Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  There were a number of women present in the tavern, and Harysone had their undivided attention. Agatha was among them, and she watched Harysone with her jaw open so wide it was almost in her lap. The fierce and sturdy matrons who served ale to the tavern’s fierce and sturdy patrons had been brought to a standstill, thirsty customers forgotten, while several of the Frail Sisters were spellbound. One of them trotted forward and joined the pardoner, trying to match her movements to his. The men in the tavern had much the same reaction as Michael, and turned to their drinks so that they would not have to see.

  ‘Enough, Master Harysone,’ cried the landlord in agitation, as more of his regulars headed for the door. ‘Thank you for the demonstration. It has been most enlightening. Now, sit down and rest, and I shall bring you some ale.’

  ‘Thank you, landlord,’ said Michael, assuming that he was included in the offer as he settled himself opposite Harysone. ‘Watching that particular performance has induced in me the need for strong drink. You had better make it some of that lambswool you brew at this time of year, not just common ale.’ Lambswool was hot ale mulled with apples, and the King’s Head Yuletide variety was known to be mightily powerful.

  The landlord was too relieved to see Harysone stop dancing to take exception to Michael’s cheeky demands. He nodded to a pot-boy, who went to ladle the hot liquid into three jugs, then stood over the monk’s table, wiping his hands on a stained apron. ‘Pig,’ he stated bluntly.

  Michael glared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Pig,’ repeated the landlord. ‘It is what we are serving today. Roasted pig, cooked with some old pears I found at the back of the shed and a few onion skins for flavour. Do you want some?’

  ‘I do,’ said Michael, oblivious to the fact that the landlord had made his midday offering sound distinctly unappealing. Bartholomew supposed it was the man’s way of informing Michael that the presence of the Senior Proctor in his inn was an unwelcome one, and he hoped to shorten the visit by making the monk believe there were no victuals that he would want to linger over. ‘And I shall have some bread, too.’

  ‘Bread?’ asked the landlord, as though it was some exotic treat. ‘We do not have that.’

  Michael gazed at him. ‘No bread? What kind of tavern does not keep bread? How do you expect me to eat the juice and the fat from the pig? Lick the platter?’

  ‘Flour is expensive these days,’ said the landlord. ‘The price of a loaf has trebled since the snows came, and most of my patrons cannot afford such luxuries.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The cost of grain has risen hugely since the mills were forced to stop working by frozen water. You will have to make do with pig.’

  ‘Brother Michael,’ said Harysone, baring his huge teeth in a strained grin of welcome as the landlord went to the kitchen. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  His eyes glittered moistly as they moved up and down Michael’s person. Instinctively, the monk hauled his cloak up around his neck, like a virgin protecting her maidenly virtues. Bartholomew sat next to Michael, and resisted the urge to draw up his hood when he was treated to the same disconcerting appraisal. Harysone reached under the table and produced a copy of the text he had shown the physician earlier, thumping it in front of Michael with a loud crack that made several people jump.

  ‘Here is my little BOOK,’ he said loudly, apparently determined that everyone in the tavern should hear him. ‘You have not seen it yet, Brother. Perhaps you have come to purchase a copy, so that you, like other folk with a thirst for answers to the greatest of philosophical mysteries on Earth, can improve your knowledge – especially relating to fish.’

  ‘Fish?’ queried Michael, unable to help himself. ‘What do they have to do with philosophy?’

  Harysone pretended to be surprised. ‘How can you ask such a thing? Fish were fashioned by God on the second day of creation, before trees and after cattle.’

  ‘Fish did not make an appearance until day four,’ argued Michael immediately. He was a theologian, after all, even if his duties as Senior Proctor meant he did not spend as much time studying as he should. ‘After trees and before cattle.’

  ‘Details,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘But a learned man, such as yourself, would find a great deal to interest him in my small contribution. You can have it for virtually nothing – three marks.’

  ‘You charged the scholars of Valence Marie two marks,’ said Michael with narrowed eyes. ‘Do you imagine me to be a fool, easily parted from his money?’

