggled and winked at him.
    ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ declared Quenhyth primly. ‘I am sure you know who is to blame, and it is not me!’ He cast another
     venomous glower in the direction of the sniggering lads who vied for positions around the psalter. ‘Your other students do
     not appreciate that I am here to learn, not to take part in their pranks. They are always trying to get me into trouble.’
    ‘And what have they done now?’ enquired Michael, giving Gray and Deynman a glare of his own to indicate what he thought about
     behaviour that kept him from his breakfast.
    ‘They put a whore in my bed while I was asleep,’ replied Quenhyth resentfully, giving Una a look that was every bit as black
     as the ones he had given the students. ‘She was there when I awoke this morning.’
    ‘I am not a whore,’ objected Una hotly. The amused smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of righteous indignation. ‘We
     call ourselves “Frail Sisters” these days. That means I have a trade, and am every bit as good as any other craftsmen. Lady
     Matilde – you know her, Doctor.’ Here she gave Bartholomew a lascivious leer. ‘She organised us into a proper guild, and said
     we should not let people look down at us when we are only earning an honest crust.’
    ‘Frail Sisters?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding Una uncertainly. ‘I have not heard that expression before.’
    ‘It is nicer than “whore”.’ She glowered at Quenhyth.
    ‘The Honourable Fraternity of Frail Sisters should have told you that scholars are off limits for your many charms,’ said
     Michael drolly. ‘And so are the insides of Colleges and hostels.’
    Una waved a dismissive hand. ‘We are in and out of those all the time, Brother. Why should Michaelhouse be any different?’
    ‘Because it is the place where both the Senior and the Junior Proctor reside,’ replied Michael mildly. ‘And unless you want
     to lose your night’s earnings in fines, you would do well to remember that.’ He snapped his fingers at the sniggering Gray.
     ‘See the Frail Sister off the premises, Sam. And if I catch her here again, I shall hold
you
personally responsible.’
    Quenhyth shot Gray a triumphant sneer when he saw that Michael had correctly