Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘That is partly because they did not anticipate meeting you here,’ said Philippa. ‘Poor Ailred!’

  ‘Ailred did not recognise you when he arranged the loan from Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Your disguise must have been excellent.’

  ‘It is excellent,’ said Philippa. ‘Even Giles, who is very observant and has purchased one of John’s books, has not guessed his true identity.’

  ‘Uncle Ailred was a fool to loan me that money,’ said Harysone, gloatingly. ‘I had no intention of repaying it – not the original amount and certainly not the interest. That will teach him to destroy my hopes of a glittering future.’

  ‘Frith and his friends will probably hang for Norbert’s murder,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Your testimony could save them but I am sure you have no intention of helping.’

  ‘Frith has the funds to buy his freedom,’ said Harysone carelessly. ‘And I should know, for I am well acquainted with his financial situation.’

  ‘You are the man to whom they passed their stolen goods?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘My father was – but only in Chepe, obviously. They use other people when they travel. My father kept careful records, which I unearthed when I went through his possessions after his death. Perhaps I can blackmail Frith instead – threaten to tell the Chepe merchants about his activities. A percentage of his ill-gotten gains, along with Dympna, will suffice to compensate me for this horrible adventure and its unfortunate conclusions.’

  ‘You cannot have Dympna,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kenyngham has hidden it.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Harysone. ‘He left it in that cellar you were so keen to explore. But I have retrieved it, as you can see.’ He nodded to a corner, where Bartholomew could see the outline of the walnut-wood chest among the shadows.

  ‘Kenyngham told you where he hid it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, hoping Harysone had not harmed the old friar.

  ‘Frith had the right idea when he said he would fire Michaelhouse unless the chest was handed over. I merely used the same tactic and offered to fire the Gilbertine Friary. Kenyngham claimed he was sick of the money and the evil it brought, and relinquished it almost willingly.’ He nodded towards the trapdoor. ‘He is down there, waiting until we leave. Join him, and see for yourself.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, knowing Harysone had no intention of allowing him to climb into the cellar or anywhere else. Harysone wanted him dead.

  The ‘pardoner’ was becoming impatient and fingered his pitchfork. ‘You have two choices, physician. We can dodge around like this and I will reduce you to small pieces slowly, or you can stand still and allow me to finish you in a single stroke. It will probably not even hurt – much as the knife did not hurt me when I was first stabbed in the back.’

  ‘No!’ cried Philippa, dismayed. ‘Put up your weapons. Both of you!’

  ‘Go to Hell, Harysone,’ said Bartholomew between gritted teeth. ‘It is a pity Philippa did not aim better, because then you and I would not be in this ridiculous situation.’

  ‘Philippa?’ asked Harysone, glancing at the agitated widow with an amused expression on his face. ‘She would not harm me. She is too afraid I will tell the truth about Turke as I die.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the knife with the broken point is in her possession, nevertheless. I can see the missing tip from here – I noticed it when she wore it in Edith’s solar earlier today.’

  Harysone looked at Philippa again, but this time he was not smiling. ‘Tell me he is lying.’

  Philippa did not reply, and Harysone’s expression became murderous. He turned on Bartholomew and began to advance. He moved quickly, and the hoe was smashed in two in Bartholomew’s hands. The physician saw that the man had done with playing and meant business. It was only a matter of time before one of the swiping tines hit its mark, the injury would weaken him and make him vulnerable to the next blow, and then it would be over.

  ‘No!’ Bravely, Philippa moved to stand between them. ‘I will give you anything you want, John. You can have the house Walter left me. Just do not harm Matthew.’

  ‘It is too late,’ hissed Harysone furiously. ‘He knows enough to hang me, and I do not want to settle into my new home only to be arrested for theft and blackmail.’

  ‘You cannot kill him,’ said Philippa, shoving the tines of the pitchfork down when Harysone raised them again. ‘I will not let you.’

  ‘What about Michael?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the opportunity to dodge away from the deranged fishmonger’s son and trying to drag Philippa with him. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Locked in the cellar with Kenyngham,’ said Harysone. ‘Philippa can join them there, and I will send a message from London telling Stanmore where to find them.’

