Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I thought you might like this,’ said the insane Clippesby shyly, breaking into his thoughts by sidling up and offering him a stained and lumpy bundle. Bartholomew could see a glistening tail protruding from one end of it. He was being offered the fish that Clippesby had taken to breakfast.

  ‘He has just eaten,’ said Michael. ‘He does not need to consume a squashed pike just yet, thank you. And anyway, it has been dead far too long already. It stinks.’

  ‘It is a tench,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where did you find it, Clippesby?’

  Clippesby was pleased by the physician’s curiosity. ‘On Milne Street, near Piron Lane. It had been tossed there, probably by someone walking past.’ He turned a resentful gaze on Michael. ‘Matt knows perfectly well that I am not bringing this for him to eat. It is common knowledge that tench have healing powers.’

  ‘Do they?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew doubtfully.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Pliny says that tench applied to the hands or feet can cure fevers, jaundice, head pains and toothache. But, more importantly, I am sure this was the fish I saw the night Norbert died. Whoever pushed me over grabbed it before he escaped.’

  ‘Then how did it end up abandoned on Milne Street?’ asked Michael. ‘It is a wretched thing – already rotten, despite its salting. Why would your attacker risk capture for it?’

  ‘Perhaps he did not know its state when he acted,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He only learned it was bad when he took off the wrappings – at which point he discarded it.’

  ‘It was thrown into some bushes,’ added Clippesby helpfully. ‘I would not have noticed it, but one of the cats mentioned it was there, so I went to look.’

  ‘A cat told you to ferret about behind some shrubs?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘You should choose your friends more carefully, man. You do not know what you might unearth, foraging around in places like that.’

  Bartholomew surmised that Clippesby had observed a cat expressing an unusual interest in the spot where the fish had been thrown and had gone to investigate. The mad musician’s claims about talking to animals nearly always had some rational explanation behind them.

  ‘We have already deduced that Norbert’s killer and the man who pushed me were not the same,’ the physician mused. ‘So, I suppose this means that the tench is also irrelevant.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not want to dispense with evidence prematurely. Will you store it in the basement, Clippesby? Hide it well, or we may find it served up for dinner in a week. You know how Michaelhouse’s nasty policy of “waste not, want not” works these days.’

  Smiling amiably, Clippesby wandered away with his fishy prize, stopping to exchange pleasantries with the porter’s cockerel as he went.

  ‘Do you really think the tench might be significant to Norbert’s case, or was that just a ruse to remove Clippesby and the rank odour of fish?’ Bartholomew was laughing.

  Michael remained sombre. ‘Both. William thinks it will be simple to solve Norbert’s murder, because it will be easy to identify people who did not like him. But he is wrong: I think it will be very difficult to isolate the real culprit. Perhaps your assailant had nothing to do with Norbert, but I will keep him in mind until I am absolutely certain. And since he considered the fish sufficiently important to grab before he ran away, we shall keep that, too.’

  ‘Look,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the front gate as it was suddenly flung open and an important visitor was ushered inside. ‘There is Sheriff Morice, waving to catch your attention. He is all yours, Brother. I have work to do, and I should probably pay my respects to Phillippa …’ He faltered. Meeting the woman he had almost married was not something he wanted to do at all.

  ‘Wait,’ said Michael, shooting out a fat, white hand to prevent Bartholomew from escaping. The physician did not bother to shake him off. He had decided that an interview with the corrupt Sheriff was infinitely preferable to an encounter with Philippa Abigny. ‘I do not trust him,’ Michael continued, ‘and it would be good to have a witness to anything he says.’

  ‘Brother Michael!’ said Morice, advancing on the monk with a smile that reminded Bartholomew of a leering demon he had once seen on a wall painting. Morice was a dark-haired, swarthy man with curiously blue eyes and a beard and moustache that went some way, but not all, to disguising a mean-lipped mouth. His shoulders were slightly rounded, and he might have been a scholar, were it not for his extravagant robes and handsome water-resistant boots.

  ‘Sheriff,’ said Michael politely. ‘What brings you to our humble abode?’

  Morice looked around him, noting the rotting timber and the loose tiles on the roof, and seemed to concur with Michael’s description. ‘I have come about Norbert. The boy was a wastrel and the Tulyets are well rid of him, but murder is murder, and I do not want the relatives of wealthy merchants slain on my streets. Have you done anything or shall I look into it?’

  ‘I have been investigating,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Norbert was a student, and therefore his death comes under University jurisdiction.’

  ‘But he was the kinsman of a burgess,’ said Morice, not at all disconcerted by Michael’s unfriendly tone. ‘So his death comes under my jurisdiction, as far as I am concerned. Will you hand the culprit to me now, or shall I hunt out the guilty scholar myself?’

  ‘What makes you think the killer is a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his hackles rise at the man’s presumption. ‘Since Norbert spent his last few hours in a tavern, it is likely the murderer was a patron of the King’s Head – a tavern frequented by townsfolk.’

