A Killer in Winter (3 page)
He was wrong. The bearded man was behind him, watching dispassionately as Norbert’s movements became increasingly erratic.
Since he no longer had a dagger, he picked up a heavy stone. He hoped he would not have to use it: braining someone would
be a messy business, and he did not want any more damage to his fine clothes.
Meanwhile, Dark Cloak had been startled by the speed and brutality with which his companion had reacted to Norbert. He was
relieved that Norbert would not live to relate the incident to the Sheriff, but a murder was bound
to spark off an investigation, and he had enough to worry about without being obliged to dodge one of those. He began to
follow them. He watched his companion turn into Henney Lane after his victim, and supposed he should not have been surprised
that the man had met the drunken challenge with instant and unhesitating violence. After all, he had done so before.
As Norbert’s panicky gasps disrupted the silence of the night, the door to Athelbald’s hut opened and the old fellow stepped
out, pulling the physician with him. Cursing under his breath, Dark Cloak ducked quickly under cover and stood still and silent,
while Bartholomew peered down the path in both directions, urged on by Athelbald, whose eyesight was poor.
‘I heard breathing,’ Athelbald insisted, shaking the physician’s arm, as if that would give more credence to his claim. ‘
Heavy
breathing.’
‘Well, there is no one here now,’ Bartholomew replied, looking down the moon-shadowed path, from which Norbert and his assailant
had already turned.
‘What is that?’ demanded Athelbald, poking at the sack-covered fish with his foot. The wrapping parted and the faint gleam
of scales could be seen within.
‘A fish,’ said Bartholomew, sounding amused as he bent to inspect it. ‘Tench, by the look of it. Salted.’
‘For us?’ asked Athelbald eagerly. ‘Someone has left us a gift of salted fish?’
Bartholomew bent to inspect it. ‘Not unless you like it rotten. It must have been thrown away, and a cat dragged it here.
But there is nothing to see out here. Come back inside.’
The night was bitterly cold, and the old man willingly obliged, although Bartholomew continued to gaze around uncertainly,
as if he sensed something was wrong. Dark Cloak held his breath, willing the physician to go back to his patient and mind
his own business.
Eventually, Bartholomew turned to re-enter the hovel.
Plenty of rats inhabited the river bank; perhaps one of them had made the noises that had disturbed the old man. Suddenly,
a high-pitched shriek cut through the air, and the physician took a step back outside. To Dark Cloak, the sound had been unmistakably
human, but he hoped with all his heart that Bartholomew would assume it was just an owl hunting among the rubbish.
The physician listened hard, looking around him carefully. Then he gazed directly at Dark Cloak. Dark Cloak had no idea whether
Bartholomew could see him, but decided he had better act while he still had the element of surprise. With a screech of his
own, he exploded from the shadows and pushed Bartholomew with all his might, sending the physician crashing backward. With
an easy, sinuous movement, he grabbed the fish before darting along the towpath in the opposite direction to the one Norbert
had taken. He zigzagged through the cemetery surrounding the church of St John Zachary and made his escape, confident that
Bartholomew would never recognise him, moonlight or not.
Bartholomew fell into the hut with such force that, for a moment, he was afraid the whole thing would come tumbling down,
leaving the two old men homeless. Dunstan coughed in protest, while his brother made his way unsteadily through the door to
see what was going on.
‘Slipped on the ice, did you?’ he asked with a cackle of amusement when he saw the physician sprawled on his back. ‘I told
you to watch your footing.’
‘Someone pushed me,’ said Bartholomew indignantly, scrambling to his feet. He knew there was no point in giving chase: his
assailant could be hiding anywhere by now. It was cold and dark anyway, and the physician had no desire to be out longer than
was absolutely necessary.
‘He must have wanted his fish,’ said Athelbald, a little resentfully when he saw the package had gone. ‘You told me it was
no good for eating.’
‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least, I would not have eaten it.’
‘Not everyone can afford fastidious tastes like yours,’ grumbled Athelbald. ‘It would probably have been all right with a
few fish guts begged from the eel catchers and a good long boil in water from the river.’
Bartholomew felt faintly queasy.
‘Come inside,’ said Athelbald, taking the physician’s arm to guide him back into the hut. ‘Whoever it was meant you no harm,
or he would have used a knife and not his fists. We would do well to mind our own affairs, and ignore whatever happened here
tonight.’
