Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘He is also unable to protect himself,’ said Michael, striding past him bearing a platter loaded with meat. His hands and mouth were greasy, and it was clear that he had been working on the ‘one-for-you-and-one-for-me’ principle. ‘Because he could not move, those students were able to rip that habit off him and replace it with a new one. As you can imagine, he complained bitterly.’

  Bartholomew could imagine. ‘His leg is not broken, you know,’ he said in a low voice to the monk. ‘If I were to remove the splint, he would be able to walk perfectly well.’

  ‘Leave the splint where it is, if you please,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I want William incapacitated while I am investigating Norbert’s death. I do not want him “helping”. And anyway, you know he hates the Misrule season. It is better for everyone if he stays in his room.’

  ‘I am surprised the Chepe Waits are still here,’ said Clippesby, arriving with a bowl of nuts. ‘Frith had a fight with Agatha, and they have all been questioned by the Sheriff about a theft from the King’s Head. I thought they would have been dismissed.’

  ‘Apparently, the King’s Head victim declined to take the matter further,’ said Michael, helping himself to a thick slice of pork before flinging a considerably smaller one on to Cynric’s trencher. ‘Did you want that, Cynric? If not, throw it across to Quenhyth; he needs a bit of flesh on his bones. So, the Waits were released without being charged. I cannot help but wonder whether they bribed Morice to drop the investigation.’

  ‘Frith outwitted Deynman shamelessly this morning,’ said Suttone, doling out leeks into the bowls that were shared by two people on the high table, and four people in the body of the hall. ‘He threatened to leave Michaelhouse immediately unless Deynman signed a statement promising to hire the troupe for the entire Misrule season. The boy was dismayed at the prospect of being unable to supply entertainment for his “court”, and quickly agreed to Frith’s terms.’

  ‘That was a low trick,’ said Bartholomew, angered partly by Deynman’s gullibility, but mostly because the Wait had used Deynman’s dull mind to get what he wanted. He had not been impressed by the entertainers’ talents or their manners, and he had intended to advise Deynman to dismiss them. Now it seemed he was too late.

  The Waits, assured of employment for the foreseeable future, were complacent. Their tumbling was less energetic, and they dropped their balls and sticks with greater frequency than before. They looked dirty, too, and neither of the ‘women’ had shaved. One had dispensed with the annoyance of his yellow wig, and the resulting combination of large bosom, balding head and bewhiskered face was not attractive. They did not bother with a lengthy performance, either, and it was not long before Frith announced they were going to rest. They retreated behind the servants’ screen, and Bartholomew arrived in time to catch Jestyn drinking from one of the wine jugs.

  ‘That is not for you,’ he said coolly, taking the receptacle from the entertainer’s hands. ‘And it is rude to drink from the jug, anyway.’

  ‘I was thirsty,’ said Jestyn, unrepentant. ‘I am I hungry, too. What is there to eat?’

  ‘They have already had their meal,’ said Michael, coming to refill his meat tray. ‘They cannot be hungry again already.’

  ‘How would you know what we feel?’ demanded Frith insolently.

  ‘You had better keep a civil tongue, or I shall see you throw no more balls and coloured sticks in Michaelhouse,’ said Michael sharply.

  ‘We have been hired for the whole festive period,’ said Frith gloatingly. ‘We have an agreement with Deynman, and we will only leave if he dismisses us. What you think is irrelevant.’

  ‘Do not be so sure about that,’ said Michael with cold menace. Frith regarded him silently for a moment, and apparently realised it would not be wise to antagonise a man like Michael. He recanted, forcing a grin on to his unwholesome face.

  ‘Take no notice of us, Brother. We have been in rough company for so long that we have forgotten our manners. I am sorry if I offended you. We mean no harm.’

  ‘We do not,’ agreed one of the women. She had dispensed with false beard and moustache in the interests of comfort, although her hair was still gathered under her cap in the manner of a young man. She was a robust lady, with a prominent nose and a pair of shrewd green eyes. She wiggled her hips and effected a mischievous grin ‘My name is Matilda, but my friends call me Makejoy. Would you like me to show you why, Brother?’

