A Killer in Winter (9 page)

‘Christmas is a wonderful time for men with healthy appetites,’ said Michael, thinking fondly of the gobbling that was to
come. ‘Twelve days with no teaching and plentiful food and wine.’

‘But then come January and February,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘I dislike those months, They are dark and cold, and it is
painful to lose patients from afflictions of the lungs – like Dunstan the riverman. He will not see Easter.’

Michael was silent. Dunstan had been a loyal, if toneless, member of his choir for many years, and he was fond of the old
man. It was hard for him to see Dunstan’s suffering and be powerless to help.

‘These are strange times,’ announced Suttone, walking out of the hall with them. ‘The Devil stalks the land, and God and His
angels weep at what they see. Sinful men fornicate in holy places and debauchery, lust and greed are all around us. The river
freezing in November is a testament to the fact that the end of the world is nigh. Things were different when I was a boy.’

‘People always think the past was better than the present,’ said Bartholomew, who had grown used to the Carmelite’s grim predictions.
‘But I do not think they are very different now – except for the Death, of course.’

‘The Death,’ pronounced the Carmelite in a booming voice that was sufficiently sepulchral to send a shiver of
unease down Bartholomew’s spine. ‘It will come again. You mark my words.’

‘But not before Christmas,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We shall at least have a good feast before we die.’

Bartholomew found he could not dismiss Philippa from his thoughts, and barely heard Suttone regaling Michael with details
of the plague’s return as he walked across the yard to his room. He recalled how she had admired the fine oriel window in
the hall, but had thought Bartholomew’s chamber cold and gloomy. He remembered walking with her through the herb garden, when
the summer sun warmed the plants and sweetened the air with their fragrance. And he was reminded of the times he had climbed
over the College walls like an undergraduate after the gates had been locked, because assignations with her had made him late.

‘I thought you might like this,’ said the insane Clippesby shyly, breaking into his thoughts by sidling up and offering him
a stained and lumpy bundle. Bartholomew could see a glistening tail protruding from one end of it. He was being offered the
fish that Clippesby had taken to breakfast.

‘He has just eaten,’ said Michael. ‘He does not need to consume a squashed pike just yet, thank you. And anyway, it has been
dead far too long already. It stinks.’

‘It is a tench,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where did you find it, Clippesby?’

Clippesby was pleased by the physician’s curiosity. ‘On Milne Street, near Piron Lane. It had been tossed there, probably
by someone walking past.’ He turned a resentful gaze on Michael. ‘Matt knows perfectly well that I am not bringing this for
him to eat. It is common knowledge that tench have healing powers.’

‘Do they?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew doubtfully.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Pliny says that tench applied to the hands or feet
can cure fevers, jaundice, head pains and toothache. But, more importantly, I am sure this was the
fish I saw the night Norbert died. Whoever pushed me over grabbed it before he escaped.’

‘Then how did it end up abandoned on Milne Street?’ asked Michael. ‘It is a wretched thing – already rotten, despite its salting.
Why would your attacker risk capture for it?’

‘Perhaps he did not know its state when he acted,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He only learned it was bad when he took off the
wrappings – at which point he discarded it.’

‘It was thrown into some bushes,’ added Clippesby helpfully. ‘I would not have noticed it, but one of the cats mentioned it
was there, so I went to look.’

‘A cat told you to ferret about behind some shrubs?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘You should choose your friends more carefully,
man. You do not know what you might unearth, foraging around in places like that.’

Bartholomew surmised that Clippesby had observed a cat expressing an unusual interest in the spot where the fish had been
thrown and had gone to investigate. The mad musician’s claims about talking to animals nearly always had some rational explanation
behind them.

‘We have already deduced that Norbert’s killer and the man who pushed me were not the same,’ the physician mused. ‘So, I suppose
this means that the tench is also irrelevant.’

‘Probably,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not want to dispense with evidence prematurely. Will you store it in the basement, Clippesby?
Hide it well, or we may find it served up for dinner in a week. You know how Michaelhouse’s nasty policy of “waste not, want
not” works these days.’