  ‘The price has risen since I visited Valence Marie,’ said Harysone blandly. ‘You know how it is. A week ago, bread cost a penny, now it is three. The more people clamour for a thing, the more valuable it becomes.’

  Michael reached out to examine the book, tugging the heavy wooden cover open, then turning the pages. ‘It is not very long,’ he remarked critically. ‘And the writing is enormous. Did you scribe it for those with failing eyesight?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harysone, unoffended. ‘Scholars have trouble with their eyes, because they spend their time reading ancient manuscripts in bad light. So I ordered my clerk to make the writing large.’

  Michael snapped the book closed. ‘Unfortunately, I have no time to debate with you the statement: “Bonéd Fishe, not Womin, were phormed from Addam’s Ribb”, which is a pity, because I am sure I would enjoy myself. But while we are on the subject of fish, do you recognise this?’ He slapped the tench on to the table, so hard that the head broke off to careen across the surface and drop to the floor on the other side. An unpleasant odour emanated from it.

  ‘Tench,’ said Harysone, with a fond smile. ‘The queen of fish.’

  ‘This particular queen of fish was in the possession of Norbert when he was murdered,’ said Michael uncompromisingly, even though there was scant evidence to prove such a statement, and the monk himself had not even been entirely convinced about the tench’s relationship with the dead man. ‘I have been told he won it from you in a game of chance.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harysone, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I did lose a tench to a man, now that you mention it. But I do not know his name, nor do I see how my fish could have had him murdered.’

  ‘So, you did not kill him to take it back again?’ asked Michael bluntly.

  Harysone’s expression hardened. ‘I did not. It is not an especially good specimen, as you can no doubt see, and was already past its best when this man – Norbert you say he was called – won it from me. He was welcome to it. But I do not have to sit here and listen to your accusations.’ He started to stand. ‘So, if there is nothing else …’

  ‘Just the matter of your wound,’ said Michael, indicating that the pardoner was to sit again. ‘You claim you were stabbed by a student.’

  ‘It pains me dreadfully,’ said Harysone, adopting a pitiful expression as he lowered his rump on to the bench. ‘I shall have to claim compensation from your University, because the injury inflicted on me by a scholar means that I am unable to work. Indeed, I can barely walk.’

  ‘I am not surprised you are in pain if you prance around so vigorously,’ said Bartholomew pointedly. ‘The wound is not deep, but I told you to rest, not writhe about like a speared maggot.’

  ‘I was dancing,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘Although I am a pardoner by trade, I am famed for the rare quality of my jigs. I practise most days, and my body is used to the movement. Dancing will not hurt my back – unlike knives.’

  ‘I did not realise you were a pardoner.’ Michael pronounced ‘pardoner’ with as much disgust as was possible to inject into a word without actually spitting. ‘You told me you were here to sell copies of your …’ He gestured at the tome on the table, declining to call it a book.

  ‘Pardoners can write devotional philosophy as well as anyone else,’ said Harysone sharply. ‘In fact, I imagine we do better than most, given the religious nature of our vocation.’ He attempted to look pious, but merely succeeded in looking more sinister. ‘But yo
u will want to know what happened last night when I was grievously injured. I was giving a demonstration of my dancing when I became aware of an intense pain in my back. I staggered towards a table, where I thought to support myself until the agony eased, and it was then that I noticed the scholars.’

  ‘How do you know they were scholars?’ demanded Michael. ‘Students are not permitted in taverns; it is against the University’s laws.’ He failed to add that students frequently disobeyed that rule, especially around Christmas, when lectures were suspended and there was an atmosphere of celebration. He also declined to mention that he knew Michaelhouse students sometimes patronised the King’s Head – Ulfrid had been open about the fact that he had won a pair of dicing bones from Harysone in that very tavern.

