Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew thought the same thing, and did some rapid calculations. Since a noble was a third of a pound, Harysone’s returned gold would only have covered a third of the cost of the relic. He wondered whether the man’s book sales had provided the rest.

  ‘Do you know the identity of the culprits who stole your gold?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I do not,’ said Harysone. He raised a dirty hand to prevent Michael from speaking. ‘And I do not want to know, so do not tell me. There is nothing I can do about it now and I want to forget the whole miserable business.’

  ‘You love fish, yet you did not take the opportunity to converse with Walter Turke or his servant,’ Bartholomew observed, changing the subject. ‘They stayed in this tavern before moving to be with friends. Surely, you would have enjoyed their company?’

  ‘I have already told you Turke was not a gentleman,’ said Harysone. ‘And I doubt he loved fish anyway. For him, they would have been just a way to make money.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ said Michael, staring pointedly at the book. ‘But you were seen with Gosslinge by reliable witnesses.’

  ‘The inn has been busy since I arrived,’ explained Harysone patiently. ‘The man may have shared my table once, but we did not speak. I recall finishing my meal and leaving as soon as I could. I do not waste my time in discussion with illiterate menials.’

  ‘How do you know Gosslinge was illiterate?’ pounced Michael.

  Harysone made an impatient noise. ‘He was a servant, and servants do not read. I am here in Cambridge only to sell copies of my book, so there is little point in chatting to folk who are unlikely to want one.’

  ‘You tried to sell Agatha the laundress a pardon,’ said Michael immediately, recalling her outraged reaction when she mentioned Harysone had offered her one that would take care of all seven deadly sins simultaneously. ‘So you are not here just to sell your book.’

  ‘You cannot blame me for trying to help a soul in need,’ said Harysone wearily. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me – for pardons. That is Revelations, of course.’

  ‘It is the gospels, not Revelations,’ corrected Michael. ‘Your theology is very hazy for a pardoner.’

  With some effort, Harysone drew his lips over his teeth and managed to purse them. ‘You are not in a position to criticise the way I practise my profession. You are a proctor, yet you have not discovered the identity of the man who stabbed me. Who is the worst offender: the pardoner who makes an occasional mistake with his references, or the proctor whose ineptitude allows a would-be killer to walk free?’

  ‘The Chepe Waits,’ said Bartholomew quickly, thinking that Harysone had a valid point, but not wanting Michael to become involved in an argument when they had work to do. ‘Have you met them before?’

  ‘You have asked me this already,’ snapped Harysone. ‘And my answer now is the same as it was then: why would a respectable man like me know a group of ruffians?’

  ‘Because you travel?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Because you said yourself you often meet interesting and unusual people in the course of your wanderings. And there is the fact that the Waits come from Chepe – where you profess to know the merchants.’

  ‘We may have met,’ said Harysone cautiously. ‘I really do not recall. I see so many people that it is difficult to keep track of them all.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘I would not like to learn later that you have misled me. Lying to the Senior Proctor is a serious offence in this town, and carries a heavy fine.’

  This was the first Bartholomew had heard about a fine for lying, although he was certain Michael would love the introduction of such a measure, while Father William would make the University fabulously wealthy on it. The threat of parting with money had an instant effect on the pardoner. He appeared to reconsider.

  ‘Perhaps I have met them before, but I do not recall whether it was in Chepe or elsewhere.’

  ‘How did you meet them?’ asked Michael, victory gleaming in his eyes, as he sensed he was getting somewhere at last.

  ‘Perhaps I asked them to play for me. I like a little entertainment now and again, and employ musicians when I have funds to spare. I hired one the other night, so people could see me dance.’

  ‘I do not suppose the Chepe Waits ever gave you anything in return?’ asked Michael. ‘And I do not mean the benefit of their musical talents. I mean things like salt dishes and inkpots.’

