Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘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.’

‘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.’