Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘Retainers?’ asked Bartholomew, interest quickening at the plural. ‘I thought there was only Gosslinge.’

‘There were two,’ corrected Harysone. ‘A fair-headed clerk and a rascally servant. The servant and I were obliged to share a table one night. I ate my food, then excused myself as soon as was polite. Nasty little fellow. He was missing a thumb and smelled of mould.’

Bartholomew smiled to himself, wondering what Abigny would say if he thought Harysone believed him to be a servant, then thought about the smell of mould on Gosslinge. Did that mean Gosslinge had hidden himself among the rotting albs on more than one occasion? Had he made it a habit to linger there, perhaps hoping to overhear private conversations? But why St Michael’s? Surely the man would have fared better in a church with a larger secular congregation. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Or was it a scholar whom Gosslinge had wanted to watch?

‘I find it odd that the inn’s two most wealthy patrons – you and Turke – did not find solace in each other’s company,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Harysone was preparing to change the subject. ‘And Philippa Turke is a pretty woman.’

‘Fat,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘And married. I do not waste my time on wedded matrons – they are more trouble than they are worth. But I am a gentleman, and the fishmonger is not the kind of fellow with whom I like to associate. He is rude, loud and overbearing.’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He fell through some ice while skating.’

Harysone gazed at him. ‘That was him? I heard about the accident, but I did not know Turke was the victim.’ His expression became predatory, and he licked his lips with a moist red tongue. ‘Perhaps I should visit his woman, and offer her the help of a gentleman. You are right – she is pretty after a fashion, and a widow is so much more attractive than a wife.’

‘My sister is looking after her,’ said Bartholomew quickly, not liking the notion of Harysone lurking around Philippa any more than he had Matilde. ‘She does not need any gentlemanly help.’

‘Pity,’ said Harysone. ‘But never mind. She was no more friendly to me than was her arrogant husband, so I would doubtless be wasting my time anyway. But enough of me. Have you heard about my book?’

‘Book?’ asked Bartholomew keenly. ‘You own one?’ Books were expensive and rare, and no scholar ever passed up an opportunity to inspect a new volume.

‘I have written one,’ said Harysone proudly. ‘It is a devotional treatise concerning fish.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself from sounding disappointed as he glanced at the pile of tomes near the window. ‘I thought you meant a real one.’

Harysone glared at him. ‘It is a real one. It has covers, a spine and erudite contents. What more do you want?’

‘Forgive me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he had been rude. ‘You say it is about fish?’

‘We can learn a great deal from fish,’ said Harysone preachily. ‘I use them allegorically, to shed light on the human condition. I have been told by eminent theologians that my work is a remarkable piece of scholarship. Would you like to buy a copy? I happen to have a spare.’

He gestured to the stack near the window, so Bartholomew went to fetch one. He sat on the bed again and opened the boards to reach the parchment inside. Harysone had evidently hunted down the cheapest scribe he could find to make copies of his treatise; its few pages were full of eccentric spelling and peculiarities of grammar.

‘ Troute is Best Servd with Vinnegar, but Sturgeon May bee Ate with Grene Sauwse, if you have It .’ He glanced up at Harysone. ‘That does not sound devotional or allegorical to me.’

‘You have started in the wrong place,’ said Harysone testily. ‘I included other information, too, since I wanted my work to be comprehensive. Try reading the part where I recommend specific fish for particular ailments. You will learn a great deal from that, I can promise you.’

‘Later,’ said Bartholomew, laying the tome down. ‘I have other patients, and cannot stay here all morning, pleasant though that might be. How can I help you?’

‘I have injured my back. I was dancing an estampie last night and it just went.’

‘“Went”?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. Went. It started to hurt. It took all my strength to return to my room, and I have been lying here in pain ever since.’

‘Has it happened before?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what kind of dancing the man had been engaged in to reduce him to such a state.

‘Never. Now, I know there are sense-dulling potions you can give me, so I shall have some of those. And then you can calculate my horoscope.’

‘First, I think we should see what the problem is. Lie on your stomach, please.’

‘Are you asking to look at it?’ asked Harysone uneasily. ‘My own physician does not embarrass me by wanting to inspect my person, so why should you? And anyway, the problem lies with the bones and, unless you can see through skin and muscle or intend to pare away my flesh to see what is underneath – which I will not permit – looking will do us no good.’

‘There may be tell-tale bulges or dents,’ persisted Bartholomew.

‘Very well,’ said Harysone with a long-suffering sigh. ‘But be careful.’ He winced when the physician’s hands came in contact with his skin. ‘And please keep those cold hands to yourself. You can adjust my shirt, but only as long as your fingers do not touch me. What have you been doing? Throwing snowballs?’

Bartholomew pulled up Harysone’s fine linen shirt to reveal a bony back that was none too clean. There was no obvious indication that anything was wrong, but Harysone claimed the pain was lower, near the base of his spine. A fluttering hand indicated where, so Bartholomew eased the undergarments away, then stared in surprise.

There was a small round bruise in the place Harysone had indicated, and in the centre of it was something dark. Bartholomew fingered it gently, ignoring Harysone’s protestations of pain. It was the tip of a knife, which had been driven into the hard bones and broken off in the wound it had caused.

‘How did you say you came by this?’ he asked again.

‘Dancing,’ said Harysone impatiently. ‘We have been through this. I was dancing an estampie, and there was a sudden pain. I came here, thinking rest might help, but it is still sore.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, you do not know you have been stabbed?’

Harysone twisted around to regard him in astonishment. ‘Stabbed? I have not been stabbed, man! I damaged my back while twirling with a pretty tavern wench.’

‘There is a knife tip here. If you lie still, I will remove it.’

Harysone howled in agony while the metal was extracted, although the operation did not take more than a moment. Bartholomew moved quickly when potentially painful procedures were required; he had learned that fear and anticipation only served to make things worse. When he had the small metal triangle in the palm of his hand, he showed it to Harysone.

‘That was in me?’ the man asked, taking Bartholomew’s hand so that he could inspect the object without touching the pool of gore in which it lay. ‘How did it come to be there?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it seems extraordinary that you do not.’

Harysone’s mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘It was those students,’ he said. ‘Friars from Michaelhouse. They were behind me when I was dancing. They stabbed me.’

‘The attack on Harysone has provided me with just the excuse I need to investigate him,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together gleefully when Bartholomew told him about the incident later that morning. ‘I am delighted he summoned you, Matt. If he had asked for Robin of Grantchester or Master Lynton of Peterhouse, I might never have learned of it.’