Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Now look what you have done,’ said one. ‘You got us thrown out.’

  They walked away arm in arm, although their progress was unsteady. Bartholomew drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders to disguise the fact that he wore a scholar’s tabard underneath, and opened the door with some trepidation.

  He need not have worried. The inn was full of people he knew, all of whom raised their goblets to him in festive salutation. Some were patients, who came to mutter weepy-eyed gratitude for past treatments, while others worked at Michaelhouse. Although taverns were not places where women were found with much regularity, Agatha was different. She sat in a large seat near the fire, and held forth to a group of townsfolk who nursed ale in calloused hands and prudently nodded agreement from time to time.

  ‘You know you cannot come in here,’ said the taverner to Bartholomew with a sanctimonious expression on his face. ‘The University forbids me to sell ale to scholars.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at a group of young men who were attempting to make themselves invisible by huddling into their cloaks. They were the Franciscan friars from Ovyng, and the burly Godric was at the head of their table. Godric flushed deep red when he saw he had been recognised, and buried his face in his jug. ‘I was summoned by Master Harysone. Is he here?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the taverner, relieved. ‘I thought Brother Michael had sent you to see whether I would sell you a drink. It is Harysone you want, is it? He is in his chamber, unwell. It is not because of my cooking, though – and you can tell him that.’

  Bartholomew climbed the stairs and knocked at Harysone’s door. A weak voice told him to come in. He flipped open the latch and entered one of the tavern’s more pleasant rooms. Fresh rushes were strewn on the floor, and the walls had been painted with hunting scenes. A huge pile of books near the window caught the physician’s attention. They were crudely made, with heavy wooden covers sandwiching a thin layer of parchment. There were at least thirty copies, and he wondered how many of the things Harysone intended to sell in Cambridge.

  Harysone lay on the bed, fully dressed, even though there was a fire blazing in the hearth and the room was stuffy. For the first time, Bartholomew was able to study him at close quarters. Harysone’s teeth were his most arresting feature: they were long and yellow, and it did not seem possible that they could be real. His next outstanding characteristic was his eyes, which glittered like a rodent’s, and Bartholomew sensed something highly unpleasant about the man. Even the thought of those moist orbs settling on Matilde made him nauseous.

  ‘Are you the physician?’ Harysone asked. ‘Close the door; you are letting the cold air in.’

  Bartholomew complied. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘In a moment, in a moment,’ said Harysone testily. ‘First, I must establish whether you are sufficiently well qualified to treat me. Where did you train, and what books have you read?’

  ‘I studied at the universities in Oxford and Paris,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot possibly provide you with a list of all the books I have read. However, if you would like someone who can, I can suggest one or two names. Robin of Grantchester will not overwhelm you with medical knowledge.’

  ‘Not a surgeon, thank you very much,’ said Harysone with a shudder. ‘I do not like men who poke about inside men’s bodies with sharp knives. It is not natural. Are you a local man?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just conversing. I want to know something about you before I reveal any intimate secrets.’

  ‘There is no need for you to divulge anything personal,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the nature of the consultation Harysone seemed to have in mind. ‘I am a physician, not a confessor.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you will want to know details about my birth and suchlike, so you can construct a horoscope to determine my course of treatment. That kind of information is very personal, and might be dangerous in the wrong hands.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, declining to mention that the date of a man’s birth was hardly sensitive knowledge. He stepped forward, wanting to examine the man, identify the cause of his illness, recommend treatment and leave. He found, again, that he appreciated exactly why Michael had taken such a dislike to Harysone, and why Matilde found him unsettling. ‘Shall I …?’

  ‘In a moment!’ repeated Harysone aggressively. ‘You are as bad as that landlord, all business and no time for a chat.’

  ‘Have you had chats with many other people here?’ asked Bartholomew, reluctantly taking the opportunity to question Harysone, since he seemed willing to talk about any subject other than his malady. He decided he would try to learn whether Harysone would admit to speaking with the Waits, as Quenhyth had seen him do, or sitting with Gosslinge, as the Waits had claimed.

  Harysone pulled a face of disgust. ‘The patrons of this tavern are an uncivilised crowd. I wish I had arrived early enough to secure lodgings at the Brazen George, where the clientele is more genteel. Here, I have been obliged to pass time with blacksmiths, grave-diggers and even jugglers!’

  ‘Jugglers?’ asked Bartholomew innocently.

  As Harysone regarded him with his wet eyes, Bartholomew had the feeling that the man knew he was Michael’s colleague and that his mention of the Waits was deliberate. Harysone had told Bartholomew he had met the entertainers, because he knew that he had been seen with them. He was covering his tracks. Bartholomew wondered why he should feel the need to take such precautions, and whether that in itself was significant.

  ‘Terrible folk,’ Harysone went on, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Bartholomew. ‘A number of us arrived in the town on the same day – the Chepe Waits, a fishmonger and his household, and me – so I suppose the jugglers imagined a bond between us. I put them right with one or two steely glances.’

  ‘What about Walter Turke? Did you talk to him?’

