‘I do not want them back, thank you very much,’ said Turke stiffly. ‘I shall hire new ones – ones that can behave themselves. Your prisoners can find their own way back to London.’
‘Pay them what they are owed first,’ advised Abigny practically. ‘We do not want a pair of cheated killers on our trail as we make our way into the wilds of Norfolk.’
‘I suppose not,’ admitted Turke reluctantly. ‘Very well. See they are paid, then dismiss them. Perhaps Morice will keep them locked up until we are safely away.’
‘I might,’ said Morice, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘We can negotiate the cost of their stay later, when we have a little privacy.’
‘Why do you want to know about the soldiers, Brother?’ said Philippa curiously. ‘You said last night that Gosslinge died of the cold. Are you now suggesting he did not, and they might have harmed him in order to snatch his possessions?’
Michael shook his head. ‘There is nothing to suggest that happened. Matt believes he froze to death, then someone found his body and took the opportunity to strip it.’
Turke sniffed. ‘The thief will be easy to catch, Brother. All you need to do is look for Gosslinge’s clothes.’
‘A thief will not be stupid enough to wear stolen apparel in a small town like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘And given that he hid the body among the albs to cover his tracks, I predict he is not totally witless.’
‘I am sorry Gosslinge was treated so disrespectfully,’ said Philippa, staring down at the corpse. ‘But desperate folk are driven to desperate measures, and it would be wrong to judge a man with hungry children by our own principles. I, for one, do not want to persecute such a person. We shall bury Gosslinge, and there will be an end to the matter.’
‘I want my livery back,’ said Turke. A cunning expression crossed his face. ‘Or, better yet, Michaelhouse can keep the clothes when they are found as payment for Gosslinge’s burial.’
‘I do not know about that,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘Suppose they never appear?’
Turke scowled. ‘I am offering you a good bargain. The cost of the clothes will more than pay for a mass and a grave. But if you would rather return the livery to me when I pass through Cambridge on my return journey, then I shall pay you in another way.’
‘Coins are best,’ said Langelee hopefully.
‘I have something better,’ said Turke. ‘He handed Langelee a small leather pouch. ‘That will cover the expense – and more besides.’
Langelee investigated the pouch’s contents gingerly. ‘I am not sure this is sufficient – there is not much of a market for dried slugs in our town.’
Turke gave a gusty sigh that echoed all around the church. ‘It is a relic. It may not look like much, but used properly will bring you great wealth. Never let it be said that Walter Turke is niggardly with his payments.’
Abigny swallowed a snort of disgust.
Langelee tried to hand it back. ‘Coins are better, if it is all the same to you, Master Turke. And if you add a little extra, we will say prayers for your soul, too.’
‘I shall expect those regardless,’ countered Turke. He nodded at the pouch. ‘And that is all the payment I am prepared to give, so you had better make the most of it. It is St Zeno’s finger.’
‘St Zeno?’ asked Langelee resentfully. ‘I have never heard of him.’
‘Then your education is lacking,’ retorted Turke rudely. ‘Zeno is a friend to fishermen, and his finger will allow any who touch it to be successful anglers. It could bring you a fortune.’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Abigny wryly. ‘The river is frozen solid. I tossed a rock on to it this morning, and it skidded clear across the surface like a toy.’
Turke raised his eyebrows, and turned to his brother-inlaw. ‘I had not noticed. But I dislike ice, as you know, and I have better things to do than throw stones on frozen rivers.’
‘St Zeno is associated with fishermen,’ said Michael, addressing Langelee. ‘He was an Italian bishop.’
‘He did not like loud wailing during his masses for the dead,’ added Bartholomew, irrelevantly repeating the only scrap of information he could remember about the obscure cleric.
‘It seems this is a valuable relic,’ said Morice with interest, reaching out to take it. ‘It might be a suitable payment for keeping two dangerous mercenaries out of action while you continue your journey.’