  ‘Why should they do that?’ asked Harysone, raising his eyebrows. ‘Really, Brother! I am not surprised your investigations have been unsuccessful, if this is your idea of solving crimes. I may have passed the time of day with your Chepe Waits, and I may have encountered them on my previous travels, but I have certainly never taken anything from them. And now …’

  ‘I hear you have been making enquiries about a certain Dympna,’ said Michael smoothly, when the pardoner rose to his feet. ‘What do you say to that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Harysone angrily. ‘Because I do not know what you want me to say. I heard she is good with her hands, and was hoping she would heal my afflicted back, since your physician is incapable of relieving my pain. Why do you ask? Is she dead, too?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Michael. ‘Is there something you would like to tell me?’

  Harysone sighed. ‘Why do you persist in treating me like a criminal? I am the one who has been stabbed, yet you come here and demand to know inner meanings to every conversation I have had since I arrived. You would do better to interrogate those Michaelhouse boys, because if you do not charge one of them soon, I shall go to the Sheriff and demand justice. And that will cost you a good deal more than your time!’

  ‘Harysone is hiding something,’ said Michael, as he struggled through a particularly deep drift en route to the Trumpington Gate. ‘I know he is.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you remember Langelee, when he first arrived here? He pretended to be a scholar, but all the time he was spying for the Archbishop of York.’

  ‘What does that have to do with Harysone?’

  ‘Perhaps it is no coincidence that Harysone arrived the same day as the Waits. Perhaps they made a powerful enemy by stealing from one particular household – someone who does not like his good faith abused and who wants revenge. In other words, Harysone is an agent, employed by some wealthy merchant from Chepe to catch the Waits and bring them to justice.’

  ‘They would not be worth the expense,’ said Michael. ‘That singer said the Waits’ light fingers land only on paltry items; he said they would never take anything valuable.’

  ‘But he also said the money generated from these thefts was considerable. Would you want those kind of people wandering around the villages or land that you owned?’

  ‘I do not think Harysone is here for any purpose other than to benefit himself. He is not some avenging angel, intent on putting right what is wrong in the world.’

  ‘The Waits have made enemies, though. The singer disliked them enough to tell Sheriff Morice they had stolen Harysone’s gold, while Quenhyth is positively rabid about them. There must be others who feel the same way. Harysone may be one of them.’

  ‘I suppose,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘However, although you think it is highly suspicious that Harysone and the Waits all reached Cambridge on the fifteenth of December, do not forget that Turke and his household arrived that day, too.’ He gave a grim smile as he recognised a familiar figure battling through the snow. ‘And here comes Giles, limping almost as badly as our investigation and with his feathered hat looking as dishevelled and disheartened as I feel. I intended to visit him later today, but we can talk to him now instead. It will save me a journey.’

  ‘It is too cold to chatter in the street,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘The snow has melted in my boots, and my feet are frozen. I shall have chilblains, like Giles, if I do not go home soon.’

  ‘It is mild,’ contradicted Michael, warmed by the mulled ale from the King’s Head and the eff
ort of walking. He shot out a powerful arm to prevent the clerk from hurrying past. ‘Giles! Do you have a moment?’

  ‘No,’ said Abigny, trying without success to free himself. ‘I must meet someone, and I am already late. You can talk to me later, in Stanmore’s house where it is warm and dry.’

  ‘Who are you meeting?’ asked Michael.

  Abigny stared at him in surprise, then laughed. ‘All the power you have accrued from being the Bishop’s spy and the Senior Proctor has made you insolent, Michael! It is none of your business who I am meeting, and you have no right to question me. I am no longer a scholar, and am therefore outside your jurisdiction.’

  ‘I apologise,’ acknowledged Michael, with a grin Bartholomew sensed was not genuine. ‘I only wanted to ask you about Gosslinge, now that Philippa is not here to contradict you.’

  Abigny gave a bleak smile. ‘You have already heard all I have to say: Gosslinge was a puny little man who hid when there was hard work to be done; he was lazy and grasping; and he had an inflated opinion of his worth. He despised me because I am employed by the law courts – “priests’ dirty work”, he called it.’