  ‘The fishmonger?’ asked Harysone disapprovingly. ‘I did not. The man is a lout, for all his fine clothes, and I wanted nothing to do with him, his fat wife or his snivelling retainers.’

  ‘Retainers?’ asked Bartholomew, interest quickening at the plural. ‘I thought there was only Gosslinge.’

  ‘There were two,’ corrected Harysone. ‘A fair-headed clerk and a rascally servant. The servant and I were obliged to share a table one night. I ate my food, then excused myself as soon as was polite. Nasty little fellow. He was missing a thumb and smelled of mould.’

  Bartholomew smiled to himself, wondering what Abigny would say if he thought Harysone believed him to be a servant, then thought about the smell of mould on Gosslinge. Did that mean Gosslinge had hidden himself among the rotting albs on more than one occasion? Had he made it a habit to linger there, perhaps hoping to overhear private conversations? But why St Michael’s? Surely the man would have fared better in a church with a larger secular congregation. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Or was it a scholar whom Gosslinge had wanted to watch?

  ‘I find it odd that the inn’s two most wealthy patrons – you and Turke – did not find solace in each other’s company,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Harysone was preparing to change the subject. ‘And Philippa Turke is a pretty woman.’

  ‘Fat,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘And married. I do not waste my time on wedded matrons – they are more trouble than they are worth. But I am a gentleman, and the fishmonger is not the kind of fellow with whom I like to associate. He is rude, loud and overbearing.’

  ‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He fell through some ice while skating.’

  Harysone gazed at him. ‘That was him? I heard about the accident, but I did not know Turke was the victim.’ His expression became predatory, and he licked his lips with a moist red tongue. ‘Perhaps I should visit his woman, and offer her the help of a gentleman. You are right – she is pretty after a fashion, and a widow is so much more attractive than a wife.’

  ‘My sister is looking after her,’ said Bartholomew quickly, no
t liking the notion of Harysone lurking around Philippa any more than he had Matilde. ‘She does not need any gentlemanly help.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Harysone. ‘But never mind. She was no more friendly to me than was her arrogant husband, so I would doubtless be wasting my time anyway. But enough of me. Have you heard about my book?’

  ‘Book?’ asked Bartholomew keenly. ‘You own one?’ Books were expensive and rare, and no scholar ever passed up an opportunity to inspect a new volume.

  ‘I have written one,’ said Harysone proudly. ‘It is a devotional treatise concerning fish.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself from sounding disappointed as he glanced at the pile of tomes near the window. ‘I thought you meant a real one.’

  Harysone glared at him. ‘It is a real one. It has covers, a spine and erudite contents. What more do you want?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he had been rude. ‘You say it is about fish?’

  ‘We can learn a great deal from fish,’ said Harysone preachily. ‘I use them allegorically, to shed light on the human condition. I have been told by eminent theologians that my work is a remarkable piece of scholarship. Would you like to buy a copy? I happen to have a spare.’

  He gestured to the stack near the window, so Bartholomew went to fetch one. He sat on the bed again and opened the boards to reach the parchment inside. Harysone had evidently hunted down the cheapest scribe he could find to make copies of his treatise; its few pages were full of eccentric spelling and peculiarities of grammar.

  ‘Troute is Best Servd with Vinnegar, but Sturgeon May bee Ate with Grene Sauwse, if you have It.’ He glanced up at Harysone. ‘That does not sound devotional or allegorical to me.’

  ‘You have started in the wrong place,’ said Harysone testily. ‘I included other information, too, since I wanted my work to be comprehensive. Try reading the part where I recommend specific fish for particular ailments. You will learn a great deal from that, I can promise you.’

  ‘Later,’ said Bartholomew, laying the tome down. ‘I have other patients, and cannot stay here all morning, pleasant though that might be. How can I help you?’

  ‘I have injured my back. I was dancing an estampie last night and it just went.’

  ‘“Went”?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know. Went. It started to hurt. It took all my strength to return to my room, and I have been lying here in pain ever since.’

  ‘Has it happened before?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what kind of dancing the man had been engaged in to reduce him to such a state.

  ‘Never. Now, I know there are sense-dulling potions you can give me, so I shall have some of those. And then you can calculate my horoscope.’

  ‘First, I think we should see what the problem is. Lie on your stomach, please.’

  ‘Are you asking to look at it?’ asked Harysone uneasily. ‘My own physician does not embarrass me by wanting to inspect my person, so why should you? And anyway, the problem lies with the bones and, unless you can see through skin and muscle or intend to pare away my flesh to see what is underneath – which I will not permit – looking will do us no good.’

  ‘There may be tell-tale bulges or dents,’ persisted Bartholomew.

  ‘Very well,’ said Harysone with a long-suffering sigh. ‘But be careful.’ He winced when the physician’s hands came in contact with his skin. ‘And please keep those cold hands to yourself. You can adjust my shirt, but only as long as your fingers do not touch me. What have you been doing? Throwing snowballs?’

  Bartholomew pulled up Harysone’s fine linen shirt to reveal a bony back that was none too clean. There was no obvious indication that anything was wrong, but Harysone claimed the pain was lower, near the base of his spine. A fluttering hand indicated where, so Bartholomew eased the undergarments away, then stared in surprise.