‘No,’ snapped Turke, snatching it from him and thrusting it back into Langelee’s reluctant hands. ‘It should stay here, in a church, where it belongs. I have something else in mind for you – a snail from the Holy Land. It, too, has magical powers.’
‘So do I,’ muttered Michael facetiously to Bartholomew. ‘And they are telling me that Langelee and Morice have just been most brazenly cheated. Incidentally, did you notice that Harysone was decked out in a set of black clothes the day we found Gosslinge dead? He might have been revisiting the scene of his crime, to ensure the corpse was still hidden.’
‘Too risky,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially this week, when the churches are full of people with their holly wreaths and armfuls of greenery.’
‘You are wrong, Matt. Harysone was up to no good when we watched him. I shall find out if he stole Gosslinge’s clothes.’
It had snowed heavily during the night, and all the roads that led to and from Cambridge were closed by deep drifts. Oswald and Edith Stanmore could not return to their estates in Trumpington, and were obliged to remain in Cambridge at their business premises on Milne Street. This pleased Turke, who claimed he did not want to go to some rustic hall, preferring the pleasures of a town to those of the country. Bartholomew saw Stanmore struggling not to make some rude retort, while Edith smiled politely. Philippa closed her eyes, mortified by her husband’s manners, and Abigny stepped forward to give her hand an encouraging squeeze when Turke was not looking. They began to walk to Milne Street together, Turke strutting ahead, and the others following behind.
It was still early. Only a few people had trodden in the snow, and it was still white and powdery as Bartholomew and Michael made their way to the King’s Head to interview Harysone about Gosslinge and the stolen livery. It hid the filth and muck of the Cambridge streets, clung to roofs in thick white blankets, and piled itself in dense clots in the branches of trees. When the wind blew, they fell, scattering on the ground below. The frozen river formed a thin seal across the water, and prevented its unsavoury aromas from permeating the town. For the first time in years, the town air smelled fresh and clean.
‘Look!’ said Michael, gripping Bartholomew’s arm, as he pointed across the street. ‘It is Harysone! He has saved us a walk.’
‘So it is,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the man’s black cloak and broad-brimmed hat. ‘He seems to be emerging from morning mass at St Botolph’s. How very suspicious.’
‘There is no need to be facetious, Matt,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You may be reluctant to acknowledge there is something nasty about him, but I shall not be happy until he is either away from the town or in prison. I am sure if he has not already done something criminal then he will do so soon.’
‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew. He did not want to admit he had experienced similar feelings when Harysone had leered at Matilde in the church the day before.
Michael intercepted Harysone, while Bartholomew sat on the low wall that surrounded St Botolph’s churchyard and waited, listening to the conversation with half an ear as he watched people struggle through the High Street snow.
‘Gosslinge,’ Michael announced without preamble. ‘How do you know him, and why were you meeting him in St Michael’s Church four days ago?’
‘I know no Gosslinge,’ replied Harysone startled, ‘and I can assure you I have met no one in St Michael’s Church. It is always locked, and I have never managed to gain access.’
‘You gained access yesterday,’ pounced Michael. ‘I saw you there at Shepherd’s Mass.’
‘True,’ admitted Harysone. ‘But
that is the only time I have been inside it, and I was disappointed. I expected a collegiate church to be pretty, but that one is plain and stinks of mould.’
‘What did you want when you tried to enter it last Thursday?’ pressed Michael coolly. ‘I watched you myself, fiddling with the latch.’
Harysone regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘What is this about, Brother? Has something been stolen? If so, I can assure you that I had nothing to do with it.’
‘A student called Norbert was murdered near Ovyng Hostel a few nights ago,’ said Michael, abruptly switching subjects in an attempt to keep his suspect off balance. ‘I do not suppose you know anything about that?’
Harysone’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair as he registered his surprise. ‘Why should I? I do not even know where Ovyng Hostel is. I am a stranger, here only to sell copies of a modest treatise—’
‘Norbert was in the King’s Head before he died,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I understand you are staying there.’