  ‘Did he indulge in criminal activities, then?’ asked Michael, exchanging a meaningful glance with Bartholomew. Perhaps Gosslinge had been the Waits’ accomplice after all.

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Abigny. ‘Walter was intolerant of any kind of wrongdoing by his servants, despite the fact that he used questionable practices himself to make his business a success. Gosslinge had a good life, and I do not think he would have risked losing it by breaking the law.’

  ‘Walter engaged in criminal activities?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘I thought he was a Prime Warden, and a fine, upstanding member of London society.’

  ‘Oh, he was,’ said Abigny wryly. ‘At least, that is what he wanted people to believe. His good reputation meant a great deal to him. Why else would he go to the inconvenience and discomfort of a pilgrimage?’

  ‘To atone for a mortal sin?’ suggested Michael dryly.

  Abigny laughed again. ‘Do not be ridiculous! Walter had no fear of Heaven or Hell, and the pilgrimage was undertaken solely because he believed the murder of Fiscurtune – which he always claimed was perfectly justified, by the way – might damage his chances of being Lord Mayor.’

  ‘His chances of becoming Lord Mayor look slim at the moment,’ remarked Michael.

  Abigny grinned. ‘Perhaps that was the real reason for his death – he embarked on a pilgrimage without being properly contrite, and was struck down by God.’

  ‘Why did Turke think he was justified in killing Fiscurtune?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said he stabbed an unarmed man during a guild meeting. That does not sound justified to me.’

  ‘Walter was one of those men who believe they can do no wrong,’ replied Abigny. ‘How Fiscurtune’s death appeared to me and a good many others was irrelevant to him. He believed he killed Fiscurtune honourably after many years of provocation.’

  ‘You mentioned Turke was not wholly honest in business,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What criminal activities did he enjoy?’

  ‘I did not say they were criminal,’ corrected Abigny. ‘I said they were questionable. He was ruthless, and destroyed more than one competitor as he made his way to the top. You will not find anything flagrantly illegal in his past, but there is a lot of unpleasantness and unkindness.’

  ‘I am puzzled by Gosslinge’s role in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why Turke employed someone lazy and indolent – even if he did remain on the right side of the law.’

  Abigny hesitated. ‘I could give you my views on the matter, but I have no evidence to back them, and there is no point in telling tales now that both are dead. It would hurt Philippa, and I do not want to do that. And anyway, I thought you had agreed to leave Walter in peace.’

  ‘Turke, yes, but not Gosslinge,’ said Michael craftily. ‘I am not entirely satisfied that his death was natural.’ He raised an eyebrow at Bartholomew, who stared at the ground, chagrined. ‘I cannot allow him to be buried until I am sure there is nothing sinister about his demise.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Abigny, surprised. ‘You think someone might have done away with him? I do not think it was Turke, so do not waste your time exploring that line of enquiry. He was too angry about Gosslinge’s disappearance to have had a hand in it himself.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his chin as he considered the clerk’s claims. Was Abigny telling the truth about Turke’s level of irritation over the servant’s death, or was he just trying to dissuade them from including Turke in Gosslinge’s murder investigation? Bartholomew realised with a shock that not only had Philippa changed to the point where he barely knew her, but so had her brother. Bartholomew and Abigny had shared a room for several years, and had been good friends, but Bartholomew now found himself questioning everything Abigny said.

  ‘You still have not answered Matt’s question,’ said Michael, as Abigny leaned against a wall and flexed one of his feet, wincing as he did so. ‘Why did Turk employ a lazy scoundrel like Gosslinge?’

  ‘I will tell you what I think,’ said Abigny, repeating the operation with the other foot. ‘But on condition that you leave Walter alone afterwards. I do not want Philippa distressed any more than she has been. Gosslinge’s position in the household was more powerful than it should have been. He had some kind of hold over Walter.’

  ‘Do you know what that hold might be?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Gosslinge lost a thumb when he was a boy – as an apprentice gutting fish for Walter, apparently. I have always wondered whether it was an accident, or whether Walter did it.’ Abigny smiled ruefully when he saw the expression on their faces. ‘I knew you would be sceptical. It does not make sense, does it?’