  ‘He is busy,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to do all the work while Michael frolicked behind the screens with the likes of Makejoy. He could tell from the expression on the monk’s face that he was interested. ‘Come on, Brother. There are people waiting for their food.’

  ‘In a moment,’ said Michael, perching a large rump on one of the trestle tables and folding his arms. He was clearly in no hurry to resume his labours. ‘I have questions for these good people.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’ demanded Frith, instantly wary. ‘If you are referring to that theft at the King’s Head, then yes, we were in the tavern that night, and no, we did not take the gold. The Sheriff agreed there was not enough evidence to make a case against us, so do not think you will succeed where he failed.’

  ‘Gold?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘Would this be the gold Cynric saw you counting?’

  The Waits exchanged uneasy glances. ‘No one saw us count anything,’ said Jestyn unconvincingly.

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael sweetly. ‘You sleep in the room above the stables. Were you aware that it adjoins the servants’ quarters, and that a previous master drilled a series of spy-holes in the walls to allow a watchful eye to be kept on visiting strangers such as yourselves?’

  ‘We must have been counting the coins Deynman gave us,’ said Jestyn quickly. ‘He threw us a handful after our performance last night.’

  ‘He gave you silver, not gold, and I can assure you Cynric knows the difference. Now, I shall say nothing of this to Morice, but there is a price: I want some information.’

  Bartholomew was amused by Michael’s tactics. He suspected that Morice knew perfectly well the Waits were guilty of theft, and, since even a hint of criminal behaviour was normally sufficient for the wrongdoer to be expelled from the town – or worse – it was obvious that Morice had been persuaded to overlook the matter. The physician wondered how much of the stolen gold had been left in the Waits’ possession once Morice had taken his share.

  However, it also stood to reason that the corrupt Sheriff would be keen for the incident to be buried and forgotten. He would not be pleased if Michael presented him with irrefutable evidence of the Waits’ guilt. Morice would never allow Frith to reveal Morice’s own role in the affair, and it was not unknown for people to be stabbed in dark alleys or to disappear completely. Morice was a dangerous man as far as the Waits were concerned, and Michael had them in a nasty corner by threatening to go to him.

  ‘When you first arrived in the town, you stayed at the King’s Head,’ said Michael, fixing Frith with the unwavering stare he usually reserved for unruly students. ‘Now, there was another guest present at the time called John Harysone. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Makejoy nervously.

  ‘Come, come,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I know the tavern was busy, but you must have noticed Harysone. He is a bearded fellow with teeth like a horse and an oily, malevolent character.’

  ‘The one who dresses in black?’ said Frith sulkily. ‘I know nothing about him – only that he hired a private room. We, on the other hand, slept in the hayloft with other less wealthy patrons.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or see him talking to anyone else?’

  ‘No,’ said Makejoy. ‘And we would tell you if we had; we owe nothing to the man, so it does not matter whether we say anything that would land him in trouble. He arrived here the same time as us – eleven days ago now, because we came on the fifteenth day of December. I noticed him immediately. His long teeth make eating difficult,
you see, so his noonday meal was a curious thing to watch – and I have seen him in the tavern since.’

  ‘But you have not exchanged words?’ asked Michael.

  Jestyn shook his head. ‘I nodded at him, as fellow travellers do, but he did not acknowledge me. He stared straight through me, then turned his attention to his duck pie. In fact, he spoke to no one. He declined all company, even that fishmonger’s wife.’

  ‘Do you mean Philippa Turke?’ asked Michael. ‘I heard she and her family took a room in the King’s Head before they went to stay with Stanmore.’

  ‘We wondered why they had left,’ said Frith. ‘But while they were there, your black-cloaked fellow failed to show them any of the courtesies usually exchanged between fellow travellers. Perhaps that is why they abandoned the King’s Head – to seek more pleasant company elsewhere.’

  Makejoy frowned thoughtfully. ‘Their servant sat with Harysone, though. Remember?’