  ‘But that might be days,’ objected Bartholomew, knowing such a message would never be sent – just like the one that was supposed to have warned Ailred about his nephew’s plan to blackmail Turke. If Philippa entered the cellar, she would die there.

  ‘There is plenty of water, and a few days without food will do no one any harm,’ said Harysone harshly. ‘Move, Philippa or I will kill you, too.’

  ‘Let Matthew go,’ pleaded Philippa. ‘And then we will talk. Do not forget that I cannot give you Walter’s house if I am locked in a cellar.’

  Without warning, Harysone lunged towards Philippa with the pitchfork. She ducked, and Bartholomew darted forward to seize it, trying to wrench it from Harysone’s grasp. They were locked solid, each straining to tear the implement from the other’s hands. Harysone kicked out, but lost his balance and fell, dragging Bartholomew on top of him. He rolled, twisting the handle savagely so that it tore from Bartholomew’s grip. The tines rose, then started to fall.

  Bartholomew twisted hard to one side, thinking that the last thing he would ever see was Philippa’s stricken face. He was startled when there was a loud thud and a sudden weight landed on his chest. Harysone was lying on top of him. He struggled furiously, not sure what was happening. Then he saw the unmistakable shape of Agatha holding the copy of Harysone’s book that Deynman had bought for Michaelhouse. Bartholomew pushed the limp fishmonger away from him, and saw that Agatha had dealt him a serious blow to the head. Harysone was insensible.

  Behind Agatha stood Abigny. He held out his arms to his sister, and she rushed towards them, then buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. He held her gently, rubbing her hair as he whispered words of comfort.

  ‘I hope he is dead,’ he said, glancing up from his ministrations and meeting Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘I never liked Fiscurtune the younger – or Harysone, as he called himself here. It is a pity circumstances led you to deal with men like him and Turke, Philippa. You deserve better.’

  ‘Matthew is decent,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I should never have chosen wealth over love.’

  Agatha disagreed. ‘Take the wealth,’ she advised in a booming voice. ‘You can always get love from other quarters. If you come to see me tonight, I shall tell you how it is done.’

  ‘Someone should release Michael,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling next to the unconscious Harysone to see how badly he had been hurt. He saw he would recover. ‘And Kenyngham.’

  Agatha hauled open the trapdoor and Michael clambered inelegantly from the chilly hole, complaining bitterly about the rough treatment he had suffered. However, it transpired that the worst part was hearing the meal bells in Peterhouse and the Gilbertine Friary while his stomached growled with hunger. Bartholomew saw that no serious harm had been done. Kenyngham emerged more quietly, and slipped away to the Gilbertine chapel to give thanks for his deliverance.

  Meanwhile, Abigny explained how he and Agatha had come to the rescue. ‘I met Cynric, who said Michael was missing and last seen following Philippa. I knew immediately something was amiss. I noticed earlier she was wearing heavy boots that were not hers, and she had refused to answer my questions about them.’

  ‘What could I say?’ asked P
hilippa tearfully. ‘If I said I had lent mine to John Fiscurtune, I would have been obliged to confess the whole miserable story to you.’

  ‘You had no idea about any of this?’ asked Michael of Abigny.

  Abigny’s face hardened. ‘I did not. I came on this wretched pilgrimage because I sensed Philippa might need a friend. I had no idea Turke was being blackmailed by Fiscurtune’s son, nor that Fiscurtune had kin in Cambridge – except Frith, of course. Seeing him juggling in Michaelhouse gave me a nasty turn, I can tell you!’

  ‘So, you did know the Waits?’ asked Michael, looking from Philippa to Abigny.

  Philippa nodded. ‘I recognised Frith immediately, and I was horrified that they might be in Cambridge to make trouble for Walter, to tell folk he was a murderer. That was why I told you the reason for the pilgrimage – in case Frith mentioned it first.’

  ‘I assumed the same,’ added Abigny. ‘But I did not imagine for a moment they intended to kill Walter. I thought they were just going to embarrass the man. In case you have not guessed, Walter’s violent past was the reason neither of us wanted you to look into his death. You knew he murdered Fiscurtune, but not that he had killed Isabella, too. What would Edith have thought if she had learned about that monstrous act?’

