Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘No,’ said the singer bitterly. ‘They are not at all like me. If I had their money, I would not be standing here, losing my fingers and toes to the weather. I would be in a warm inn with a pot of spiced ale at my elbow and a hot wench on my knee.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That they are wealthy?’

  ‘I know the Chepe Waits from when we perform in London. They have friends in high places, who arrange for them to play in the best houses. Then they steal small items – not jewellery or gold, you understand, but little things no one will miss immediately. These they deposit with a friend, so that when accusations are levied, nothing is ever found.’

  ‘Quenhyth told me that,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘He did not mention that stolen goods were deposited with a third party, but he said a chalice had disappeared from his father’s home. He thought the Waits were responsible.’

  ‘Well, your Quenhyth was mistaken, then,’ said the singer. ‘The Chepe Waits would never take something as valuable as a chalice. That would cause a stir, and would tell other households they should not be hired. They are cleverer than that and only take objects that can be sold with no questions asked.’

  ‘Like glass salt dishes, knives, brass skewers and inkpots?’ asked Michael, naming four of several items that had been reported ‘lost’ at Michaelhouse.

  ‘Exactly!’ said the singer. ‘Everything they steal is small, unimportant, difficult to identify and can be sold openly. Not chalices.’

  ‘But these paltry objects will not buy them warm beds and decent meals in taverns,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  ‘A little stolen regularly over long periods will make pennies add up. Also, remember that all their meals and beds are provided by the people who hire them. When you have no living expenses you can amass a fortune quickly, even if you are only adding a few coins a day.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Michael. ‘But it sounds a slow and tedious way to gain riches to me.’

  ‘That may be so, but it is easy and, if you are careful never to take too much, it is safe. It is better than standing in icy marketplaces singing to people who would rather you were silent.’

  ‘The Waits stole a sizeable sum of money at the King’s Head,’ said Michael. ‘If they are only interested in pennies, then why did they take Harysone’s gold?’

  ‘That is obvious: because they had not been hired by the King’s Head,’ replied the singer impatiently. ‘The tavern was so full of travellers that it would have been impossible to pin the blame on any one person.’

  ‘Sheriff Morice pinned it on the Chepe Waits,’ said Michael. ‘He knew the identity of the thieves immediately.’

  The singer was suddenly furtive. ‘I imagine someone must have slipped him a hint.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows and treating the singer to an amused smile. ‘I wonder who that could have been.’

  ‘If the Waits are known for petty theft, then why has no one denounced them?’ asked Bartholomew.

  The singer shrugged. ‘I do not think their habits are well known – not here, at least – and who would believe me if I started making accusations? People would say I was just trying to steal their custom, or that I was jealous because my troupe has not been hired by a wealthy College.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘And they would be right.’

  ‘I do not think the Waits have friends in high places, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about another of the singer’s claims. ‘They were the last to secure employment this year.’

  ‘Not quite the last,’ the singer pointed out bitterly. ‘I have no idea why they are in Cambridge. They were doing well in Chepe, where they have their influential friends. They secured a lot of business there – to the exclusion of the rest of us, I might add – over the last five years or so. I cannot imagine why they abandoned such a lucrative situation to come here.’

  ‘You said they give what they steal to a friend, who sells it for them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is this friend with them now? Is it the same person, or do they vary their “friends” between towns?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said the singer. ‘I only know what I do because Frith once confided in me when he had fleeced a particularly wealthy patron, and was of a mind to brag. Doubtless he has since wished he held his tongue.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else all this?’ asked Michael.

  The singer grimaced.‘Several people, although none have listened as long as you. But you should hire us instead, Brother. I promise we will not take your salt dishes or your inkpots.’

  ‘Perhaps next year,’ said Michael. ‘Here are a few coins. Buy yourself and your companions some spiced ale, and you may find your singing is the better for it.’

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘THAT WAS INTERESTING,’ SAID BARTHOLOMEW, AS HE AND Michael picked their way between the walls of snow in the High Street. ‘The Waits have been seen with Norbert, Gosslinge and Harysone. I wonder if any of them is the “friend” who takes their stolen property and converts it to pennies.’