‘But I have not murdered anyone. You must look elsewhere for your culprit, Brother.’
‘Have you been dicing?’ asked Michael. ‘I have it on good authority that Norbert was dicing the evening he died.’
‘Dicing is not illegal. At least, not if goods, rather than coins, are the currency. That is the law, as I understand it.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ demanded Michael impatiently, declining to quibble with the man over ambiguities in the statutes that governed the land.
‘I keep telling you: I am a stranger here. I would not know your Norbert if he spat in my face or gave me a gold noble. I speak to many folk in the tavern – I am a friendly sort of man. But I have committed no crime, and I advise you to leave me alone, or I shall make a complaint to your Chancellor. Now, excuse me. I am busy.’
With dismay, Bartholomew saw Matilde walk through the Trumpington Gate and turn down Small Bridges Street at that precise moment. Harysone was after her in a trice, almost running in his haste to reach her. Bartholomew abandoned Michael and hared after them, catching up just as Harysone was about to offer her a steadying hand. Bartholomew shot between them and took her arm himself, just – but only just – managing to make the whole thing appear natural.
‘Matthew!’ Matilde exclaimed, amused by his sudden appearance. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he muttered, hauling her away, while Harysone stood forlornly in the middle of the road with disappointment written clear across his rodent-like features.
‘Oh, it is him,’ said Matilde, glancing discreetly behind her. ‘He seems to be everywhere I look these days. I am told he has penned some kind of treatise on tench and is here to sell it to the unwary.’
‘Do not allow him near you,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Michael thinks he will commit a crime.’
‘Not with me, he won’t, ’she said playfully. ‘Do not worry, Matt; the man makes me uneasy with his huge teeth and glittering eyes. I have no intention of forging a friendship with him. But this is where you and I must part ways: I am going along the towpath to visit poor Dunstan the riverman and you have business back the way you came, I believe. I know you only walked this way to save me from Master Harysone.’
Bartholomew watched until he was sure Harysone would not try to pounce on her again, then retraced his steps back to the High Street. Michael was chuckling to himself.
‘That was quite a manoeuvre, Matt, and it showed Harysone he is no match for a Cambridge man. Your only mistake was that you did not send him bowling into the snow when you shoved him out of the way.’
‘I have just thought of something,’ said Bartholomew, walking with the monk back along the High Street. ‘Matilde gave me the clue: tench.’
‘The fish you saw the night Norbert was killed, and that later reappeared in Clippesby’s loving hands at our breakfast table? What about it?’
‘Matilde said Harysone was writing a treatise on tench; you told me it was about fish. The point is that Norbert was dicing the night he died, and Harysone just intimated he was also gambling, but not for coins. What if he was gaming with salted fish? What if Norbert won one from him?’
‘But your tench was not found with Norbert’s body,’ said Michael. ‘It belonged to whoever pushed you – and he was not the killer, because the scream you heard suggests that Norbert was being killed by someone else at the time.’
‘Perhaps Norbert dropped the thing when he was fleeing for his life, and some beggar pushed me in order to get it. I know from the way his wound bled that Norbert went some distance before he died, so he could have been attacked on the riverbank near Dunstan’s house.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, pleased with the logic. ‘That makes sense. But even better, it tells me I was right from the beginning: there is a link between Harysone and a serious crime. At the very least, he and Norbert gambled together and Harysone lost a fish to him on the night of the murder.’
‘We need evidence, though,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is a good theory, but it is based on conjecture, not on facts.’
‘It will do for now.’ Michael pointed down the High Street. ‘But there are Ailred, Godric and their novices, just about to celebrate mass. Let us see whether they have anything new to tell us – although I do not hold much hope. I have interviewed them almost every day since Norbert’s body was discovered, and no one has betrayed himself yet.’
They met the Franciscans outside St Michael’s Church, where the students shivered in their thin habits and stamped their feet to try to keep warm in the biting wind. Ailred told Michael they planned to bury Norbert that afternoon, and asked whether the murderer had been found.
