Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Do you know Dympna?’ asked Michael, hopeful that she might have answers to questions that had been plaguing him for days.

  ‘No,’ came the disappointing answer. ‘But I have heard of him.’

  ‘Him?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘I thought it was a woman. Norbert received messages from Dympna before he died, and Matt and I made the assumption they were from a lover.’

  ‘Norbert!’ spat Agatha in disapproval. ‘You should not make any such assumption about him. He did have a lover, although it was not a woman. There is a certain pig that was the object of his amorous attentions. Doubtless Helena will be relieved now that he is gone.’

  ‘Helena?’

  ‘Robin of Grantchester’s pig. Folk saw Norbert slipping into the back of Robin’s house at odd hours to visit her. Poor creature!’

  ‘How do you know he was not going to meet Robin?’ asked Michael curiously.

  Agatha regarded him in horror. ‘That is a disgusting notion, Brother! Call yourself a monk? You should see Master Kenyngham and ask him to say prayers that will cleanse your mind of such vile thoughts. Robin of Grantchester and Norbert!’

  ‘It is no worse than you accusing him of courting a pig,’ objected Michael indignantly. ‘And I was not suggesting Norbert went to see Robin with “amorous intentions”, as you put it. They may have had business to arrange.’

  ‘Then why did Norbert not knock at the front door, like Robin’s patients do?’ demanded Agatha. ‘You are wrong, Brother. It was the pig that Norbert went to see.’

  ‘And this pig is definitely called Helena?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Dympna?’

  ‘You said Dympna sent Norbert messages,’ said Agatha, giving him a glance that indicated she thought he was short of a few wits. ‘Pigs do not write. Well, Clippesby says they can but choose not to. He said they dislike the sensation of spilled ink on their trotters. Do you think he will remain insane for ever, Brother, or will he become as normal as the rest of us one day?’

  ‘Lord knows!’ muttered Michael, declining to answer a question that might lead to so many pitfalls. ‘So, what have you heard about Dympna? You referred to this person as “him”.’

  ‘I do not know whether it is a man or a woman,’ admitted Agatha. ‘But I have only ever heard him associated with good things – never bad. That is why I was surprised to hear the name on the lips of a foul beast like that Harysone. What is that egg doing on the floor?’

  Michael retrieved it and began to remove its shell while he pondered what Agatha had told him. Dympna, whoever she – or he – was, now provided a definite link between Harysone and the dead Norbert, along with the tench Norbert had won. Michael decided that as soon as Bartholomew had finished his sketch, he would make it a priority to show it to anyone who knew Harysone. The physician could show it to Philippa and her brother if he liked, but Michael was certain he would be wasting his time.

  ‘Did you know Harysone has accused Michaelhouse students of stabbing him?’ he asked casually, aware that such information would turn Agatha against the pardoner even more.

  ‘I heard,’ said Agatha shortly. ‘And so did Sheriff Morice. He visited Harysone just after you did, and tried to force him to make an official complaint. Harysone declined.’

  Michael was astonished. ‘Harysone refused to allow the Sheriff to investigate the fact that he was stabbed? Why? I anticipated we would have problems with that – I thought Morice would claim that it was a town crime, committed against a visitor, and that the culprits should be turned over to him for sentencing. And you can imagine what would happen then.’ He ate the egg.

  Agatha nodded. ‘The scholars would scream that no member of the University should be tried by a secular authority – especially if the culprit is a friar, as Harysone claims – and there would be a riot. Morice would yield – in return for a certain amount of University money passed directly to his personal coffers – but the ill feeling between scholars and townsfolk would fester anyway.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Michael, thinking she had summed up the situation very well. ‘But Harysone declined to allow the Sheriff to look into the matter?’

  Agatha pursed her lips. ‘Not because he wanted to avoid riots and mayhem. He said he could not afford a second investigation by Morice, and I am sure he meant it literally. Anyone who deals with Morice can expect any help to cost him a noble or two.’