  ‘They shared a table, but did not speak,’ said Frith. ‘It was busy that night, and all the other seats were taken. Harysone was displeased that he was forced to share, and cut short his meal. He took his wine with him. I remember that, because I was hoping he would leave it behind.’

  ‘That would be Gosslinge,’ said Michael in satisfaction. ‘In company with Harysone. You were right, Matt: there is a connection between them.’

  ‘They shared a table, but not words,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It does not sound like a meaningful encounter to me.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Michael, pleased with the discovery nonetheless. He addressed the Waits again. ‘Did you know that Gosslinge is dead? He died in our church, where someone relieved him of his clothes. I would not find them if I looked among your travelling packs, would I?’

  ‘You would not,’ said Makejoy huffily. ‘And I resent the implication that we are thieves.’

  ‘But you are thieves,’ Michael pointed out. ‘We have already established that – it is why you are answering my questions, remember?’ He heaved his bulk off the table and picked up his tray. ‘However, while I am prepared to overlook a theft from the King’s Head, I will not be so lenient if anything disappears from Michaelhouse. Do I make myself clear?’

  The Waits nodded resentfully and Michael left, taking his meat with him. Bartholomew filled his jug with wine from the barrel.

  ‘So,’ he said conversationally. ‘You never met Gosslinge or Harysone before you arrived in Cambridge?’

  ‘We told you: we have never set eyes on Harysone before,’ replied Frith.

  Bartholomew straightened. ‘And Gosslinge?’

  ‘Tell him, Frith,’ said Makejoy, after more uncomfortable glances had been exchanged. ‘If you do not and he finds out, he will assume we have done something wrong. And we have not.’

  ‘We knew Gosslinge,’ admitted Frith reluctantly. ‘But when we heard he was dead, we were afraid to tell anyone about it. You can see why: that monk immediately accused us of stealing his clothes, even though we are innocent.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘We were hired to perform for Walter Turke in London,’ said Makejoy. ‘We juggled and sang at a feast he held for his fellow fishmongers. It was Gosslinge who told us where we could change and provided our food.’

  Bartholomew stared at her, his mind whirling. ‘When was this?’

  Frith blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘June or July, I suppose.’

  ‘Who hired you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Turke himself?’

  ‘His wife,’ replied Frith. ‘She sat next to you at the Christmas feast.’

  Bartholomew frowned in puzzlement, recalling that when he had discussed the Waits with Philippa she had announced, quite categorically, that she did not like such people and never employed them. As the two of them had been struggling to find things to talk about, her recognition of folk she had met before surely would have been a godsend as a conversational gambit. Yet she had not mentioned her previous encounter with them. Why? Had she forgotten them? Was their performance an unpleasant memory that she had suppressed?

  Her brother’s reaction had been equally odd: Abigny had claimed he disliked jugglers, and had left Langelee’s chambers as soon as they had arrived, then had excused himself when they had approached the high table later in the hall. And Turke? They had jostled him and spilled his wine, but he had declined to make a fuss. What did that say about his relationship with the Waits? That he knew them but was loath to admit it to people he wanted to impress? That he declined to indulge in an undignified squabble with menials? Bartholomew supposed the Waits could be lying about being hired by the Turke household, but he saw no reason why they should.

  ‘Did you speak to Gosslinge, here in Cambridge?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Frith bitterly. ‘I asked him if he would recommend us to potential employers, since it was proving difficult to find a situation for the Twelve Days. We had offered ourselves to virtually every merchant in the town, you see, but they had already made other arrangements and had no need for us. But Gosslinge refused to help.’

  ‘Now we shall have marchpanes,’ declared Deynman, standing again and deluging Suttone with wine as he waved his goblet around. There was a chorus of laughter, while the morose Carmelite surveyed the red stains on his robes with weary resignation.

  ‘That pale wool is an impractical colour for a habit,’ said Deynman defensively, blushing with embarrassment. He was not a naturally rebellious lad, and his antics so far had been tame compared to the stunts that Gray had arranged the previous year. However, Gray was sitting near to his friend at the high table, and Bartholomew saw it would not be long before matters took a turn for the worse. Gray was clearly plotting something. He leaned towards Deynman and was constantly muttering in his ear.