Smiling amiably, Clippesby wandered away with his fishy prize, stopping to exchange pleasantries with the porter’s cockerel
as he went.

‘Do you really think the tench might be significant to Norbert’s case, or was that just a ruse to remove Clippesby and the
rank odour of fish?’ Bartholomew was laughing.

Michael remained sombre. ‘Both. William thinks it will be simple to solve Norbert’s murder, because it will be easy to
identify people who did not like him. But he is wrong: I think it will be very difficult to isolate the real culprit. Perhaps
your assailant had nothing to do with Norbert, but I will keep him in mind until I am absolutely certain. And since he considered
the fish sufficiently important to grab before he ran away, we shall keep that, too.’

‘Look,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the front gate as it was suddenly flung open and an important visitor was ushered inside.
‘There is Sheriff Morice, waving to catch your attention. He is all yours, Brother. I have work to do, and I should probably
pay my respects to Phillippa …’ He faltered. Meeting the woman he had almost married was not something he wanted to do
at all.

‘Wait,’ said Michael, shooting out a fat, white hand to prevent Bartholomew from escaping. The physician did not bother to
shake him off. He had decided that an interview with the corrupt Sheriff was infinitely preferable to an encounter with Philippa
Abigny. ‘I do not trust him,’ Michael continued, ‘and it would be good to have a witness to anything he says.’

‘Brother Michael!’ said Morice, advancing on the monk with a smile that reminded Bartholomew of a leering demon he had once
seen on a wall painting. Morice was a dark-haired, swarthy man with curiously blue eyes and a beard and moustache that went
some way, but not all, to disguising a mean-lipped mouth. His shoulders were slightly rounded, and he might have been a scholar,
were it not for his extravagant robes and handsome water-resistant boots.

‘Sheriff,’ said Michael politely. ‘What brings you to our humble abode?’

Morice looked around him, noting the rotting timber and the loose tiles on the roof, and seemed to concur with Michael’s description.
‘I have come about Norbert. The boy was a wastrel and the Tulyets are well rid of him, but murder is murder, and I do not
want the relatives of wealthy merchants slain on my streets. Have you done anything or shall I look into it?’

‘I have been investigating,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Norbert was a student, and therefore his death comes under University jurisdiction.’

‘But he was the kinsman of a burgess,’ said Morice, not at all disconcerted by Michael’s unfriendly tone. ‘So his death comes
under my jurisdiction, as far as I am concerned. Will you hand the culprit to me now, or shall I hunt out the guilty scholar
myself?’

‘What makes you think the killer is a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his hackles rise at the man’s presumption. ‘Since
Norbert spent his last few hours in a tavern, it is likely the murderer was a patron of the King’s Head – a tavern frequented
by townsfolk.’

Morice’s dark features broke into a sneer. ‘I guessed this would happen. You know the identity of Norbert’s killer, but you
are protecting him by having a townsman convicted of the crime instead. Very well, then. I shall initiate my own enquiries.
I
will expose the culprit – be he one of the beggars in tabards who claim to be students or the Chancellor himself.’ He turned
on his heel and stalked across the yard.

‘No wonder Tulyet was so keen for you to investigate,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Sheriff shove the porter out of the
way when the man fumbled with the door. ‘He knows any enquiries Morice makes will not reveal the true killer.’

‘But they may result in a scapegoat,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And you can be sure that Morice will demand full punishment
according to the law. If I do not want to see innocent scholars hang, there is no time to waste.’

‘Do you need help?’ asked Bartholomew reluctantly. He was loath to leave the College now he knew that Philippa was in the
town.

Michael smiled. ‘I plan to spend the day learning exactly what Norbert did on his last night, which will mean time in the
King’s Head, and I do not need you for that. But I may need you tomorrow, if my enquiries lead me nowhere.’

