A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 12

From the tone of Cynric’s voice, Bartholomew assumed that Ailred was dead. The book-bearer would say nothing more, and Bartholomew and Michael hurried after him as he led the way. Everywhere, Cambridge dripped. Snow still dropped from roofs, gables and trees, while melting icicles added a new peril as they plummeted like lethal daggers to the ground below. Bartholomew had already attended two nasty accidents that week, and hoped the thaw would soon be over. He wondered if Ailred had died because an icicle had fallen and pierced his skull. He sensed it was only a matter of time before someone did.

But Ailred was not dead. He had fallen through the sheet of ice that covered the Mill Pool near the Small Bridges, and a head and two clawing hands were all that could be seen of him. The ice was grey-white near the centre of the pond, indicating that it was rotten, and Bartholomew could not imagine what had induced the friar to venture out so far on to a surface that was patently unsafe. Ailred was making a valiant effort to stay afloat, but the ice was thin enough for Bartholomew to see the current running swift and strong underneath it, made more powerful by the melted snow that had flooded the river. He knew that the friar would be swept away if he relinquished his tenuous hold even for a moment.

‘What happened?’ asked Michael, horrified when he saw Ailred’s predicament. A crowd of people had gathered, some to help and some to watch. Three of Stanmore’s apprentices were tying together a number of planks, so that they could be used to crawl across the treacherous surface and reach the stricken man. Bartholomew sensed they did not have much time. Ailred’s strength was being leached away by the cold water and the effort of clinging to the broken edges, and it would not be long before his frozen fingers failed him.

Godric was in the crowd, and hurried forward when he saw Michael. ‘We cannot believe he is guilty of the crimes you have charged him with.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘We know he is not a murderer, despite developing an uncharacteristic interest in riches over the last few weeks.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Michael kindly, squeezing his arm comfortingly, although Bartholomew was not so sure Ailred was the innocent Godric believed him to be. ‘Has he become more interested in money recently?’

Godric nodded miserably. ‘None of us understood it, because it was so unlike him. It was as if he had been seduced by something that had tainted him.’

Kenyngham had said the same thing, Bartholomew recalled. Access to large amounts of treasure brought a degree of power – the power to grant and refuse people things they craved. Perhaps it was that, rather than the gold itself, that had corrupted Ailred.

‘What was he doing here?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he return to Ovyng first?’

‘We have not seen him since he fled from you,’ said Godric. ‘But I was going to collect flour from the mill a short time ago, and I happened to glance over the bridge. Ailred was there, skating round and round in the centre of the pool. I shouted the ice was too thin, but he ignored me, or did not hear. Then there was a crack and he went down. He has been hanging there ever since.’

Bartholomew clambered over the bridge and slid down the river bank to join Stanmore’s apprentices, who were still working feverishly on their makeshift ladder.

‘It is almost finished,’ said the freckle-faced youngster called Harold. He sat back to assess his handiwork, and exchanged a nervous grimace with his fellows, to indicate it was not all they could have hoped for. He glanced up at Bartholomew. ‘Are you ready? We will hold this end and haul it back again when the ice starts to crack.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘You think I am going?’

Harold was surprised by the question. ‘Cynric said you would; it was why he fetched you. He says the friar may need medical attention, and that it would be dangerous to tug him out of the water any old way. He thinks Turke died because inexperienced hands snatched him clear, and we should not let the same thing happen to Father Ailred.’

Bartholomew raised questioning eyebrows at his book-bearer.

Cynric was unabashed. ‘Turke might have lived if a physician had been on hand sooner. You said so yourself. Do not fret, boy. I will tie a rope around you and will not let you sink.’

‘This is very ironic,’ said Harold, squinting across the bright ice towards the trapped scholar. ‘Father Ailred was among the folk who rescued Turke from this very spot the day after Christmas.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Ailred was not here when I came to examine Turke.’

‘It was Ailred who ordered us to let Turke rest before summoning other help,’ said Harold. ‘Or was it his friend – that Chepe Wait? Anyway, they both agreed we should wait until the ice formed on Turke’s clothes.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.

‘Of course,’ said Harold scornfully. ‘Well, I am not certain exactly who said what, but I know they told us it is best to let a man freeze after a dip in cold water. They said it is something to do with slowing the blood and preventing the heart from exploding.’

‘Who else was here, besides Ailred and Frith – the Wait?’ asked Bartholomew, his own heart pounding as he considered the implications of the boy’s statements. It sounded as though Turke had been deliberately allowed to freeze to death, and a physician summoned only when it was certain that nothing could be done to save him.

‘Just us,’ said Harold, indicating himself and two other boys. ‘When Frith and Ailred eventually decided that Turke might benefit from your services, they sent us to fetch Cynric.’

‘And all this took time,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I arrived, Turke was beyond saving.’

Harold exchanged a frightened glance with his friends. ‘You mean they were wrong, and we should have fetched you immediately? But I thought they were trying to help Turke.’