  Michael sucked egg from his teeth as he stared into the fire and considered. So, it was likely that Harysone had paid Morice something when the Sheriff had recovered his stolen gold, and had not received the entire sum back with interest as he had claimed. But if Harysone’s gold had been honestly won, then he would not have needed to give Morice anything. That meant Morice had discovered it was not, and had taken advantage of that fact. Had Harysone stolen the gold from someone else? Or had the Sheriff decided Harysone was overcharging for his book, and threatened to arrest him for fraud? Michael stood, shaking the eggshells from his habit into the fire, where they hissed and popped as they were consumed by the flames.

  Michael knew Harysone was unlikely to confess to Norbert’s murder if he just marched up to the man and demanded to know whether he was the owner of the jewelled dagger that was now lost for ever in the river. He decided the best way to gain Harysone’s confidence would be to act as if he was making a serious attempt to find whoever had stabbed him – to present him with a culprit and show that justice would be done. Harysone would be impressed that the University took accusations of assault seriously, and that it, unlike Morice, did not charge for its services. Once he had the pardoner’s trust. Michael would be in a position to talk to the man, in the hope that he could be tricked, flattered or cajoled into saying something incriminating.

  The first thing the monk needed to do, therefore, was identify the Michaelhouse friars who had been in the King’s Head when Harysone was demonstrating his dancing skills. It would not be difficult: Father William and his five students were the only Franciscans in the College. William had already ‘broken’ his leg when Harysone was attacked, and everyone knew he had not set foot outside since. That left his students, all of whom might very well have enjoyed an illicit drink in a tavern, although Michael could not see any of them knifing a man in the back.

  It was almost dusk, and time for the evening meal, so the monk enjoyed his chicken, egg and custard first, then approached the Franciscans as they were heading to the conclave for an evening of entertainment organised by Deynman.

  ‘We are growing bored with the Waits,’ grumbled Ulfrid, when the monk asked why the students were reluctant to follow Deynman that evening. ‘Makejoy can dance, and Yna and Jestyn can juggle, but Frith is dire with the pipe and tabor.’ His fellow Franciscans gathered around, pleased by an opportunity that would excuse them from the dull festivities for a little longer.

  ‘Frith is a poor musician,’ agreed Michael, which was damning indeed coming from a man whose standards were based on the Michaelhouse choir. ‘He cannot hold a beat with his drum, and his piping is noise rather than proper tunes. His “Kalenda Maya” was unrecognisable last night.’

  ‘We have had nothing but tumbling and juggling for days now,’ Ulfrid continued bitterly. His friends murmured their agreement. ‘We want something else. Christmas is a time for things like closh, kayles and quoits, not sitting around indoors watching Waits.’

  ‘You cannot bowl on snow, which eliminates kayles,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And you would lose your horseshoes and balls if you were to try quoits or closh. But there is always the camp-ball tomorrow to look forward to. And then there are the First Day of the Year games, where there will be ice-camping, wrestling, tilting and all manner of fun.’

  ‘I suppose,’ conceded Ulfrid reluctantly. ‘But we should have voted for Gray. He is more imaginative than Deynman.’

  ‘Deynman said he paid in advance for the Waits, so he wants his money’s worth out of them,’ said another of the novices, a prematurely balding youth with a square jaw who possessed the u
nlikely name of Zebedee.

  ‘The Waits are getting their money’s worth out of us,’ muttered Ulfrid bitterly. He turned to Michael. ‘I caught Frith leaving my room this morning, and later I could not find some pennies I’d left there. I cannot say for certain that he took them, but I am suspicious.’

  ‘Deynman is a fool to retain their services,’ agreed Zebedee. ‘Agatha said things have gone from the kitchen, too – a pewter spoon, a glass dish for salt, a brass skewer. Little, unimportant items that you do not miss until they cannot be found.’

  Ulfrid frowned in puzzlement. ‘But, conversely, Cynric accidentally left the College silver out after the Christmas Day feast, and it sat unmolested for a whole day before it was returned to the chest in Langelee’s room. Frith could have had that easily, yet he did not touch it.’