  ‘Not Gosslinge,’ said Michael. ‘He was in the employ of a respectable merchant. Why should he waste his time with pennies?’

  ‘It might explain why he was wearing rags,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He exchanged his livery for shabby clothes as a disguise while engaged in illegal activities.’

  ‘It might, I suppose. And then he and the Waits had a falling out, and Frith rammed the vellum down Gosslinge’s throat. But would they kill the man who was going to sell their goods? I imagine you need to be very careful about who you trust when you turn criminal, and new and reliable accomplices would not be easy to find.’

  ‘Perhaps Gosslinge wanted more money, but they refused.’

  ‘And killed him? Why? It is not as if Gosslinge could go to the Sheriff with his information, because that would see him hanged, too.’

  ‘Then what about Norbert as the accomplice?’ ‘Norbert seldom left the town. He could not have helped with stolen goods in Chepe.’

  ‘The singer said he did not know whether the accomplice travelled with them, or whether they had different help in different places. Norbert may have been their Cambridge man.’

  ‘But, like Gosslinge, Norbert died five days after they arrived,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Does that mean he was not good at his job, and so they stabbed him?’

  ‘Perhaps he tried to cheat them. Who knows what sort of arrangement they had?’

  ‘But, again like Gosslinge, why kill their accomplice when replacement partners in crime would be difficult to come by? I am more inclined to believe that the accomplice is Harysone.’

  ‘I wonder why that does not surprise me,’ muttered Bartholomew dryly. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘His behaviour, for a start. He told you about meeting the Waits when you went to treat his back. He wanted to make sure you understood it was a chance encounter. He anticipated someone would tell you they had been seen together, and he wanted you to believe the meeting was meaningless before it figured in our investigation. But he is our man. Why else would he be here?’

  ‘To sell copies of his book?’

  Michael pulled a face to show what he thought of Harysone’s attempts at scholarship. ‘His “book” is not worth the parchment it is written on. It is a ruse – an excuse for his presence here so no one will ask questions.’

  Bartholomew gave a sudden laugh. ‘Did you hear William complaining about it this morning, after you excavated me from the snow? He is supposed to tell Langelee whether it is suitable for the library, and is enjoying it because it is not. He does not know whether to be amused or shocked. He read me the parts he considered most damning.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘All sorts of rubbish, but what really caused him to launch into one of his tirades was Harysone’s statement that fish are angels. Harysone’s logic is that fish have silver scales, but their brilliance fades after they die; this is because the angel’s soul leaves the fish to go to Heaven. He also says angels are th
e only creatures on Earth that do not breathe air. Ergo, angels are fish.’

  Michael gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘Harysone really wrote that?’

  ‘You should borrow the book from William before he wears it out with his aggressive thumbing and browsing.’

  ‘I could not bring myself to touch it,’ said Michael primly. ‘But all this merely confirms my suspicions: Harysone is the Waits’ accomplice.’

  ‘Because he writes heretical books?’ asked Bartholomew, laughing. ‘You will need something better than that to convict him! However, remember that if Harysone is the Waits’ accomplice, they would not have relieved him of his gold in the King’s Head.’

  Michael was not pleased to see his argument thwarted. He muttered something incomprehensible, then declared they would pay Harysone a visit immediately. Bartholomew saw that the monk obviously preferred to trust his own instincts about the pardoner than the physician’s scientific analysis of the facts.

  It took a long time to reach the King’s Head, partly because it was difficult to walk, but mostly because people kept stopping them to ask for help or to enquire whether they had seen someone who was missing. Matilde was out, taking bread and milk to those in need, assisted by Yolande de Blaston’s older children. They struggled through the snow carrying baskets and jugs, putting their feet in her footprints, so that Bartholomew was reminded of the legend about the sainted King Wenceslas. She waved to him, but was too busy with her charity to stop and talk. They met Langelee near Bene’t College. Looking pleased with himself, he waved a bag of coins at them.

