A Killer in Winter (24 page)

‘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 you 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 might
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.’

‘I think it does matter,’ insisted Stanmore. ‘You see, if he was not skating, then it means that someone tied the bones to
his shoes – wrongly, as you say –
after
he was dragged from the water. And that means someone wants us to believe that he died skating when he did not.’

‘Perhaps he was just inept with his laces,’ Bartholomew suggested.

Stanmore waved a dismissive hand. ‘Then what about Gosslinge? You said yourself it is unusual for two members of the same
household to die in such rapid succession, and you must see that neither death was exactly normal.’

‘It is winter,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘People do freeze to death and fall through ice at this time of year. It is unfortunate
that both are dead, but not necessarily sinister.’

‘“Necessarily”,’ pounced Stanmore. ‘You have already considered the possibility that there is something odd here, and you
are right: there
is
something sinister – to use your word – going on. Think about what Turke muttered as he died. It clearly meant something
to Philippa, because she was a different woman afterwards.’

‘That is true,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But what do you suggest we do about it? I cannot begin an official investigation, because
Turke’s death is outside my jurisdiction.’

‘Jurisdiction can be bought these days,’ said Stanmore grimly. ‘Leave Morice to me.’

‘I suppose corruption has its advantages,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘I was obliged to offer him some money myself recently.
His men were trailing my every move while I investigated the death of Norbert, and were making it impossible for me to work.
The only way to get rid of them was to pay Morice with coins from William’s fines chest.’

Bartholomew was unhappy that either of them should be involved in bribing one of the King’s officers. He knew such matters
had a habit of being raised at later dates – such as when Morice decided he had not been paid enough and demanded more, or
when Morice himself was eventually called to explain his dishonesty to the King’s justices. ‘Even if you do buy Morice, Philippa
will not want us prying into her business,’ he warned.

‘I do not care,’ said Stanmore. ‘I want you to look into it. You have solved so many cases before that I am sure this one
will present you with no problems.’

‘Where do you want us to start?’ asked Michael.

‘With Giles,’ said Stanmore, glancing up the road again,
as though he imagined Abigny might be listening. ‘Philippa never leaves the house unescorted – she is a nuisance actually,
always wanting someone with her – but Giles is in and out like a bishop in a brothel, despite the pain he is in from his chilblains.’

‘Where does he go?’ asked Michael.

‘Taverns, I imagine. The man lives in Turke’s house, but is clearly discontented. Perhaps
that
is why he insisted on joining this pilgrimage – to dispose of the brother-in-law he despises, well away from other fishmongers
who might ask awkward questions. By killing Turke he has relieved Philippa of a tiresome husband and improved his own lot
in the process.’

‘How do you know Philippa regarded Turke as tiresome?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought she seemed fond of him. Even though she
was uncomfortable with the notion of Fiscurtune’s cold-blooded murder, she said nothing disloyal about Turke. And anyway,
Giles might lose a good deal by dispensing with his brother-in-law. Without Turke to protect him, he may lose his post at
the law courts. And he may have condemned Philippa to a life of destitution, if Turke’s sons inherit their father’s wealth
and she does not.’