  ‘Walter recognised the Waits, too,’ said Philippa. ‘And he was aware that when he murdered Fiscurtune he had also destroyed their friend in high places. That was why he was so keen to accept Edith’s invitation – to escape from their company in the King’s Head.’

  ‘You lied about the scars on Turke’s legs,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa. ‘You knew how he came by them.’

  Philippa nodded. ‘But it was not my secret to tell. It would not have been fair to mention it when Walter was not here to tell his own side of the story.’

  ‘His own side was that he wanted to save himself,’ muttered Abigny, ‘and that he did not care how. I admire you for your loyalty, Philippa, but even you must see it is grossly misplaced. I know you take your oath of wifely obedience seriously, but I do not think it should include helping a husband evade justice as a murderer or acting as messenger between him and his blackmailer.’

  ‘I swore a sacred oath when I married Walter,’ said Philippa tearfully. ‘In a church. How can I ask God to bless me with children when I break the vows I made in His house?’

  ‘You met Harysone in the King’s Head, Giles,’ said Michael in the silence that followed. ‘Did you not recognise him as Fiscurtune the younger?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Abigny bitterly. ‘Or I might have been able to help Philippa sooner. As I told you, I bought the book for her to present to the Fraternity of Fishmongers in Walter’s memory. Offering tokens to commemorate dead husbands is a tradition for widows in Chepe. That is what you saw me doing with “Harysone” in the King’s Head – negotiating a price. I met him three times before a bargain was struck. He was so sure I did not know who he was that he even danced for me.’

  Bartholomew recalled the Waits mentioning someone in a cloak and a hat, who had continued to watch Harysone’s dancing after the ‘other’ pardoners had left. His old roommate was right: Harysone had been so confident of his disguise that he had been quite happy to meet all manner of people he knew – even his own kin.

  ‘So, how did you know we were here, of all places?’ asked Michael, gesturing around the stables.

  ‘Cynric said Matt had stayed here, searching for clues to your whereabouts. Agatha offered to come with me, because she said I might need a mighty right arm. When we arrived, we heard you talking, and the rest you know.’

  Agatha indicated the still figure on the ground with a jerk of her thumb. ‘I did not hit him that hard. Why does he not stir? Is it because he has damaged the balance of his humours with all that vulgar jigging and writhing?’ She shuddered in distaste at the memory of Harysone’s dancing.

  ‘Your right arm is mightier than you think,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But he will recover.’

  ‘Pity,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘I do not want to be here when he does,’ said Philippa, clutching Abigny’s arm. ‘Our bags are packed and I want to leave this town.’ She watched expressionlessly as Michael retrieved Dympna from the corner and prepared to take it to Kenyngham.

  ‘That was well timed,’ said Frith, entering the stable with a smile. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched in horror. ‘We have just purchased our freedom and have been given until nightfall to leave. Cambridge is an expensive town with Morice in charge, but at least justice can be bought.’

  Jestyn, Makejoy and Yna were behind Frith, and all were armed with crossbows. As in the conclave, Frith’s accomplices were nervous and unhappy.

  ‘And how did you know we were here?’ Bartholomew asked them in a tired, hoarse voice.

  ‘We followed Agatha,’ said Frith, giving the laundress a nasty smile. ‘She was bellowing to Abigny, so half the town knows her plans.’ His fingers flexed, and Bartholomew saw he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the thump she had given him in the Market Square during the camp-ball. She glowered at him furiously, her eyes glittering with menace. Bartholomew thought Frith would be wise to dispatch her first if he did not want to risk another beating.

  Rashly, the Wait turned his back on her. ‘I do not intend to leave empty-handed, so we will have the chest, please. And then the rest of you can climb into that cellar, where I may light a fire to keep you warm.’

  ‘Fire?’ asked Abigny in alarm. ‘But there are no windows. We would suffocate!’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Frith coolly. ‘But do not be frightened. It is not as unpleasant as death by a crossbow quarrel, which is the alternative for anyone declining to obey me. Now, move!’ His voice was hard.