  ‘Five pounds,’ he said with satisfaction, bracing himself against the monstrous pile of snow outside that College in order to let Robin of Grantchester slink by without touching him; the drift made the road very narrow at that point. A trail of red in the white after Robin had passed indicated the surgeon had been practising his trade that morning.

  Michael grinned conspiratorially. ‘You persuaded Harysone to part with five pounds? That is five times what he wanted for one of his miserable books. I knew he would be unable to resist!’

  ‘St Zeno’s finger,’ said Bartholomew, looking from one to the other. ‘You sold Harysone the relic Turke gave you?’

  ‘For a modest sum,’ bragged Langelee, clearly delighted. ‘I played on his love of fish, as you suggested, Michael. I thought I might have to exaggerate Zeno’s association with fishermen to make him bite – so to speak – but he already knew all about the Saint of Anglers, and all I had to do was appear to be reluctant to part with the thing.’

  ‘I was going to inspect that,’ said Bartholomew, disappointed to learn it was no longer in Michaelhouse’s possession. ‘I thought it might be Gosslinge’s thumb.’

  ‘More than likely,’ said Langelee carelessly. ‘I had a good look at it myself, and it is definitely a human digit of some kind or other. It was blackened and covered in dried skin. I saw many relics when I worked for the Archbishop of York, and I sensed Turke’s was a fake from the beginning. When I touched it, and was not struck down by the Wrath of God, I knew I was right.’

  ‘That was a risky way to find out,’ said Bartholomew, disapprovingly. ‘You should have asked Kenyngham to assess it first. If anyone can identify saintly objects, it is him.’

  ‘He did,’ said Michael, shooting the Master an admonishing look for telling only part of the story. ‘Kenyngham blessed it, but said it felt tainted. We decided to rid Michaelhouse of the thing as soon as possible. And who better than to a pardoner with an obsession for fish?’

  Langelee jingled his coins in boyish glee. ‘I must go – to consult with Agatha about how best to spend five whole pounds!’

  Harysone was sitting in the main chamber of the King’s Head when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. Lounging elegantly near the hearth, he was enjoying the company of two merchants who also wanted the warmth of a fire that winter day. He wore the relic bag around his neck, and was fingering it as he spoke. The merchants looked pleased when Michael beckoned Harysone away, glad to be rid of him. Bartholomew saw one of them held a copy of Harysone’s book, and supposed the pardoner had been working on a sale.

  ‘Cordwainers,’ said Harysone, revealing his teeth in a predatory smile. ‘They love to hear about my escapades in Chepe, among the best and most ruthless traders in the country.’

  ‘They did not look as though they were loving it to me,’ said Michael rudely. ‘They looked bored to tears.’

  ‘Chepe?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘When were you in Chepe?’

  ‘I do not remember precisely,’ said Harysone carelessly. ‘A year ago, perhaps. When you travel a lot, as I do, you tend not to recall details. Perhaps it was not Chepe at all, but Smithfield or the Fleet. They, too, have great markets.’

  ‘But you said, quite categorically, that Chepe merchants are among the “best and most ruthless in the country”,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘How can you now say you may have been referring to traders from other markets?’

  ‘I am tired, and my back is paining me,’ snapped Harysone, irked at being caught out in a falsehood. He went on the offensive. ‘What have you done about the student who stabbed me? You seem willing to quibble about the locations of markets, but have you caught the man who inflicted this grievous wound on my person?’

  ‘Why do you frequent markets?’ asked Michael, ignoring Harysone’s questions and persisting with his own. ‘You are a pardoner, so your trade will be in and around churches, where you can catch the conscience-stricken before they are obliged to make embarrassing confessions.’

  ‘I like markets,’ said Harysone defensively. He sipped wine from his goblet, and his teeth clanged noisily on the rim. Bartholomew wondered if the man had ever considered having them filed to a more manageable size. ‘I like the smells and the atmosphere. It is not a crime.’