Bartholomew conceded that he was right, and returned to his duties with the old man’s ailing brother.
Meanwhile, Norbert had headed for Ovyng’s door, hoping that once he reached it he would be safe. Already he had tried screaming
for help, but few folk were rash enough to respond to howls in the night, and all that had happened was that he had wasted
valuable energy. He gained the door and grasped the latch, praying that the officious friars had not locked it after he had
been careful to leave it open. He never found out. No sooner had his fingers touched the metal than there was a crushing pain
in his head that all but blinded him.
The bearded man watched Norbert crumple into the snow. Dispassionately, he saw his victim’s eyes close, and a few moments
later, heard his breathing stop. Norbert was dead. He dropped the stone and wiped his hand in the snow. It was too dark in
the shadows of the lane to see whether the skull-shattering blow had stained his clothes, but he was fairly certain that it
had not. He knew from experience that the first strike was relatively clean. He straightened his cloak, dried his wet hand
on his jerkin, and made his way towards the High Street, thinking grimly about the unfinished business he still had to resolve
with his dark-cloaked companion.
22 December 1354, Cambridge
M
ATTHEW BARTHOLOMEW STUDIED THE MAN BROTHER
Michael pointed out to him. The fellow’s narrow face was framed by long grey hair that glistened with a generous coating
of grease, and his unevenly bushy beard was dappled with white. He had moist hazel eyes and a set of enormous horse-like teeth,
so large that his lips would never cover them without considerable effort and concentration from their owner. His clothes,
however, were well-cut and elaborate, and he carried himself with a self-satisfied swagger, indicating that he considered
himself to be the height of sartorial elegance and dashing good looks, even if the reality was somewhat different.
‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused as he turned his attention to the dark-robed monk who knelt beside him. ‘What do you want
me to say?’
Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘I have already told you. Were you not listening? I need you to give me your medical opinion
of the man.’
Bartholomew regarded the burly Benedictine uneasily. ‘You want me to examine him? On what pretext? I cannot just march up
and foist my attentions on him out of the blue. He would complain to the Sheriff – and he would be quite right to do so.’
‘Of course I do not want you to examine him,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘Well, not up close, at least. I want you to study
him from a distance, and tell me what you think.’
Bartholomew laughed, amused by the bizarre nature of the request. They were crouching in the churchyard of St
Mary the Great, peering over a lichen-encrusted tomb to the Market Square, where the object of Michael’s attentions was purchasing
ink and parchment from one of the stall holders. The man was apparently unaware that he was being observed, although Bartholomew
suspected it would not be long before he found out, given that the monk was far too large to be properly concealed by the
ancient stone, nor was he making any effort to keep his voice low. Michael had already attracted curious glances from several
passers-by, while a small dog cocked its head with pert interest as it watched his antics.
The Market Square was lively that morning, despite the bleak weather, as traders competed to sell their wares. Folk were more
inclined to spend their money with the prospect of twelve nights of festivities looming ahead of them, so competition between
vendors was fierce. The stalls’ awnings snapped and hummed in the wind, people shouted, and animals neighed, bleated, crowed
and honked. The air was rich with the odour of manure, fish and spices, and the market was a bright, cheerful rainbow in a
town dominated by winter browns and greys. There was another splash of colour near Holy Trinity Church, where a troupe of
entertainers dressed in red and gold juggled and tumbled for pennies, accompanied by a musician who played a pipe and tabor.
The trill of the whistle and the thud of the drum were all but drowned out by the bustle and noise from the Market Square,
and only the highest notes were audible.
Abruptly, Bartholomew stood up. It was a bitterly cold morning, with a frigid wind slicing in from the north-east and the
threat of more snow in the air. Underfoot, the frozen ground crackled, and ice glazed the puddles in the High Street. It was
no kind of weather to be hiding behind tombs in churchyards, and he decided it was time he returned to Michaelhouse, the College
at the University where, as a Fellow and Master of Medicine, he lived, taught his students and saw his patients. Michaelhouse
was not the warmest of places to be, either – there were fires in the
kitchen and the communal halls, but not in the scholars’ private rooms – but it was preferable to being outside.
‘Agatha is making spiced oatcakes this morning,’ he said, confidently anticipating that the mention of food would induce the
fat Benedictine to abandon his peculiar fascination with the oily man in the Market Square.