  ‘So is frolicking with whores in alleyways, I imagine,’ replied Harysone tartly. ‘But it still happens. And I knew they were students because I could see Franciscan habits under their cloaks – and the landlord told me those lads were from Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Why did he tell you that?’ asked Michael sceptically.

  Harysone gave an elegant shrug. ‘Because I asked why his inn was so attractive to men of the cloth. There were Dominicans and Carmelites here, too, if you are interested. He told me they are able to sample the Christmas spirit in a tavern, but not in their friaries.’

  ‘He is right,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Father William told me the Franciscans intend to ignore the whole festive season. They even had lectures between Shepherd’s Mass and the Mass of the Divine Word on Christmas morning, and there was no kind of feast at all.’

  ‘I heard the same of the Carmelites,’ replied Michael in an undertone. ‘That is what happens when you join a mendicant Order, Matt: but note that only friars cancelled Christmas, not monks. My Order did no such thing. I am not surprised mendicant students seek solace elsewhere.’

  ‘Why do you think it was the Franciscans from Michaelhouse who stabbed you?’ asked Bartholomew of Harysone. ‘Why not someone else?’

  Harysone sighed. ‘Because the Michaelhouse men were behind me. If someone I was facing had wielded the weapon, then the knife would have been lodged in my front.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Michael ambiguously. He glanced sharply at Harysone, as though he had just thought of something. ‘The Chepe Waits – whom you have already said you do not know – were accused of stealing from someone at the King’s Head. I do not suppose their victim was you?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ countered Harysone, fixing Michael with his glistening eyes.

  Michael sighed irritably. ‘I am not interested in playing games, Master Pardoner. Did one of the Chepe Waits remove a quantity of gold from you or not?’

  ‘It was returned,’ admitted Harysone reluctantly. ‘And the Sheriff informed me that there was no need to press charges. I decided he was right.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. Harysone did not seem the kind of person to overlook a theft. The pardoner was in Cambridge to make money by selling his book, and Bartholomew imagined he would want anyone punished who came between him and his gold.

  Harysone gave an elegant shrug. ‘The money was returned – with a little extra as interest. It is Christmas, and so I decided to be generous.’

  Bartholomew wondered what Sheriff Morice had discovered about the pardoner to induce him to forget the incident. He also speculated about how much the ill-fated venture had cost the Waits: now it seemed they had not only been obliged to bribe the Sheriff to keep their freedom, but had been forced to repay Harysone in full, with extra to ensure his compliance. He gave a wry smile. No wonder the Waits were so keen to remain at Michaelhouse. They were still reeling from the disastrous financial effects of their brief foray into crime.

  ‘The Chepe Waits seem to be connected to everyone,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully, as he and Michael walked back to Michaelhouse.

  They had eaten the King’s Head pig, which had not tasted nearly as bad as the landlord had made it sound. A shallow bowl had been provided, and when Michael had finished gnawing the bones, the remaining grease and juice on the platter was poured into it and presented to the monk to drink in lieu of bread to sop it up. Michael was still dabbing his oily lips with a piece of linen as they passed through the Trumpington Gate and walked down one of the alleys that led towards Milne Street, which, as the thoroughfare where many wealthy merchants lived, was more clear of snow than the High Street.

  ‘Philippa and Turke hired them,’ Bartholomew went on

  when Michael did not reply. ‘And Quenhyth saw them with Giles, Harysone and Norbert.’

  ‘Frith has already admitted he was touting for business and says he spoke to a good many people in an attempt to secure work,’ said Michael. ‘And they touted even harder when Christmas was upon them and they still had not found employment. However, we must not forget the fishy connections you brought to my attention: Harysone penning a “book” on piscine matters; Turke being a fishmonger and Gosslinge a fishmonger’s manservant; and Norbert winning a tench from Harysone the night he died.’