  Morice’s dark features broke into a sneer. ‘I guessed this would happen. You know the identity of Norbert’s killer, but you are protecting him by having a townsman convicted of the crime instead. Very well, then. I shall initiate my own enquiries. I will expose the culprit – be he one of the beggars in tabards who claim to be students or the Chancellor himself.’ He turned on his heel and stalked across the yard.

  ‘No wonder Tulyet was so keen for you to investigate,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Sheriff shove the porter out of the way when the man fumbled with the door. ‘He knows any enquiries Morice makes will not reveal the true killer.’

  ‘But they may result in a scapegoat,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And you can be sure that Morice will demand full punishment according to the law. If I do not want to see innocent scholars hang, there is no time to waste.’

  ‘Do you need help?’ asked Bartholomew reluctantly. He was loath to leave the College now he knew that Philippa was in the town.

  Michael smiled. ‘I plan to spend the day learning exactly what Norbert did on his last night, which will mean time in the King’s Head, and I do not need you for that. But I may need you tomorrow, if my enquiries lead me nowhere.’

  Bartholomew had a bad feeling that Michael would be unsuccessful and that the Twelve Days of Christmas were going to be spent tracking down a killer.

  ‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and familiar odour comprised polished wood, smoke from the fire and faint overtones of the evening meal that had been served in the hall.

  It was already well past eight o’clock, and Bartholomew, William and Michael were the only ones who had not gone to their rooms. William was there because there was still wine to drink and, despite his outward advocacy of abstinence and self-denial, the friar was a man who liked his creature comforts, particularly the liquid kind. Michael was there because he was obliged to be a
t the church at midnight to perform Angel Mass, and did not want to go to bed for only a few hours. Bartholomew had remained because he was unsettled by Philippa’s presence in the town.

  ‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed William, walking to the table, where the wine stood in a large pewter jug. He stumbled near the door, where the floorboards had worked loose within the last three weeks and needed to be fastened down. Reluctant to hire a carpenter to solve the problem so near the expensive season of Christmas, Langelee had placed a rug over the offending section, but it tended to ‘walk’ and was not always where it needed to be. William refilled his goblet, then carried the jug to Michael, who had been hastily draining his cup to ensure he did not miss out. Bartholomew followed suit, feeling that plenty of wine was the only way he would sleep that night.

  ‘Philippa Abigny,’ said Michael again, setting his cup near the hearth so that the flames would warm it, then leaning back in his chair.

  ‘Are you two going to spend all night just saying her name over and over?’ snapped Bartholomew testily. ‘I have said I would rather talk about something else – like Norbert’s murder. What did you learn today, Brother?’

  Michael’s expression became sombre. ‘After Norbert left Ovyng the night he died there is an hour unaccounted for until he arrived at the King’s Head. He met a woman there, but of course no one will tell me who she was.’

  ‘Was he drunk and free with his insults?’ asked William. ‘If so, then the case is solved: one of the patrons in the King’s Head is the guilty party.’

  ‘He was drunk, but apparently no more insulting than normal. I understand some kind of gambling was in progress, but, again, no one will tell me who Norbert played. However, the innkeeper hinted that Norbert lost more than he won, so there is no reason to think he was killed by a disenfranchised gaming partner. He apparently left in reasonable humour.’

  ‘That can change fast,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Even a small insult is sometimes enough to turn tipsy bonhomie into enraged fury. Men soaked in wine are not rational people.’

  ‘True, but there is nothing to suggest that happened to Norbert. He left the King’s Head at midnight, and no one who lives between the tavern and Ovyng admits to hearing any affray.’

  ‘So, now what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Where will you go from here?’

  Michael sighed. ‘I do not know. Morice’s men followed me today, so I decided to concentrate on the taverns. I was afraid they would conclude that the killer was at Ovyng if I spent too much time there. Damn Morice! He will make my work much more difficult.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said William meaningfully.

  Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean? I want no help from him or his men – I could not trust anything they told me.’

  ‘But his soldiers would be more than happy to spend an afternoon in a tavern with free beer,’ said William. ‘And Morice would agree that his mother killed Norbert, if the price were right.’

  ‘You mean Michael should bribe the Sheriff?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

  William shrugged. ‘It would not be the first time, and the fines I have imposed on rule-breakers means that the proctors’ chest is nicely full at the moment. We can afford it, and I would like to see Norbert’s death properly investigated by men like me, who know what they are doing, without the “help” of Morice and his men.’

  Bartholomew turned to Michael, horrified. ‘You have bribed Morice before? You should be careful, Brother! Corrupting a King’s official is a criminal offence, and you may find that Morice is the kind of man to accept money, then make a complaint about you.’

  ‘Believe me, I know,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But the man is impossible to reason with, so we may have to resort to desperate measures if no answer to this crime is forthcoming. He is making no serious effort to investigate himself, but is concentrating on thwarting me. He does not care about avenging Norbert, only about seeing whether he can turn the situation to his advantage. We have not had a corrupt Sheriff for so long that I barely recall how to deal with them.’