‘They were not,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘Quite the reverse. By waiting until his wet clothes turned to ice, they ensured he died. He was murdered, after all.’

‘They forced him to skate,’ said Harold miserably. ‘He said he did not want to, because the ice was too thin. But they promised him that if he could reach the other side of the Mill Pool, then he would be free of them for ever. We thought they were playing games, like we do – you know, daring each other to do dangerous things. Except that Turke was crying, because he said he was afraid.’

‘Did Frith or Ailred see you watching them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Harold gave the ghost of a smile. ‘We were hiding under the bridge, because it is sheltered from the wind. They did not see us until we came to help – after Turke fell in.’

‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that the apprentices might well have been forced to do some skating on thin ice themselves had Ailred and Frith known their murderous fun had been observed. He stared at the floundering figure in the distance, and thought about what Ailred had forced Turke to do. ‘It looks as if he offered Turke a chance of life – saying that if he reached the other side, he would be free of their vengeance.’

‘Turke did not have a hope wearing those skates,’ determined Harold, the proud expert. ‘They were not even tied properly.’

Michael had said that, Bartholomew recalled. But it had been decided that the inexpert tying of thongs was not significant, whereas in reality it had been a vital clue to the cruel game Frith and Ailred had played with Turke. They had offered him a chance, but had actually ensured he would never reach safety. And then they had deliberately let him freeze to death.

‘Why did you not mention this before?’ he asked.

Harold looked aggrieved. ‘I tried! Twice! But no one would listen to me. I was sent off to warm myself by the fire like a small child. No one would even let me speak.’

That was true, Bartholomew remembered. Harold had tried to say something, but Stanmore had noticed the boy’s blue hands, and had dispatched him home; his protectiveness had resulted in valuable information going untold. Another mistake had been made: Turke’s murder had been deemed an accident, because there had been no marks of violence on the body. They had assumed – wrongly – that no coercion had taken place.

‘Philippa was not here, too, was she?’ he asked, wondering whether Stanmore’s suspicions had been justified all along.

‘No,’ said the boy, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm in a sudden, painful pinch and pointed across the water. ‘The friar is slipping! You had better see if you can save him, before it is too late.’

Cynric stepped forward and tied a rope around Bartholomew’s waist, handing the other end to Michael, who wrapped it around his shoulders, like someone preparing to climb a mountain. The book-bearer gave Bartholomew a second length of twine, which he said he should throw to Ailred when he was close enough. The notion was that Ailred would either tie it around himself or hold it, and Michael would haul them both to safety. Bartholomew gazed at the ice with trepidation, not at all sure their plan would work.

Ailred had chosen the exact centre of the Mill Pool through which to crash, and was not easy to reach. Bartholomew had misgivings immediately, when he knelt on the planks and there was an ominous crack beneath him. He lay on his stomach, and began to inch his way along, trying to spread his weight over as wide an area as possible. Slowly, wincing at every groan and creak, he eased towards the friar.

‘We have been looking for you,’ he called, mostly to assess whether Ailred was still able to think rationally or whether the cold had deprived him of his wits.

‘I have been staying with Robin,’ replied Ailred softly. ‘For two pennies a day, he offers a blanket near his fire, the company of a pig and no questions asked.’

‘You lied to us,’ said Bartholomew, as he crawled. ‘And you made your students lie, too. Why did you say you were at Ovyng the night the church was broken into, when you were out?’

Ailred gave a gentle sigh. ‘Because I went to make a loan to Harysone at the King’s Head, and wanted to keep the matter quiet. After that I went to Dunstan the riverman. I waited until Matilde left, then slipped in to sit with him. He died in his sleep, quite peacefully, but I did not like to think of him waking to find himself alone in his last moments.’

‘Why did you not tell us that?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is not a crime to be kind to a dying man, and it would have saved us – and Godric – a good deal of worry.’

‘I did not want anyone to know what I did for Dunstan,’ said Ailred, ‘partly because folk would assume I had continued to use Dympna illegally after Kenyngham told me not to, and partly because I believe charity should be practised quietly, so it does not become an act performed for the giver’s sake. That was what Dympna was about – secret charity. I am sorry it entailed a lie, and I am sorry I distressed Godric by putting him in an awkward position.’

‘This explains why you kept your vigil with Dunstan a secret,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it does not explain why you refused to tell us about the business with Harysone.’

‘Kenyngham forbade me to make any more loans.’ Ailred grimaced in anguish. ‘But it was the only way I could think of to recoup the losses before Tulyet learned what I had done. I was at my wits’ end, and did not know what else to do.’