  There was a small round bruise in the place Harysone had indicated, and in the centre of it was something dark. Bartholomew fingered it gently, ignoring Harysone’s protestations of pain. It was the tip of a knife, which had been driven into the hard bones and broken off in the wound it had caused.

  ‘How did you say you came by this?’ he asked again.

  ‘Dancing,’ said Harysone impatiently. ‘We have been through this. I was dancing an estampie, and there was a sudden pain. I came here, thinking rest might help, but it is still sore.’

  ‘I am not surprised,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, you do not know you have been stabbed?’

  Harysone twisted around to regard him in astonishment. ‘Stabbed? I have not been stabbed, man! I damaged my back while twirling with a pretty tavern wench.’

  ‘There is a knife tip here. If you lie still, I will remove it.’

  Harysone howled in agony while the metal was extracted, although the operation did not take more than a moment. Bartholomew moved quickly when potentially painful procedures were required; he had learned that fear and anticipation only served to make things worse. When he had the small metal triangle in the palm of his hand, he showed it to Harysone.

  ‘That was in me?’ the man asked, taking Bartholomew’s hand so that he could inspect the object without touching the pool of gore in which it lay. ‘How did it come to be there?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it seems extraordinary that you do not.’

  Harysone’s mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘It was those students,’ he said. ‘Friars from Michaelhouse. They were behind me when I was dancing. They stabbed me.’

  ‘The attack on Harysone has provided me with just the excuse I need to investigate him,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together gleefully when Bartholomew told him about the incident later that morning. ‘I am delighted he summoned you, Matt. If he had asked for Robin of Grantchester or Master Lynton of Peterhouse, I might never have learned of it.’

  ‘Neither might Harysone,’ said Bartholomew dryly, not impressed by the skills of the other two men who practised medicine in Cambridge. ‘Lynton prefers writing horoscopes to examining patients, while Robin would not know a stab wound if he had watched one inflicted.’

  ‘And the wound was definitely caused by a knife?’ asked Michael.

  Bartholomew passed Michael the triangle of metal he had prised from Harysone. ‘You can see from its shape that this is the tip of a blade. According to Ulfrid – the novice who saw him in action at the King’s Head – Harysone’s dancing is sinuous, so the weapon may have been aimed elsewhere, but missed its target in all the movement.’

  ‘You make him sound like a bumble-bee,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘Yet he claims the pain occurred during an estampie. An estampie is a slow dance compared to many.’

  ‘Ulfrid said the man dances like a Turkish whore, whatever that means. I suspect Harysone’s attacker not only missed what he was aiming for, but damaged his blade into the bargain.’

  ‘We shall have to buy him a new one, then,’ said Michael nastily, ‘and see whether he is more successful a second time.’

  ‘I doubt Michaelhouse students did it, though. I imagine they just happened to be there at the time.’

  ‘I agree. But he has made an accusation against members of the University – against members of my own College – so it is the Senior Proctor’s duty to investigate. But first I shall retrieve Clippesby’s tench, and then we shall see what Harysone has to say when we present it to him.’

  Michael’s timing was fortunate. Agatha had located the smelly object in the depths of the cellar, and was turning it this way and that as she considered whether some of it might still be good enough to add to a stew. Bartholomew was appalled, suspecting that it was sufficiently rotten to poison anyone who ate it, although Agatha claimed that putrefaction was nothing a few herbs and plenty of onions could not overcome.

  ‘It went bad because someone skimped on the salt,’ she declared, examining it with expert eyes. ‘It would have been perfectly serviceable if the preserving had
been done right.’

  ‘An apprentice must have practised on it,’ said Michael, not particularly interested. He wrinkled his nose. ‘But Norbert must have been drunk indeed to imagine he did well by winning this from Harysone. I have seldom smelled anything so rank.’

  He wrapped it in a cloth and left, heading for the King’s Head with Bartholomew in tow. They had just turned into the High Street when their attention was caught by a sudden rumble near St John’s Hospital. Opposite was a line of decrepit houses, which the Sheriff and the town burgesses had recently declared unfit for human habitation. However, these homes had occupants, who were not about to move just because some wealthy businessmen decided their homes were an eyesore and wanted the land they were built on. The hovels remained, becoming shabbier and more derelict with each passing season, and one of them had met its end that morning. It had a thatched roof, and the weight of water from a wet autumn, combined with recent snowfalls, had been too much for the ageing structure. With a groan, it had collapsed inward, taking the walls with it and leaving nothing but a heap of snow-impregnated rubble.

  ‘Robert de Blaston the carpenter lives there,’ whispered Bartholomew, aghast. ‘With his wife Yolande and their ten children.’ He joined the throng running towards the house, some wanting to help and others just to watch the unfolding of a tragedy.

  The rubble was still settling when he arrived, and powdery snow that had been hurled into the air was drifting downward like fine dust. Bartholomew scanned the wreckage in horror, trying to spot anything human. All he could see were smashed beams, piles of mouldy thatch and a broken door on which a child had painted a bright flower. Bartholomew felt sick. He started to move toward the mess, but someone caught his hand and stopped him.