He was wrong.
‘Later,’ said Michael, grabbing his friend’s sleeve with a meaty hand. ‘I need to know what you think about
him
. Can you see signs of incipient madness in his behaviour? Is there a hint of criminal intent in his movements?’
Bartholomew shook his head in exasperation before walking away across the graveyard, not deeming either question worthy of
an answer. His feet were so cold that they felt as though they belonged to someone else, and he moved unsteadily across the
spiky, crisp carpet of snow. Reluctantly, Michael abandoned his ‘hiding’ place and followed, tugging his thick woollen cloak
around him. They reached St Mary’s newly completed porch, and Bartholomew paused.
The University Church seemed to grow grander and more elegant each time the physician studied it. It had recently been renamed
‘St Mary the Great’, because the smaller church of St Peter Without had been rededicated as St Mary the Less. While Bartholomew
examined its pleasing lines and handsome tracery, Michael glared back towards the Market Square. His quarry was still visible,
the dark cloth of his hat bobbing among the stalls as he made his purchases.
‘Well?’ demanded Michael, determined to have an answer and aware that his friend had so far avoided giving one. ‘What do you
think? Can I instruct my beadles to arrest him on the grounds that his insanity makes him a danger to himself and to others,
and have him evicted from the town?’
‘I cannot tell such things from watching someone buy ink, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to be party to that kind of
activity. ‘We could stalk him all day and still not know the state of his health. I would need to talk to him, ask him specific
questions – and even then insanity can be difficult
to diagnose. Why do you want to know, anyway?’
‘He arrived in Cambridge a week ago,’ replied Michael, his green-eyed glare still firmly fixed on the hapless figure in the
Market Square. ‘He
says
his name is John Harysone, but I am sure he is not telling the truth.’
‘Why would he lie?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And why does he warrant this kind of attention from you? Surely, you should let your
beadles watch suspicious characters, not crawl around in cold cemeteries to spy for yourself.’
‘I am not spying,’ said Michael tartly. ‘I am observing. You think that being Senior Proctor of the University of Cambridge
means just counting fines and subduing rowdy undergraduates, but I can assure you I do a good deal more than that. It is my
duty to ensure that the town is peaceful and trouble-free.’
‘I thought that was the Sheriff’s responsibility,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘You are responsible for law and order only insofar
as it affects the University.’
‘If there is unrest in the town, then there
is
disorder in the University,’ preached Michael. ‘It has been a year since we have had any serious strife – and that is entirely
due to me and the way I have organised my beadles. The Sheriff has nothing to do with it.
He
would not know how to avert a riot to save his life.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘Stephen Morice is not the Sheriff that Dick Tulyet was. It is a pity Dick was obliged to resign in order
to help with his father’s business.’
‘Dick is a good man, and he and I worked well together,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘But Morice uses his office solely to make
money for himself.’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm in a sudden, vicelike grip that made the physician wince. ‘Harysone is heading
towards St Michael’s Church. He is going
inside
!’
The horror in Michael’s voice as Harysone walked purposefully towards the small building that belonged to the scholars of
Michaelhouse made Bartholomew smile. ‘Visiting a church is not illegal, Brother. But I have lectures to
prepare; I cannot spend all day stalking innocent men with you.’
‘Harysone is not innocent,’ said Michael with grim determination, watching with narrowed eyes as the man wrestled with the
awkward latch on the church door. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’
‘That is the cold weather,’ said Bartholomew practically. He broke away from Michael and headed for St Michael’s Lane. ‘I
am going home. It is too chilly for this kind of thing.’
‘Come with me to speak to him,’ ordered Michael peremptorily. ‘I shall only leave when we have assured ourselves that he has
no sinister purpose in daring to set foot in St Michael’s. For all you know, he may be planning to steal our silver.’
‘He would be hard pressed to do that. We only use it on special occasions, and the rest of the time – like now – it is safely
locked away. And anyway, he does not look like a man who needs to steal from churches. He is well dressed and appears to be
wealthy.’
‘I was at the Trumpington Gate when he arrived,’ said Michael, watching Harysone give the door a vigorous shake in an attempt
to open it. He was not successful. ‘He had a cart with him, loaded down with what he claimed were philosophical texts written
by himself. He said he was going to sell them here.’ The monk turned to Bartholomew and raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Have
you ever heard a less convincing story?’
