‘I will look in Peterhouse and the King’s Head,’ said Cynric. ‘The food is good at Peterhouse, and he may have gone there for a meal and not realised how much time has passed.’
He slipped away, leaving Bartholomew alone in the overgrown yard. The physician supposed he should follow Cynric and Meadowman but he remained convinced that Michael’s disappearance was somehow connected to Philippa, and was certain the monk was not far away. He walked through the outbuildings again, this time more carefully, searching for any clue that might tell him that Michael had been there.
The last place he explored was the stables, a low, thatched building with a sizeable loft. There were three horses in residence, none looking very wholesome. The place had not been cleaned since the snows, and the stink of manure and the sharp tang of urine was overpowering. But Michael was nowhere to be found. Bartholomew stood still and looked around slowly.
Clippesby said he had overheard Philippa talking to her lover from the stables, so her trysting place could not be far. The hayloft was derelict, so she had not scrambled up a ladder to frolic there among the straw. Hoping he was not wasting his time by placing so much faith in the word of a man who spoke to animals, Bartholomew continued his careful assessment of the building. If the upper storey was unavailable, and he could not see Philippa setting her pretty shoes in the uncleaned filth of the stalls, then her secret place must be in a downward direction. Many buildings contained basements for storage, and the friary had been built in an age where cellars were commonplace. Bartholomew began to walk back and forth, searching for a trapdoor.
It was not long before he found it – an iron-handled affair, which had been concealed under some straw. Bartholomew grasped the ring and began to pull, but stopped when he realised something was securing it. Initially, he assumed it was locked from the inside, but then reasoned that no one would be likely to lock himself in a cellar. He kicked away more straw, and saw that a bolt was keeping the trapdoor down.
He was completely unprepared for the attack when it came. He was off balance anyway, since he was bending, and fell heavily when the pitchfork slammed across his shoulders. He forced himself to roll, so he could use the momentum to scramble to his feet, and winced when two prongs stabbed violently into the floor where he would have been had he been less agile. The blow was sufficiently vigorous to cause the pitchfork tines to stick fast, and Bartholomew used the delay to launch himself at his assailant. Both went tumbling to the ground.
The physician clawed wildly, using every scrap of his strength. His fingers encountered the hood that covered the man’s face, and he snatched it away, expecting to see the soft, feminine features of Giles Abigny.
‘You!’ he exclaimed in astonishment.
Harysone used Bartholomew’s momentary confusion to scramble to his feet and haul the pitchfork from the floor. Then he came at the physician in a series of smooth, fluid movements that suggested he had done this sort of thing before. Bartholomew backed away, flinging handfuls of muck and straw from the floor at Harysone’s eyes. The pardoner’s relentless advance did not falter. He stabbed again, and this time his tines became tangled in some rotting wood.
Taking advantage, Bartholomew darted towards the door, but a burly figure framed in the rectangle of light blocked his path. He knew he could not wrestle the fellow out of the way and escape before Harysone freed his fork and came after him again, so he snatched up a weapon of his own – a rusty hoe that was leaning against one wall, wondering how he would fare when Harysone’s accomplice joined the affray, too.
Seeing that Bartholomew intended to do battle, Harysone gave a cold smile, so his large teeth gleamed in the dim light of the stable. Bartholomew was bigger and stronger, but Harysone possessed the better weapon. It was longer than the physician’s, and less likely to break. It also boasted a pair of wicked spikes, each one polished and honed to a glittering sharpness.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew, edging away and aiming to keep as much distance between him and the pardoner as possible. He glanced at the figure in the doorway, but it made no attempt to move closer, for which Bartholomew was grateful. He focused his attention on Harysone, knowing the pardoner would take advantage of any lapses in concentration. ‘Where is Michael?’
‘Where you thought he was,’ said Harysone, gesturing towards the trapdoor with his spare hand. ‘I had decided to let you go free – it seemed you would not find my hiding place, and I would not have the bother of dispatching you. You should have left with your servants, and then you would have lived to see another day.’
‘Is Michael dead?’ asked Bartholomew. He was surprised to discover that neither the gloating pardoner nor his pitchfork frightened him, but the prospect of losing the monk’s friendship did. His mind filled with a hot, red rage that threatened to overwhelm him. It was the kind of fury that induced rashness, and a cooler part of his consciousness warned him that throwing away his life in a futile attempt to harm the pardoner would be stupid.
‘Not yet,’ said Harysone evasively. ‘But be assured you will see him in Paradise. Or Purgatory. Or even the other place, if that is where you are bound.’
‘Why have you come back?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘What do you want?’
‘So many questions,’ said Harysone, raising his eyebrows and parting his lips in a moist, toothy smile. ‘I returned because I want my share of a certain treasure that Cambridge is known to possess. I shall have what is my due.’
‘Your due?’ asked Bartholomew, twisting away as one of the tines came slicing towards him. ‘I do not understand.’
‘No,’ agreed Harysone. ‘You do not, but I have no time to answer questions you should have been able to solve yourself.’ His next lunge was in earnest, and Bartholomew felt one of the wicked spikes slice through the hem of his tabard. He grabbed the handle and tried to wrench the implement from Harysone’s grasp, but the pardoner was ready for such a move and he twisted it viciously. Bartholomew was forced to let go or run the risk of being pulled from his feet.
‘Was it you walking through the snow this morning?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You took Philippa’s shoes and enticed Michael here because he wanted to know the identity of her lover.’