  They were silent for a while, each thinking his own thoughts. Michael and William considered the problem of an awkward Sheriff and a difficult murder, while Bartholomew found his mind returning to Philippa’s pretty face, flowing golden curls and slender figure. He was disconcerted to find he could not remember certain details – what her hands looked like, for example – although other things were etched deeply in his memory. He knew how she laughed, that there was a freckle on the lobe of her left ear, that she liked cats but not dogs, and that she hated the smell of lavender.

  The hour candle dipped lower. A little less than three hours remained before Angel Mass marked the beginning of Christmas Day, and there was an air of expectation and excitement in the College. Bartholomew opened a shutter and gazed through the window. Lights burned in almost every room, as scholars elected to remain awake, rather than rise early. Snow was in the air again, and came down in spiteful little flurries that did not settle. It had snowed when the Death had come, too, he recalled, and the bitter weather had added to the miseries of both patients and the physicians who tended them. Philippa had disliked the cold. She preferred summer, when the crops grew golden and the land baked slowly under a silver-white sun.

  ‘Did you discover the identity of the man we found dead among the albs?’ he asked of William, pulling his mind away from his reverie.

  ‘No one knows him. Not even Bosel the beggar, who works on the High Street.’

  ‘You have spoken to Bosel?’ Michael was disappointed. ‘Damn! He was my best hope.’

  ‘I even asked the Dominicans whether they had killed him,’ William went on airily.

  Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘But there was nothing on the body to suggest he was murdered. I told you I thought he had died of the cold.’

  ‘How did the Dominicans respond to this subtle probing?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Did they confess?’

  William grimaced. ‘They did not. However, unlikely though it may seem, I believe they were telling the truth.’

  ‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael, amused.

  ‘Because most have not been outside their friary since this sudden cold spell began,’ replied William. ‘Dominicans are soft and weak, and need to crouch in their lairs with roaring fires and plenty of wine.’ He took a deep draught of his claret and stretched his feet closer to the flames with a sigh of contentment.

  ‘I can cross the Dominicans off my list of suspects, then,’ said Michael wryly. His expression hardened. ‘However, there is one man I cannot dismiss: Harysone.’

  ‘Not this again,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘There is no reason to think that Harysone had anything to do with this death, either.’

  ‘Only the fact that we saw him go into the church, and then moments later we discover a corpse in it. What more do you want?’

  ‘We did not see him go into the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We saw him fiddle with the lock, but then we went to see Norbert’s body and we do not know if he entered or not. The latch sticks, and Harysone would not be the first would-be visitor to be thwarted. He may have given up and gone elsewhere.’

  ‘Well, it was not to another church,’ said William authoritatively. Bartholomew and Michael stared at him questioningly, and the Franciscan looked pleased with himself. ‘I made a few enquiries about that, too. I asked in all the churches whether a man matching Harysone’s description had visited on Thursday, and was told he had not.’

  Bartholomew was doubtful. ‘But most would have been empty,’ he pointed out. ‘It was daytime, and people were working.’

  ‘Not so,’ said William, bristling with pride at his cleverness. ‘It is Christmas, and the time when peasants deck out the churches with greenery. All of them were busy, except ours: in a scholars’ church like St Michael’s such pagan practices are not permitted.’

  ‘I heard Langelee giving my choir – which comprises mostly townfolk – permission to deck it out this evening,’ said
Michael wickedly. ‘It will be as green with yew and holly as any other, come tomorrow.’

  William shot out of his chair and looked set to stalk to the hapless building and strip it bare there and then. He faltered when Michael pointed out that there was a frost outside, but a fire and wine inside. It did not take much to persuade the Franciscan to sit and resume their discussion.

  ‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘We do not know why Harysone wanted to enter St Michael’s, but we do know that he did not visit another church. Therefore, I suspect that he did enter St Michael’s, and that his business there was successful.’

  ‘You cannot be sure about that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the monk was allowing his dislike of the man to interfere with his powers of reason. ‘And anyway, if folk were merrily pinning holly to rafters, who knows what they did and did not see? Harysone is not particularly noticeable; he could easily slip past people unobserved.’

  ‘We will know tomorrow, Brother, because you have me to help with the enquiry,’ said William confidently. He stood and stretched, unsteady from the amount of wine he had drunk. ‘But we should go to bed, and snatch an hour of sleep before Angel Mass. Tomorrow you and I will catch a killer, and Matthew can face the woman who should have been his wife.’

  Bartholomew winced and went to fill his cup again, feeling that he needed yet more wine to dull the peculiar sensation of unease and dissatisfaction that gnawed at him. He heard a sudden yell, and whipped around just in time to see William shoot across the floor in a blur of flapping habit and windmilling arms. The Franciscan collided with the door and went down hard. For a moment, no one said anything, then William released a litany of curses that would have impressed the most foul-mouthed of stable-lads. Bartholomew exchanged a startled glance with Michael, wondering how the friar had acquired such an extensive vocabulary of secular oaths.