A Killer in Winter (56 page)

‘I suppose he may have followed Philippa, then gone elsewhere,’ said Meadowman, although he did not seem particularly convinced
by his own explanation.

‘He did not follow Philippa at all,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘Or rather, it was not Philippa he thought he was following. She
wears those silly shoes, but today she donned boots. It
is obvious she lent the shoes to another person, so people would think it was her hurrying to the friary.’

‘I do not see why she would do that,’ said Meadowman doubtfully. ‘Especially since you just said she was at pains to make
folk believe she never walks out unescorted.’

‘I suppose the person wearing the thin shoes was actually Giles,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his head tiredly. ‘There is not
much difference in their size. He took her shoes with the intention of making people believe he was her.’

‘We need to look in some of these deserted outbuildings,’ said Meadowman, wanting to waste no more time in speculation.

Together they began a systematic search of the ramshackle sheds and storerooms that formed a separate little hamlet behind
the main part of the friary. Most were lean-tos, which had been used to store firewood, peat, and hay and straw for horses
in more prosperous times. There was also a disused brewery, a laundry and some substantial stables. But all were empty.

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Where can he be?’

‘Hopefully in the Brazen George, unaware of the worry he is causing,’ said Meadowman. ‘I shall go there now, then round up
some of the lads to search his other favourite haunts.’ He left without waiting for an answer.

‘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.’