Bartholomew had a bad feeling that Michael would be unsuccessful and that the Twelve Days of Christmas were going to be spent
tracking down a killer.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small
chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a
pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass
in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as
the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and
familiar odour comprised polished wood, smoke from the fire and faint overtones of the evening meal that had been served in
the hall.

It was already well past eight o’clock, and Bartholomew, William and Michael were the only ones who had not gone to their
rooms. William was there because there was still wine to drink and, despite his outward advocacy of abstinence and self-denial,
the friar was a man who liked his creature comforts, particularly the liquid kind. Michael was there because he was obliged
to be at the church at midnight to perform Angel Mass, and did not want to go to bed for only a few hours. Bartholomew had
remained because he was unsettled by Philippa’s presence in the town.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed William, walking to the table, where the wine stood in a large pewter jug. He stumbled near the
door, where the floorboards had worked loose within the last three weeks and needed to be fastened down. Reluctant to hire
a carpenter to solve the problem so near the expensive season of Christmas, Langelee had placed a rug over the offending section,
but it tended to ‘walk’ and was not always where it needed to be. William refilled his goblet, then carried the jug to Michael,
who had been hastily
draining his cup to ensure he did not miss out. Bartholomew followed suit, feeling that plenty of wine was the only way he
would sleep that night.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ said Michael again, setting his cup near the hearth so that the flames would warm it, then leaning back
in his chair.

‘Are you two going to spend all night just saying her name over and over?’ snapped Bartholomew testily. ‘I have said I would
rather talk about something else – like Norbert’s murder. What did you learn today, Brother?’

Michael’s expression became sombre. ‘After Norbert left Ovyng the night he died there is an hour unaccounted for until he
arrived at the King’s Head. He met a woman there, but of course no one will tell me who she was.’

‘Was he drunk and free with his insults?’ asked William. ‘If so, then the case is solved: one of the patrons in the King’s
Head is the guilty party.’

‘He was drunk, but apparently no more insulting than normal. I understand some kind of gambling was in progress, but, again,
no one will tell me who Norbert played. However, the innkeeper hinted that Norbert lost more than he won, so there is no reason
to think he was killed by a disenfranchised gaming partner. He apparently left in reasonable humour.’

‘That can change fast,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Even a small insult is sometimes enough to turn tipsy bonhomie into enraged fury.
Men soaked in wine are not rational people.’

‘True, but there is nothing to suggest that happened to Norbert. He left the King’s Head at midnight, and no one who lives
between the tavern and Ovyng admits to hearing any affray.’

‘So, now what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Where will you go from here?’

Michael sighed. ‘I do not know. Morice’s men followed me today, so I decided to concentrate on the taverns. I was afraid they
would conclude that the killer was at Ovyng if I spent too much time there. Damn Morice! He will make my work much more difficult.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said William meaningfully.

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean? I want no help from him or his men – I could not trust anything they told me.’

‘But his soldiers would be more than happy to spend an afternoon in a tavern with free beer,’ said William. ‘And Morice would
agree that his mother killed Norbert, if the price were right.’

‘You mean Michael should bribe the Sheriff?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

William shrugged. ‘It would not be the first time, and the fines I have imposed on rule-breakers means that the proctors’
chest is nicely full at the moment. We can afford it, and I would like to see Norbert’s death properly investigated by men
like me, who know what they are doing, without the “help” of Morice and his men.’

Bartholomew turned to Michael, horrified. ‘You have bribed Morice before? You should be careful, Brother! Corrupting a King’s
official is a criminal offence, and you may find that Morice is the kind of man to accept money, then make a complaint about
you.’

‘Believe me, I know,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But the man is impossible to reason with, so we may have to resort to desperate
measures if no answer to this crime is forthcoming. He is making no serious effort to investigate himself, but is concentrating
on thwarting me. He does not care about avenging Norbert, only about seeing whether he can turn the situation to his advantage.
We have not had a corrupt Sheriff for so long that I barely recall how to deal with them.’