Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘No,’ snapped Turke, snatching it from him and thrusting it back into Langelee’s reluctant hands. ‘It should stay here, in a church, where it belongs. I have something else in mind for you – a snail from the Holy Land. It, too, has magical powers.’

‘So do I,’ muttered Michael facetiously to Bartholomew. ‘And they are telling me that Langelee and Morice have just been most brazenly cheated. Incidentally, did you notice that Harysone was decked out in a set of black clothes the day we found Gosslinge dead? He might have been revisiting the scene of his crime, to ensure the corpse was still hidden.’

‘Too risky,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially this week, when the churches are full of people with their holly wreaths and armfuls of greenery.’

‘You are wrong, Matt. Harysone was up to no good when we watched him. I shall find out if he stole Gosslinge’s clothes.’

It had snowed heavily during the night, and all the roads that led to and from Cambridge were closed by deep drifts. Oswald and Edith Stanmore could not return to their estates in Trumpington, and were obliged to remain in Cambridge at their business premises on Milne Street. This pleased Turke, who claimed he did not want to go to some rustic hall, preferring the pleasures of a town to those of the country. Bartholomew saw Stanmore struggling not to make some rude retort, while Edith smiled politely. Philippa closed her eyes, mortified by her husband’s manners, and Abigny stepped forward to give her hand an encouraging squeeze when Turke was not looking. They began to walk to Milne Street together, Turke strutting ahead, and the others following behind.

It was still early. Only a few people had trodden in the snow, and it was still white and powdery as Bartholomew and Michael made their way to the King’s Head to interview Harysone about Gosslinge and the stolen livery. It hid the filth and muck of the Cambridge streets, clung to roofs in thick white blankets, and piled itself in dense clots in the branches of trees. When the wind blew, they fell, scattering on the ground below. The frozen river formed a thin seal across the water, and prevented its unsavoury aromas from permeating the town. For the first time in years, the town air smelled fresh and clean.

‘Look!’ said Michael, gripping Bartholomew’s arm, as he pointed across the street. ‘It is Harysone! He has saved us a walk.’

‘So it is,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the man’s black cloak and broad-brimmed hat. ‘He seems to be emerging from morning mass at St Botolph’s. How very suspicious.’

‘There is no need to be facetious, Matt,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You may be reluctant to acknowledge there is something nasty about him, but I shall not be happy until he is either away from the town or in prison. I am sure if he has not already done something criminal then he will do so soon.’

‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew. He did not want to admit he had experienced similar feelings when Harysone had leered at Matilde in the church the day before.

Michael intercepted Harysone, while Bartholomew sat on the low wall that surrounded St Botolph’s churchyard and waited, listening to the conversation with half an ear as he watched people struggle through the High Street snow.

‘Gosslinge,’ Michael announced without preamble. ‘How do you know him, and why were you meeting him in St Michael’s Church four days ago?’

‘I know no Gosslinge,’ replied Harysone startled, ‘and I can assure you I have met no one in St Michael’s Church. It is always locked, and I have never managed to gain access.’

‘You gained access yesterday,’ pounced Michael. ‘I saw you there at Shepherd’s Mass.’

‘True,’ admitted Harysone. ‘But that is the only time I have been inside it, and I was disappointed. I expected a collegiate church to be pretty, but that one is plain and stinks of mould.’

‘What did you want when you tried to enter it last Thursday?’ pressed Michael coolly. ‘I watched you myself, fiddling with the latch.’

Harysone regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘What is this about, Brother? Has something been stolen? If so, I can assure you that I had nothing to do with it.’

‘A student called Norbert was murdered near Ovyng Hostel a few nights ago,’ said Michael, abruptly switching subjects in an attempt to keep his suspect off balance. ‘I do not suppose you know anything about that?’

Harysone’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair as he registered his surprise. ‘Why should I? I do not even know where Ovyng Hostel is. I am a stranger, here only to sell copies of a modest treatise–’

‘Norbert was in the King’s Head before he died,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I understand you are staying there.’

‘But I have not murdered anyone. You must look elsewhere for your culprit, Brother.’

‘Have you been dicing?’ asked Michael. ‘I have it on good authority that Norbert was dicing the evening he died.’

‘Dicing is not illegal. At least, not if goods, rather than coins, are the currency. That is the law, as I understand it.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ demanded Michael impatiently, declining to quibble with the man over ambiguities in the statutes that governed the land.

‘I keep telling you: I am a stranger here. I would not know your Norbert if he spat in my face or gave me a gold noble. I speak to many folk in the tavern – I am a friendly sort of man. But I have committed no crime, and I advise you to leave me alone, or I shall make a complaint to your Chancellor. Now, excuse me. I am busy.’

With dismay, Bartholomew saw Matilde walk through the Trumpington Gate and turn down Small Bridges Street at that precise moment. Harysone was after her in a trice, almost running in his haste to reach her. Bartholomew abandoned Michael and hared after them, catching up just as Harysone was about to offer her a steadying hand. Bartholomew shot between them and took her arm himself, just – but only just – managing to make the whole thing appear natural.

‘Matthew!’ Matilde exclaimed, amused by his sudden appearance. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, hauling her away, while Harysone stood forlornly in the middle of the road with disappointment written clear across his rodent-like features.

‘Oh, it is him,’ said Matilde, glancing discreetly behind her. ‘He seems to be everywhere I look these days. I am told he has penned some kind of treatise on tench and is here to sell it to the unwary.’

‘Do not allow him near you,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Michael thinks he will commit a crime.’

‘Not with me, he won’t,’ she said playfully. ‘Do not worry, Matt; the man makes me uneasy with his huge teeth and glittering eyes. I have no intention of forging a friendship with him. But this is where you and I must part ways: I am going along the towpath to visit poor Dunstan the riverman and you have business back the way you came, I believe. I know you only walked this way to save me from Master Harysone.’

Bartholomew watched until he was sure Harysone would not try to pounce on her again, then retraced his steps back to the High Street. Michael was chuckling to himself.

‘That was quite a manoeuvre, Matt, and it showed Harysone he is no match for a Cambridge man. Your only mistake was that you did not send him bowling into the snow when you shoved him out of the way.’

‘I have just thought of something,’ said Bartholomew, walking with the monk back along the High Street. ‘Matilde gave me the clue: tench.’

‘The fish you saw the night Norbert was killed, and that later reappeared in Clippesby’s loving hands at our breakfast table? What about it?’

‘Matilde said Harysone was writing a treatise on tench; you told me it was about fish. The point is that Norbert was dicing the night he died, and Harysone just intimated he was also gambling, but not for coins. What if he was gaming with salted fish? What if Norbert won one from him?’