  ‘It seems to me Harysone’s “fishy connections” are incidental. I had the impression Turke shunned him at the King’s Head – or they shunned each other. And the dicing game where Norbert won his tench – just like the bet Harysone had with Ulfrid when the lad won his dice – was designed to attract onlookers, so that Harysone could tell them about his book. I am not sure any of it is significant. But more importantly, Brother, what do you think of the accusation Harysone has made against our students?’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew knew he would. ‘But, having seen him dancing, I can understand why someone sought to put an end to the misery with steel. I shall have words with our Franciscans – especially Ulfrid, who freely admits to debating about crabs and oysters with Harysone – and I shall learn the names of the other friars who were present that night. But I cannot see anyone confessing to stabbing the man, and, unless I find an obliging witness, it will be difficult to catch the culprit. Do you think Harysone was telling the truth about Morice returning his gold with interest?’

  ‘I do not know, but I have the impression Morice encouraged him to be “compassionate”. Morice’s motives are the questionable ones, not Harysone’s. All Harysone did was accept the return of his lost property and agree to let the matter rest. God only knows what sordid connivance Morice engaged in to make the effort worthwhile for himself.’

  ‘I think Harysone agreed far too readily for the charges against the Waits to be dropped,’ argued Michael. ‘Which means either that he enjoys a more meaningful acquaintance with them than either has acknowledged, or that the gold was ill-gotten and he does not want the Sheriff looking too closely at where it came from.’

  ‘Or that he was feeling generous – or greedy – and decided to accept the Sheriff’s “interest” and end the matter,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘Not everyone wants to take a stand against a corrupt Sheriff: it can be dangerous. I do not blame Harysone for taking the money and asking no questions.’

  ‘Harysone’s book is riddled with errors,’ said Michael, declining to acknowledge that Bartholomew had a point and shifting the emphasis of the conversation instead. ‘I doubt he has peddled many, so where did this gold come from?’

  ‘Perhaps he sold copies on his way to Cambridge. They cost two marks when he arrived, and they are now three, so, he must have sold some, or he would not have raised the price.’

  ‘Only a fool would buy one,’ said Michael authoritatively.

  ‘Very possibly. But he sells them in taverns, where men gather to drink ale and wine. I imagine some only realise they have made a poor purchase when they are sober.’

  ‘There is Oswald Stanmore,’ said Michael, pointing to the merchant, who was hurrying towards them. ‘What is he doing out on a cold day when he could be by his fire?’

  ‘I hoped I would meet you,’ said Stanmore breathlessly. He cast a nervous glance behind him, as though worried that he migh
t have been followed. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘In here, then,’ said Michael, opening the door to a small tavern called the Swan, which was famous for the size of its portions of meat. He leaned inside and inhaled deeply, detecting roast boar and spiced apples among the enticing odours that emanated from within. The King’s Head pig seemed to have been totally forgotten.

  ‘I do not have time,’ said Stanmore, drawing him back out again. ‘Edith is expecting me home, and I do not want to leave her for long. I have asked Cynric to stay with her while I am out.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by his brother-inlaw’s rapid gabble.

  Stanmore peered around him again. ‘I do not think the deaths of Turke or his manservant were natural,’ he said, agitated. ‘I am sure Philippa knows something that she is not telling us.’

  Bartholomew exchanged an uneasy glance with Michael. It was not long since they had discussed that very issue themselves.

  ‘Such as what?’ asked the monk.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Stanmore. He ran a hand through his hair and Bartholomew felt a lurch of alarm when he saw that the normally sanguine merchant was shaking. ‘Turke’s death has been on my mind. Perhaps I am just unused to seeing men die, but it has plagued my every waking thought. Because of this I found myself drawn to the Mill Pool, where he fell in. The more I studied it, the more I was certain no sane man would have skated there. I can only conclude that Turke never intended to go skating, and that something terrible happened to him.’

  Michael regarded the merchant with sombre green eyes. ‘I remarked at the time that the skates were improperly tied, and Philippa herself told us that Turke was not a man to go gliding across the river at a moment’s notice. However, Matt examined the corpse, and he says Turke’s death was exactly as it appeared: the man fell in the river and died of the cold. It does not matter whether he did so while he was skating or while he was doing something else.’