  Wynewyk and Clippesby emerged from behind the servants’ screen carrying a huge tray on which sat a huge marchpane image, dressed in blue and white cloth. It was the Virgin Mary. It was fairly large, reaching mid-thigh height, and its face was swathed in a veil. It was not uncommon for Michaelhouse to buy carved marchpanes for the Christmas season, but none had been so finely wrought as this one. Students, Fellows and servants alike watched its progress through the hall in awed silence, and even the Waits were impressed – Frith began a stately march on pipes and tabor to accompany it. Clippesby and Wynewyk set the image on the high table and stepped away.

  ‘Good,’ said Deynman approvingly. ‘But we cannot see the detail on her with all these clothes and veils. Let us take them off.’

  ‘For the love of God, no!’ cried Suttone, leaping forward to prevent such a sacrilege. ‘What are you thinking of, boy? You go too far!’

  Deynman faltered, unsettled by the vehemence of Suttone’s protest, while the silence in the hall was so thick that Bartholomew could hear an insect buzzing in one of the windows. Gray gave Deynman a none too gentle prod in the ribs to prompt him.

  ‘But we must,’ said Deynman, agitated. ‘It is part of the performance.’

  ‘I will not stand by and see you haul the vestments from our Blessed Virgin,’ declared Suttone, drawing himself up to his full cadaverous height. ‘Lord of Misrule you may be, but I will not permit heresy to take place in my College. What would the Bishop and Head of my Order say when they learn what sort of revelries Michaelhouse condones?’

  Gray came slowly to his feet. ‘You will not permit it, Father? How will you stop us?’

  Suttone was taller and probably stronger than Gray, but it did not take much to intimidate the friar from his pedestal of self-righteousness; he was a coward at heart. He appealed to his colleagues. ‘Come to my aid,’ he pleaded. ‘You know I am right and this cannot be allowed. And tell Gray to sit down, Matthew. I do not like him glowering at me like a tavern brawler.’

  ‘The Lord of Misrule can do what he likes,’ declared Gray. He snatched up his goblet and gave his friends a grin that was full of mischief. ‘We will not allow the Fellows to renege on their agreement to allow us free rein, will we?’ T
here was a chorus of nervous agreement, and Gray jumped on to the table, hands on hips as he gazed around him with naked disdain. ‘This is the Twelve Days,’ he declared, glaring at his cronies until they met his eyes. ‘You have been looking forward to it for months. It is our time, when we are free to amuse ourselves and have fun. We will not allow a Carmelite to stand in the way of the best Christmas celebrations Michaelhouse has ever known, will we? Well? What do you say?’

  This time the chorus of voices was stronger, and several students came to their feet, raising their goblets in a sloppy salute to Gray.

  ‘But this is different,’ objected Suttone feebly. ‘Stripping the Virgin!’

  ‘We shall play “Strip the Virgin” later,’ promised Gray, referring to a well-known game that was popular in venues like the King’s Head. The students cheered in delight. ‘But now we shall strip the marchpane.’

  ‘Matthew!’ cried Suttone, turning beseechingly to the physician. ‘Gray and Deynman are your students. You must prevent them from doing this.’

  But the high table was some distance away, and Bartholomew’s path was blocked by Gray’s friends. The physician knew they would stop him if he walked in their direction, and he did not want to start a fight he could not win. He glanced around for Langelee, but the Master was not in the hall, and Bartholomew supposed he had gone to the cellars for more wine. Michael was as hesitant as Bartholomew to interfere with Gray’s plans, and merely stood near the servants’ screen, drinking the wine he should have been serving.

  Meanwhile, Gray started to sing a tavern song, and the words were immediately picked up by the other students and the servants. Bartholomew noticed that even Clippesby was joining in, although the lyrics were obscene, and should not have been in the repertoire of a Dominican friar. The song involved a good deal of cup banging, and the hall was soon awash with noise. Gray leaned towards Deynman and muttered something in his ear. Deynman shook his head, but Gray was insistent, and Deynman’s hand started to move towards the marchpane Madonna.