  ‘And William has three gold nobles that he always leaves in full view on his windowsill,’ added Zebedee. ‘They are worth six shillings and eightpence each, and it would be a simple matter for someone to reach in and grab them. I know Frith has seen them, and there have been plenty of opportunities when they could have been his. But he ignores them.’

  ‘Then perhaps we are misjudging him,’ suggested Michael. ‘It is easy to think the worst of people we do not know, and the fact that he is able to resist gold nobles and silver plates tells me he is probably not interested in pennies and salt dishes. But there is another matter I would like you to help me with. It involves the King’s Head.’

  Ulfrid was suddenly the recipient of a lot of stares that were far from friendly, and he squirmed uncomfortably. ‘You did not have to come,’ he blurted defensively, glaring back at his colleagues. ‘You could have stayed in the Swan.’

  ‘We could not let you go on your own,’ said Zebedee. ‘What if Godric and the others had not turned up? You would have been alone in an apprentice-filled tavern.’

  ‘Godric from Ovyng?’ asked Michael. ‘You went to the King’s Head to meet him?’

  ‘Now look what you have done.’ Ulfrid rounded on his friend. ‘You have dragged Godric into trouble, too, and he has enough to worry about, what with the Tulyets not giving his hostel any more money, and Ailred fretting over this Norbert business.’

  Michael crossed his arms and listened. Questions he would have asked were answered by the bickering students without any intervention on his part. He learned that the Michaelhouse Franciscans preferred to drink their illicit ale in the Swan, which was quieter and more peaceful than most of the town’s inns, while the Ovyng Franciscans favoured the noisy, lively atmosphere of the King’s Head. The students of most Colleges and hostels tended not to mix, but the building Ovyng used was owned by Michaelhouse, and the Franciscans were on friendly terms with each other, occasionally meeting for a companionable drink.

  Early on the night Norbert had been killed it had been Godric’s turn to buy the ale, and he had suggested the King’s Head as the venue. The Michaelhouse lads had demurred, nervous of patronising such a disreputable place at a busy time like Christmas, but Ulfrid had later decided to go anyway, if only to tell Godric not to expect them. Reluctantly, the others had gone with him, but it had been their first and last visit. Ulfrid had won some dice in a bet with the boastful Harysone, and they had all witnessed the pardoner’s individual dancing style. However, although they had passed an enjoyable evening with their Ovyng friends, they knew that the King’s Head was more likely to be raided by beadles than other taverns, and had declined to go a second time. All the student Franciscans had left the inn before compline, and had returned to their respective homes fairly sober and long before the gates and doors had been secured for the night.

  ‘Did you see Norbert in the tavern that evening?’ asked Michael.

  The friars nodded. ‘But we were in a small chamber at the back, and he was in the public room at the front,’ replied Ulfrid.

  ‘We saw him gambling with Harysone,’ offered Zebedee helpfully.

  ‘This is interesting,’ said Michael. ‘Your Ovyng friends have not mentioned this.’

  ‘That is because they were not there at that point,’ said Ulfrid, sounding surprised that Michael did not know. ‘We arrived first, to make sure of grabbing seats in the back room. Godric and the others are not so fussy about where they sit, and they were late that night, because they were at some public lecture that went on for longer than they expected.’

  ‘After Norbert won the fish, he took his winnings and a woman, and retired upstairs,’ continued Zebedee. ‘Godric and the others arrived a few moments after that. Norbert was still up there when we all left, so none of the Ovyng students could have seen him. They did not even know he was there. None of us mentioned the fellow, because talking about him would have spoiled their evening. So, I think we can safely say that none of them had anything to do with the murder.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael noncommittally, thinking that it was not impossible for an Ovyng student to have slipped out of his hostel later and killed Norbert. He turned the subject back to Harysone and his stabbing, and learned that the Michaelhouse students’ only visit to the King’s Head had been several days before Harysone was attacked.

  ‘I expect Harysone remembered that Ulfrid was from Michaelhouse,’ said Zebedee. ‘He would recall Ulfrid, because he lost his dice to him. He then made the erroneous assumption that all Franciscans are from the same College. But we know nothing about any stabbing, Brother. How is it that Harysone did not see his assailant, anyway? I would remember a man who had knifed me!’