  ‘Why would Turke sever Gosslinge’s thumb?’ asked Michael. ‘And why would Gosslinge let him?’

  ‘Gosslinge was puny,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he could not stop it.’

  ‘Or was it an accident?’ mused Michael. ‘But Turke felt responsible, so gave Gosslinge licence to live a lazy life. But, by all accounts, Walter was not a compassionate man, and so that seems unlikely, too.’

  ‘It crossed my mind that St Zeno’s finger was Gosslinge’s thumb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Langelee sold it before I could look.’

  Abigny made a disgusted face. ‘I confess that possibility never occurred to me! I cannot envisage any situation that would lead Walter to revere other men’s severed body parts. It is grotesque! You must be wrong.’

  ‘We shall have to ask Philippa,’ said Michael. ‘She will know where the relic came from.’

  ‘Do not,’ pleaded Abigny. ‘You will upset her if she thinks you are probing Walter’s death after she asked you to leave him alone. She was fond of him, despite his shortcomings, and will grow fonder still once the bad memories have faded and only the pleasant ones remain. She will be a good widow, and will never say anything to harm his reputation – no matter what the truth.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Michael. ‘What did you really think of Walter?’

  Abigny smiled. ‘I always said that Philippa made a mistake in her choice of husbands, which did not make me popular with Walter. You would have been a much better brother-in-law, Matt. We would have been friends.’

  ‘Walter was not your friend?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Lord, no! He was too busy running the Worshipful Fraternity of Fishmongers and making everyone believe he was respectable and decent. Of course, the murder of Fiscurtune made people think again. Would you want the prestigious post of Lord Mayor filled by a man who had stabbed another in what basically amounted to a fit of pique? Fiscurtune was being abusive and he had brought the Fraternity into disrepute with his poor salting techniques, but honourable men do not resolve arguments by stabbing unarmed opponents. However, now you must excuse me …’

  ‘Before you go, why are you here in Cambridge?’ asked Michael. ‘Is it really to protect Philippa?’


  ‘Totally – and you can see I was right to have misgivings about the venture. I am glad I was here to help her when she needed me. But now I really must go.’

  He gave them a jaunty wave as he entered the King’s Head. Bartholomew waited a moment, then ploughed through the snow to the window. The shutters were drawn, to keep out the cold, but there were enough gaps in the wood to allow him to see through. He watched thoughtfully as Abigny doffed his hat in an amiable greeting to Harysone, then sat next to him and began to talk.

  ‘The Chepe Waits. Abigny. Fish. Dympna,’ said Michael, counting them off on his fingers late the following afternoon, as dusk was settling over the town. ‘These are the strands that connect Turke and his lazy servant, the dancing pardoner and the murder of Norbert. The only problem is that I cannot see how.’

  Nor could Bartholomew, and he had been mulling over the information all day. The whole morning had been spent making enquiries about Harysone, but these yielded nothing they did not already know: the pardoner had arrived with his cartload of books, but no one knew anything about him other than that which he had chosen to divulge. No one could say how he had come by his curious fascination with fish. No one had seen him with Turke, but he had been noted in company with Gosslinge, although it seemed they had not spoken. No one could offer any plausible theories as to why someone should stab him, and the most likely explanation seemed to be Bartholomew’s – that the pardoner’s gyrations had driven him accidentally on to a knife worn in someone’s belt.

  Michael had listened to reports from his beadles about Dympna that morning, but was disappointed with their trawl of information. Several witnesses had heard of Dympna, but no one had actually met her. A man who had lost a foot in an accident with a cart claimed Dympna was a saint, but would say no more about her, despite Meadowman’s best efforts and a large jug of ale. Later, Michael had gone to Ovyng. Ailred was preaching to his students – with apparent sincerity – about the virtues of honesty, but still insisted he had not left the hostel on the night the intruders had invaded St Michael’s. Godric said nothing at all.