Bartholomew had heard a good many less convincing stories, and he told the monk so. It seemed to him that Harysone’s reason
for being in Cambridge was a perfectly valid one: if anyone wanted to sell academic texts, then Cambridge and Oxford were
good places to be. They were full of scholars hungry for new knowledge and ideas, and Harysone could expect not only that
copies would be purchased, but that they would be read and discussed by clever minds. Harysone might even learn ways to improve
on his work.
‘Well, I do not believe him,’ declared Michael. ‘I know his type. He is one of those men who makes his living by preying on
the weak and the trusting. He will cheat widows, orphans and the weak-witted out of their inheritances, and will have every
scrap of silver out of our churches before he melts away into the night.’
Bartholomew gave a startled laugh, astonished by the list of crimes Michael was blithely laying at the door of a man he did
not know. ‘Really, Brother! Do you have any evidence to suggest that he is a trickster?’
‘Not yet,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I will. I have been watching him for the best part of a week now, and he will make a mistake
before long. And then he can enjoy his Yuletide celebrations inside the proctors’ prison!’
Bartholomew was nonplussed. ‘I do not understand this at all. It is not like you to take a rabid dislike to visitors to our
town without cause.’
‘I have cause. Harysone disturbs me. I feel with every fibre in my body that there is something sinister about him.’
‘That does not sound like you, either,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘You do not usually give credence to something as insubstantial
as a “feeling”. You usually demand solid evidence before judging a man.’
‘I cannot explain it,’ replied Michael impatiently. ‘But I have been Senior Proctor for five years now, and I know a rotten
apple when I see one. That man is a prince among villains, and I do not want him in my town.’
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, but accepted that the Benedictine had gained enough experience to be able to identify
potential troublemakers. Still, Michael was not immune to making mistakes, and the physician did not condone persecuting a
man on the basis of a mere ‘feeling’.
Harysone was still tussling with the sticky church door when Tom Meadowman, Michael’s chief beadle, approached them, red faced
and slightly breathless. The beadles were the proctors’ private army, a stalwart band of men employed to keep hundreds of
unruly and feisty scholars under control,
as well as patrolling the taverns to prevent explosive combinations of students, townsfolk and ale from occurring.
‘Master Tulyet is looking for you, Brother,’ said Meadowman, addressing Michael. ‘His cousin Norbert has been found dead
– murdered, he says – and he wants you to look into it.’
Richard Tulyet was a small man with a pale, fluffy beard that made him look like an adolescent. He was intelligent and well
organised, and it had been a sad day for the town when he had announced his resignation from the office of Sheriff. His dissolute
cousin Norbert was generally acknowledged to be the major factor in this calamity, and it had not earned the sullen youth
any friends. It was widely believed that Norbert had deprived Cambridge of the best, fairest and most efficient Sheriff the
town had ever had. Few believed that his replacement, Stephen Morice, could emulate him, and it had not been many weeks before
people saw that Morice was worse than inefficient: he was corrupt, too.
Michael, particularly, missed Tulyet. Relations between town and University were invariably strained, and he had enjoyed working
with a man whose priority was to create a city that was safe for everyone – scholars included. He had also appreciated the
fact that Tulyet had not competed with him for authority, and was happy to let the University deal with its own miscreants.
He mourned Tulyet’s resignation, and seldom allowed an opportunity to pass without pointing out that the town was less safe
without Dick sitting in his office at the Castle.
Tulyet was waiting for them in St Michael’s Lane, where snow lay in shoulder-high drifts in places. To the left was the steeply
gabled roof of Ovyng Hostel, while the tall stone walls of Michaelhouse stood to the right. Although Michaelhouse owned Ovyng,
the hostel functioned as an independent institution with its own rules and regulations. It was not large, and its numbers
had declined even further since the plague, but it boasted eight scholars – a principal,
his assistant and six undergraduates – with two servants who cooked and cleaned. Five students, with Norbert being the exception,
had taken vows with the Franciscan Order, and the hostel was reasonably well behaved by Cambridge standards – or at least
Michael was not often obliged to visit it in his capacity of Senior Proctor.
‘It is a pity Norbert is – was – not more like his cousin,’ said Michael, as they made their way through the slush to where
Tulyet and Nobert’s classmates waited in a disconsolate huddle near Ovyng’s main door.