  ‘Whoever assaulted him made the mistake of aiming for the hard bones at the base of the spine, instead of the soft bits higher up. Or perhaps Harysone moved suddenly, and the would-be killer’s dagger found itself embedded lower than was intended. Can I see your knives?’

  The students obliged, and Michael was presented with a mixture of implements. Most were tiny, intended only for cutting up food at the table, although Zebedee’s was larger, and Ulfrid’s was more ornate than it should have been.

  ‘I lost mine,’ admitted Ulfrid. ‘So William lent me his spare one. It is a little fancy, but it will suffice until I have the money to buy another.’

  Michael nodded his thanks and walked away. Had Ulfrid really lost his original knife, or had he thrown it away when he realised the tip had been left in his victim? The monk shook his head impatiently. The novices had just told him they had only visited the King’s Head once, and that had been before the attack on Harysone. Or was Ulfrid lying? Had he returned alone at a later date, thinking he might win something more interesting than a pair of dice? And had he been disappointed in his hopes and had then taken revenge on Harysone?

  And was Ulfrid the owner of the knife that had killed Norbert? The friars of Michaelhouse and Ovyng were friends, so was it possible that Ulfrid disliked Norbert for bringing Ovyng into disrepute and had decided to solve the problem for his comrades once and for all? Or was the merry-faced Ulfrid innocent of both crimes, and had just lost his knife, as he claimed? People mislaid items like knives, pens and inkwells all the time.

  His instincts told him that the Michaelhouse lads were honest in their denials about Norbert’s murder, although he was less certain about their Ovyng colleagues. Perhaps they had seen Norbert in the King’s Head, and had merely declined to enter the tavern as long as the man was flaunting himself in the main chamber. It was also possible that one had doubled back and had lain in wait for him, stabbing him by the Mill Pool. And perhaps it had been another of them who had finished what the first had started, using a stone when Norbert had finally crawled to where he thought he would be safe. Michael’s sense of unease intensified, and he saw he would have no peace until he had Norbert’s killer under lock and key – whoever he transpired to be.

  Bartholomew presented his finished illustration to Michael with a flourish. The monk was impressed. The drawing was very precise, even down to the way the blood had crusted where the hilt met the blade, and he realised the physician had quite a talent for sketching. The mon
k studied the diagram carefully. The dagger’s handle was depicted as relatively plain, but there was green and yellow glass that would make the thing very distinctive.

  ‘You saw all this before you dropped it?’ he asked, hoping that his friend had not added the beads to the picture to make it more attractive.

  Bartholomew shot him a withering glance. ‘I have included nothing I did not see. Will it do?’

  ‘It will do very nicely,’ said Michael, nodding his satisfaction. ‘And the first people we shall try it on are the Franciscan friars of Ovyng, who may know more than they are telling about this peculiar business. I have just learned they were in the King’s Head the night Norbert died, although Ulfrid believes the friars and Norbert did not see each other. However, I shall reserve judgement on that.’

  ‘I think you will achieve more success when you show it to Philippa and Giles. You know what I think Turke was doing when he fell through the ice.’

  Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘You cannot be more wrong. In order to kill someone you need a motive, and Turke had no reason to murder Norbert. However, now Agatha has revealed that Harysone was asking after Dympna, we can conclude he had a connection with Norbert – more than just two men dicing for fish together. I shall show your picture to him, too.’

  ‘Agatha’s information must have pleased you. You have had Harysone marked down for a criminal act ever since he arrived.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michael happily. ‘And it is good to know my instincts have not misled me. But we should hurry, or the Ovyng lads will be in their beds. These Franciscans retire early in the winter, and it is almost six o’clock already.’

  They walked briskly to Ovyng. The temperature had fallen dramatically with the approach of night, and the air almost cracked with cold. The ground underfoot was as hard as stone, and any moisture had long since frozen like iron. Few people were out, and those that were huddled deep inside their cloaks.