‘At last,’ said Harysone with mock encouragement. ‘I do not take kindly to men who order me out of their towns for no good reason. I had done nothing wrong, and he had no right to evict me. I decided not to leave until I had exacted revenge. Now I have done that, I shall be on my way – as soon as I have collected my money and dealt with you.’
‘In that case, I shall delay you for as long as possible,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘Then you will leave late, and the roads from Cambridge are dangerous after dark. You will attract the attention of robbers, and that will be the end of you.’
‘I am an experienced traveller,’ said Harysone, unmoved. ‘It will take more than Cambridge roads to make an end of me.’
‘We shall see about that,’ said Bartholomew, making a series of hacking sweeps with his hoe that had Harysone backing away hurriedly. Then the pardoner darted forward, and a prong stabbed into Bartholomew’s medical bag, so hard it came through the other side. Harysone wrenched hard to free it, almost pulling the physician from his feet. ‘But you are not Philippa’s lover. She has better taste than to choose you.’
‘You do not know me,’ said Harysone, angered by the insult. ‘And anyway, I have better taste than to choose her!’
‘You should know that, Matthew,’ came a soft voice from behind him. Bartholomew whirled around to see Philippa. It had been her bulky form framed in the doorway while he fought. He backed away quickly, not wanting to be caught between the pair of them. ‘Put up your weapons,’ she added. ‘Both of you. There has been enough killing, and I want an end to it.’
‘Go away,’ snapped Harysone. ‘You should not have come. This is none of your business.’
‘It is my business,’ said Philippa sharply. ‘You demanded to borrow my shoes and cloak, and Cynric has
just told me Michael is missing. I guessed immediately what you plan to do. Do you think I will stand by and allow you to murder University officials?’
‘What is going on?’ demanded Bartholomew, beginning to lose patience, although he suspected that displays of irritation were not appropriate just now. But he was angry – with Harysone for doing something to Michael, and with Philippa for being involved in something so clearly untoward. He appealed to her. ‘How do you know this man?’
‘We met in Chepe,’ she replied, ignoring Harysone’s furious sigh. She turned to the pardoner. ‘Enough, John! I will do what you say, but you must put down your weapon.’
Harysone moved to one side and lowered the pitchfork, but made no effort to set it down. Bartholomew edged further away, keeping a firm grip on his hoe.
‘You are not a pardoner at all, are you?’ he said to Harysone, seeing a clue in something Philippa had said: they had met in Chepe. ‘You are a fishmonger – or you have some connection to the Fraternity of Fishmongers. Your knowledge of fish is too great for you to be anything else.’
‘I was a fishmonger,’ said Harysone resentfully. ‘But Turke destroyed my business – and then he almost destroyed me. Sorrow led me to throw myself into the Thames.’
‘You are Fiscurtune’s son?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.
‘He is John Fiscurtune,’ said Philippa tiredly. ‘The son, obviously, not the father.’
‘Uncle Ailred and Cousin Frith always underestimated me,’ said Harysone – whom Bartholomew could not think of as Fiscurtune the younger. ‘Just because I did not scream for vengeance like a baying lunatic did not mean I was going to allow Turke to evade justice for my father’s murder. I had a plan. I outlined it in a letter I sent with a professional messenger called Josse, but either Josse did not deliver it or they ignored it.’
‘What plan?’ demanded Bartholomew.
‘A simple one,’ said Harysone. ‘It was I who forced Turke to undertake this pilgrimage. I informed him that I would tell everyone the truth about Isabella’s death if he did not. My father had given me all the details, you see, and during her life Isabella was much loved in Chepe. She was good and gentle, and folk would never have elected him Lord Mayor if they knew he had murdered that lovely soul, as well as my father.’
‘And then what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you plan to kill Turke as he travelled to Walsingham?’
‘Living in this violent town has given you a brutal perspective on life, Doctor. I was not going to kill anyone. My plan was that when Turke arrived at Walsingham, I would threaten to tell the priests about his crimes unless he paid me a lot of money.’
‘Why wait until then? Why not demand it in London or here, and save yourself a dangerous winter journey?’
Harysone sighed at his ignorance. ‘Because once Turke had arrived at the shrine I believe he would have done anything to get his absolution. So, it stands to reason that he would have offered me far more money to hold my tongue at that point.’
‘Did you know about this?’ asked Bartholomew of Philippa.
She nodded, white faced. ‘Walter told me John was also travelling to Walsingham, and I suspected immediately that his sole purpose would be blackmail. I carried messages between them. That is why I have been obliged to go out so often.’
Harysone smirked. ‘Turke was not even man enough to meet me and receive my instructions himself – the one time he did was when he stabbed Norbert. Usually, though, he sent his wife through the snow, while he sat by the fire, all safe and warm.’
Something in Bartholomew was relieved to learn that Philippa had not been meeting a lover, although he was not sure why. Perhaps the relief came from the fact that the lover was not the large-toothed Harysone, as he had feared when the man had first made his appearance.
‘Surely Giles would have helped you?’ he said to Philippa.
‘Giles believes I was dallying with a suitor,’ she said in a low voice. ‘He lent me his hat, because he thinks meeting a man might bring me happiness. He would not have condoned me helping Walter to wriggle out of a charge of murder – and see himself elected Lord Mayor into the bargain. But I was Walter’s wife, and it was my duty to do what my husband asked of me.’
‘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 usin
g 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.’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 48