  ‘You like fish, too,’ said Michael, making it sound like an accusation.

  Harysone smiled fondly, ignoring the monk’s hostile tone. ‘Yes, I do. Fish are God’s glimpse into Heaven. You know the story of the loaves and the fishes – God made many fish out of an original two or three, because He wanted everyone to enjoy them and see how wonderful they are to eat. Fish are marvellous creatures, and so useful.’

  ‘Useful?’ asked Bartholomew warily, sure that Harysone’s interpretation was not the message the gospel writers had intended to impart.

  Harysone flashed his teeth. ‘As a physician, you should know their myriad virtues. Fish oils can cure diseases, and they produce luxuriant and glossy curls, if applied to the hair.’

  ‘I thought I smelled something odd,’ remarked Michael, edging away from him.

  ‘They are also tasty, and are better than meat for the digestion,’ Harysone went on. ‘They are in every sea, river and stream, providing an inexhaustible supply for human delight. And they make for good friends – better than dogs.’

  ‘You have a lap-fish?’ asked Michael wryly. ‘Like rich widows have lap-dogs?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Harysone scornfully. ‘They die if you put them in air, and no one wants to sit around with a water-filled lap. You keep them in a jug or, if you are wealthy, in a pond in your garden. If you find one dull or unresponsive company, you can eat it and buy another.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, regarding Harysone as though he had escaped from St John’s Hospital, where the town’s lunatics were housed. ‘Have you always been a pardoner, or does your obsession with matters piscine stem from an earlier career as a fisherman or a fishmonger?’

  Bartholomew supposed that this none too subtle question was intended to raise the subject – again – of whether Harysone had known Turke or Gosslinge.

  Harysone’s face bore an expression of genuine regret. ‘I wish I were a fishmonger, because I can think of no occupation that would suit me more. However, we cannot always do what we want, so I am obliged to make my living by selling pardons. My book – I have a spare copy for sale, if you are interested – is my little tribute to the creatu
res I revere.’

  ‘I see you have a relic,’ said the monk casually. ‘Is it a fish, by any chance?’

  ‘The best relic would be a fish Jesus caught in the Sea of Galilee,’ declared Harysone wistfully. He fingered the pouch. ‘But this is almost as good: St Zeno’s finger.’

  ‘May I see it?’ asked Bartholomew politely, wondering whether his knowledge of bones would allow him to distinguish a finger from a thumb if the skin was withered away.

  ‘You may not,’ said Harysone haughtily. ‘This is a sacred relic, and not for pawing by curious physicians who want to examine everything they see.’

  ‘How much did it cost?’ asked Michael wickedly. ‘I am sure saints’ bones are expensive.’

  ‘Terribly,’ agreed Harysone. ‘This was five pounds, but worth every penny, even though its purchase has left me impoverished. I shall have to sell more books. Are you sure you do not—?’

  ‘What about the gold Sheriff Morice returned to you?’ interrupted Michael, as quick as lightning. ‘Could you not have used that? How much was it, anyway? Morice is fond of gold himself, so I wager he took a small something for himself.’

  ‘It was not small,’ grumbled Harysone. ‘He offered me all my recovered gold, plus interest, but then informed me he always keeps a percentage of any recouped stolen property for the needy. By “needy”, he meant himself, I gather. However, I do not make a habit of contesting rules set by venal officials. I do not want to end up dead in a ditch over a mark or two.’

  There was an element of wisdom in Harysone’s position. It was not unknown for folk who spoke out against civic corruption to die in mysterious circumstances, and Bartholomew thought Harysone was probably prudent to pay what Morice asked and forget about the loss – especially in a town where he was a stranger and friendless.

  ‘You did not mention this before,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You said Morice returned it all with interest. But I shall ignore your dishonesty for now, if you tell me how much was stolen.’

  ‘Eight nobles,’ replied Harysone, bristling at Michael’s rudeness. ‘And Morice took three of them. I suppose I should count myself fortunate that he did not steal them all.’