‘No,’ said Michael shortly.
‘Sheriff Morice made yet another arrest this morning,’ said Ailred uncomfortably. ‘Robin of Grantchester. But I do not think he is responsible. Why would the town surgeon kill Norbert?’
‘Because Norbert once called him a bloody-handed lunatic?’ suggested Godric, taking the question literally. ‘No man likes to be insulted or called incompetent.’
‘But it is not a motive for murder,’ said Michael. ‘You are right, Ailred: Robin should not be in prison – not because I do not think he is capable of murder, since he risks that every time he sees a patient, but because he is too cowardly to attack someone with a knife.’
‘He does own knives, though,’ Godric pointed out. ‘Bags of them. And they are always covered in blood, so no one would know whether it belonged to Norbert or a patient.’
‘Robin has been associated with certain acts of generosity,’ said Ailred. ‘He arranged for Bosel the beggar to borrow a cloak for the winter, and he was involved in lending the Carmelites funds to replace habits lost in a fire. It seems to me that Morice has assumed Robin possesses money to buy his freedom, and that is the real reason for his arrest. This could never happen in Lincoln. There are no dishonest officials in that lovely city.’
‘I am sure there are,’ said Bartholomew immediately.
‘Neither Morice nor his men have been investigating Norbert’s death properly, so they cannot have discovered anything I have not,’ said Michael, interrupting what was likely to be a futile debate. ‘I have worked hard on this case – I owe that to Dick Tulyet.’
‘But you have learned nothing, for all that,’ said Ailred, disappointed. ‘Robin’s arrest is just another of Morice’s ventures for making himself richer, and Norbert’s killer still walks free.’
‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘However, I assure you that Norbert may be dead, but he is not forgotten. I shall—’
‘There is Cynric,’ interrupted Bartholomew, watching his book-bearer make his way through the snow at a rapid pace. ‘Something is wrong.’
‘I have some bad news,’ said Cynric without preamble when he arrived. ‘Walter Turke tried to skate on the frozen river, just after he identified Gosslinge’s body. The ice was not strong enough, and he fell through.’
‘He should not sit too near the fire to begin with,’ said Bart
holomew, knowing that rapid warming could cause the heart to fail. He started to move towards Milne Street, thinking Philippa would want him to tend her husband. ‘And there should be plenty of dry blankets to wrap around him. Warmed milk will help, but not wine.’
‘No,’ said Cynric, catching up with the physician and gripping his arm so that he was forced to stop. ‘They could not save him. He is dead.’
Philippa was distraught. She sat in Oswald Stanmore’s comfortable solar and wept inconsolably. Stanmore hovered behind her, a helpless expression on his face as he tried to hand her some wine. Edith hugged her and let her cry, and Abigny stood near the wall looking sombre. Bartholomew studied him, attempting to gauge the emotions there. Grief? Sadness? Bartholomew did not think so. Guilt or relief? They seemed more likely.
‘I do not believe he went skating,’ Philippa wailed. ‘He could not swim.’
‘You do not need to be able to swim to skate,’ Michael pointed out gently. ‘Most people do not anticipate that they will fall through the ice, or they would not do it in the first place. Walter must have imagined it was sufficiently strong to bear his weight.’
‘But he never skates,’ wept Philippa. She gazed at each one in turn with reddened eyes. ‘You met him. Did he seem to you like the kind of man who would go skating?’
‘She has a point,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He seemed a cheerless, pompous sort of fellow, and I cannot imagine what would induce him to don a set of bones and chance his luck on the river.’
‘A few of my apprentices were out there this morning,’ said Stanmore soberly. ‘But they are small and light, and it was obvious the ice was not strong enough to support an adult. I do not understand what Turke was thinking of.’
‘But he would not do it!’ Philippa shouted. ‘Why will none of you listen to me? He was not a skating man! He was a fishmonger – a respectable and honoured Prime Warden in the city of London. He would never have gone to play on a river!’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 14
