A Killer in Winter (57 page)

‘So, Frith and Ailred unwittingly spoiled your plans,’ said Bartholomew to Harysone. ‘Turke dead is not in a position to be
blackmailed.’

‘I made a mistake by not revealing myself to them when I first arrived,’ said Harysone bitterly. ‘I assumed Josse had delivered
my message to Ailred, and that he knew what I intended to do, but now I see Josse failed me. I shall have words with that
young man when I return to Chepe.’

‘Did Ailred and Frith not see you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. The town was not so large that three close relatives could
spend days without meeting.

Harysone tapped his long teeth. ‘My disguise as a pardoner was so good that even they did not recognise me.’

‘But it was Frith – your cousin – who stole from you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He took your gold at the King’s Head. Morice returned
it to you, but took a handsome finder’s fee in the process.’

‘That gold was money I had demanded from Turke when I met him by the Mill Pool, the night he murdered Norbert,’ said Harysone.
‘It was a pity to lose it, but it came easily, and I did not miss it too much. Frith is a natural thief, and I should have
known he would see a pardoner as fair game. He burgled two other patrons, too, although they accepted the loss with stoicism
and declined to involve the Sheriff. Anyway, you see why I agreed to Morice’s vile arrangements. Obviously I did not want
a Sheriff prying too deeply into where the money had come from.’

‘It was also because you did not want to risk closer contact
with Frith, lest he recognised you,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Your lenience was not because you wanted to protect your
cousin, but to safeguard yourself.’

‘I do not like Frith,’ admitted Harysone. ‘He was always trying to persuade my father to disown me and make him sole heir.
However, it is Uncle Ailred’s motives, not mine, that will provide you with your answers. Do you understand now why he was
so keen for Brother Michael to solve Norbert’s murder? It was because the hated Turke was the culprit. Turke admitted to Uncle
Ailred that he had stabbed Norbert with Gosslinge’s knife, and Uncle Ailred wanted him revealed as a killer, even after he
was dead.’

‘Does this mean
you
were with Turke that night?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Ailred implied it was Frith.’

‘Then he is wrong: it was me. I was demanding money from Turke to pay for my board at the King’s Head.’ He smirked again.
‘I was the one who pushed you over after you heard Norbert scream. I grabbed my fish as I ran.’

‘The tench was important after all,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘We should have known that only someone who was afraid of the association
between the rotten fish and the murdered student would have bothered to snatch it up as he fled.’

‘Quite, but you did not see that connection – luckily for me. But Norbert is irrelevant. It was Turke’s death that really
inconvenienced me. I did not imagine for a moment that my kindly uncle and my inept cousin would kill him and deprive me of
my future fortunes.’ He smiled nastily at Philippa. ‘But fortunately Turke’s wife is keen to protect her dead husband’s reputation,
so we have continued to meet, to see if we can reach an acceptable arrangement.’

Bartholomew shook his head, disgusted by Harysone’s determination to wring money out of anyone unfortunate enough to cross
his path. ‘Was blackmailing Turke really worth a winter journey to Walsingham? Why not wait until the eve of his election
or some other opportune time?’

‘Because I need money now. You see, my father devised a new way of salting fish, and had invested all we owned in
the venture. But Turke would not allow the method to be used and, after my father’s murder, I learned I had no inheritance
left. Nothing at all. Since I do not want to live in poverty I was obliged to act promptly.’

‘I suppose the tench Norbert won was prepared using your father’s method?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That was why it was rotten.’

‘The technique requires honing,’ admitted Harysone. He fingered the relic that still hung around his neck, as if hoping to
draw strength from it.

‘And now you have St Zeno to help you do it,’ said Bartholomew, not at all sure he did.

Harysone nodded. ‘I know you think my relic is Gosslinge’s thumb, but you are wrong. Langelee should have asked a good deal
more than five pounds for this. I shall sell it to the Fraternity of Fishmongers for three times that amount.’

‘I should have seen you were no pardoner when you showed your ignorance of theology,’ said Bartholomew. He regarded Harysone
closely. ‘I should have noticed that your teeth are not real, too. They are too large, and you are unused to them, because
I once heard them clang on the rim of your wine cup. A man comfortable with his teeth does not allow that to happen. Also,
my students commented that your eating was a spectacle that caused them some entertainment.’

Harysone inclined his head. ‘I would remove them for you, but they are not easily taken in and out. I cement them in with
gum mastic each morning, and I do not want to slip them out without the aid of a mirror. I might lose some of my real ones
in the process and I do not have many left. Like my father, I am sadly bereft of them.’

Bartholomew recalled what he himself had said to Michael, when William had discovered the remains of the marchpane figure:
that people often have one distinguishing feature that outshines all others. Harysone’s teeth were so prominent that they
drew attention away from everything
else. Without them folk might have recognised his gait or the shape of his mouth.

Harysone scratched at his face until the beard came off on his fingers, and Bartholomew saw it had the same texture as the
horsehair used to make false moustaches for the female Waits.

‘My hair is dyed,’ Harysone added, ‘and I have also coloured my face, to make it swarthy. As I said – even my kin did not
recognise me, and Frith and I spent time in the same tavern! We even exchanged one or two words, although not many. I did
not want him too close.’

‘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 Philippa tearfully. ‘If I said I had lent mine to John Fiscurtune, I would have been obliged to
confess the whole miserable story to you.’