  ‘No,’ said Jestyn uneasily, dropping his weapon. ‘I want no part of this. We have only just escaped with our necks unstretched, and we will not be so lucky next time, especially now we have no friends to shield us. Morice will not help us again, and Dunstan and Athelbald, who took care of the various items we accumulated here, are dead.’

  Bartholomew gaped at them. ‘It was the rivermen who helped you dispose of your stolen goods in Cambridge?’ He suddenly recalled the inkpot that the dead Athelbald had clutched in his frozen fingers, and realised he should have questioned at the time why an illiterate man possessed an item usually owned by scholars and clerks.

  Jestyn nodded. ‘Father Ailred arranged it all. He said the money the old men earned from working for us would help them survive the winter. They were very good, too, because they knew so many people. It is a pity they both died so suddenly. Father Ailred was very upset.’

  ‘Enough chatter,’ said Frith sharply. ‘We need to take the chest, set the fire and be gone.’ He advanced on Agatha, but changed his mind when he saw her fists clench, and turned on Bartholomew instead. The physician felt a sharp jab as the tip of quarrel went through his clothes. ‘What will it be, Michaelhouse man? Stabbing or choking?’

  ‘Frith? Is that you?’ Harysone’s muffled voice came from the floor, and Bartholomew saw him ease himself up. Agatha’s blow had knocked the false teeth from his mouth, and he had already pulled off his beard. He looked very different without his disguise – older, fatter-faced and more sinister.

  Frith gasped in surprise when he recognised his cousin, and Bartholomew considered making a grab for the Wait’s weapon while his attention was distracted, but Frith recovered himself quickly and moved out of reach.

  ‘John? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Turke,’ said Harysone, clinging to his cousin as he clambered to his feet, wincing and holding his head. ‘I was going to kill him myself, but you were there first.’

  ‘Liar!’ cried Philippa. ‘You were—’

  ‘Thrust these meddling souls into the cellar,’ interrupted Harysone before she could reveal that killing Turke had played no part in his plans. ‘Then set the fire and let us be gone. Hurry, Jestyn.’

  ‘No,’ said Jestyn again, exchanging a glance with the two w
omen. ‘We will lock no one in the cellar, and we want none of that tainted gold. We are leaving – alone.’

  Frith’s face was a mask of fury. ‘You will do as we say, or you will join this motley crowd choking in the ground.’

  Harysone ignored the quarrelling Waits and calmly reached for the chest. Then, before anyone could stop him, he had snatched it up and darted away. Frith abandoned his squabble with Jestyn and followed with a bellow of rage, leaving the others gazing after them in astonishment.

  ‘I thought he was dazed,’ said Makejoy stupidly. ‘He could barely stand.’

  ‘That is what he wanted you to think,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘After him!’

  The Waits had brought four horses when they had stopped at the friary stables, and Frith and Harysone were already mounted on two of them. They pushed and pulled at each other, as Frith tried to grab the chest from his cousin and Harysone fought to keep possession of it. They galloped across the main road, then down a lane that ran along the side of Peterhouse and towards the river. It was not the direction Bartholomew would have chosen to make a successful getaway, and he saw their attention was wholly focused on each other and Dympna. The people they had been threatening to kill were entirely forgotten.

  Bartholomew raced after them, but had no idea what he would do if he caught them. Both were armed and dangerous, and he did not have so much as a surgical blade with him. But he ran, nevertheless, hearing the others pounding after him – the lighter footsteps of Abigny and Philippa, and the heavier ones of Agatha and Michael. The remaining Waits did not follow. They took the opportunity to escape, Jestyn on one pony and the two women on the other.

  Bartholomew reached the river, and saw the two men still fighting and shoving each other as they fought to gain possession of the box. Their jerky movements were frightening the horses, which pranced and lurched, uncertain which direction they were supposed to take. In the end, Harysone’s turned right, and started cantering towards the Small Bridges and the Mill Pool. Frith followed hard on its heels, and Bartholomew ran after them, doggedly trying to catch up.