When Bartholomew was about two-thirds of the way across, he noticed that there was blood on the friar’s hands, torn as he had scrabbled at the sharp ice in order to stop himself from sinking. The wounds were in a criss-cross pattern that was curiously familiar, and Bartholomew realised he had seen such cuts elsewhere. Turke’s legs, he thought. The marks were identical, and must also have been caused by ice. He paused for a moment, thinking about other things he had learned. Harold had said Turke had wept when his killers had forced him to skate, saying he was terrified. The physician also recalled the extremes to which William had gone to avoid leaving the College while the worst storms raged, and realised the Franciscan was not the only one who had a morbid fear of ice: Turke had been afraid of it, too. The pilgrimage undertaken during the winter was more of an ordeal than anyone had realised.

‘Turke was frightened of ice,’ he said to himself. ‘He did not like the scars on his legs to be seen, because answering curious questions about them forced him to remember how they were caused. And that memory was painful for him.’

‘You have done well to reason that,’ said Ailred, nodding approval. ‘It was why I chose the river as a means to kill the man.’

‘You killed Turke?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Godric maintains that you are innocent, and will be disappointed when he learns he is wrong. We all thought Turke’s death was an accident.’

‘Godric will understand when he learns my reasons,’ said Ailred. ‘So you must tell him. Turke murdered Isabella, you see, during the plague.’

‘Isabella,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Turke’s first wife.’ Clues suddenly slotted together in his mind. Turke had married John Fiscurtune’s – and therefore Ailred’s – sister, and Philippa said she had died during the pestilence. Bartholomew had made the erroneous assumption that dying during the plague was the same as dying from the plague, which had apparently not been the case. ‘Why did Turke kill her?’

‘They both went skating on the Thames, to take their minds from the Death that raged in the city. The ice cracked.’ Ailred gave a grim smile and indicated his own predicament. ‘They were both left clinging to the edge of a hole.’

‘And Turke saved himself, but could not rescue her?’

‘He used her as a ladder to haul himself to safety,’ corrected Ailred. ‘John and I saw it all from a nearby bridge. Then he did nothing to help as she slowly lost her grip and was swept to a horrible death. That is how he came by his scarred legs. She gripped his feet in terror, but he kicked her off. As he did so, the ice cut into him. He was ashamed of those scars, and always avoided going near frozen water.’

‘So, that was why Turke and Fiscurtune were such bitter enemies, and why they did all they could to harm each other’s businesses. Turke did not kill Fiscurtune in a fit of sudden rage, but after years of seething resentment and guilt.’

‘Turke paid us for saying nothing,’ said Ailred bitterly. ‘He bought our silence. All I can claim in my defence is that all my share went straight to Ovyng.’

And the loss of Ailred’s ‘share’ after Turke’s death was another reason why Ovyng was so suddenly plunged into poverty, Bartholomew thought. It was not just the fees the Tulyets paid for Norbert that were gone, but the money Turke provided, too. Meanwhile, all Ovyng’s savings had been spent to help Dunstan.

‘I suppose, when you heard Turke killed your brother as well as your sister, you decided you had remained mute for long enough, and it was time to dispense justice,’ he said.

‘I knew John could be difficult, and I wanted to hear Turke’s side of the story. But Turke would only say the pilgrimage would wipe out all his debts – including the one owed to Isabella – and he would no longer pay to keep details of her death silent. I was angry that he felt he could murder my sister and my brother, and treat me so harshly, yet still expect to become Lord Mayor.’

‘So, you killed him?’

Ailred coughed weakly. ‘I had not intended to. Frith and I saw him hurrying towards the Mill Pool one day and we followed him. He was looking for the knife that killed Norbert – he was quite open about the fact that he had murdered my student – and even offered Frith a shilling if he would risk his own life to hunt for it. We did not plan to kill him, but once he was here, at the Mill Pool, it seemed the right thing to do. I suppose Stanmore’s apprentice told you how Frith and I encouraged Turke to cross the river, and how we delayed taking him home when prompt action would have allowed him to live.’

‘You knew Harold was watching?’

‘I did; Frith did not. Frith dislikes loose ends, and I did not want the boy to come to harm.’

‘Unlike Turke,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You gave him cheap skates and did not even let him tie them correctly.’

‘It was more of a chance than he gave Isabella and John,’ snapped Ailred, anger giving his voice a strength that had not been there before. ‘Do not come any closer, Matthew. The ice is very thin near me. You will fall in and we shall both be swept to our deaths.’

‘I will throw you a rope. Tie it around yourself and we will drag you out.’ Bartholomew uncoiled the twine and hurled it as hard as he could, but it was short by the length of a man. He gathered it in, and began to inch forward again.

‘No!’ said Ailred, agitated. ‘Stay where you are. I do not want your death on my conscience, too.’

‘Why was Turke searching for the knife that killed Norbert?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if Ailred talked, he might calm down. The friar’s movements had caused more of the ice to crack, and it was becoming less safe with every passing moment.

‘Because it was evidence against him,’ said Ailred. ‘It was a dagger he had borrowed from his servant, and it would have led you to him as Norbert’s killer.’

‘So, Turke killed Norbert after all,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that he had dismissed the fishmonger as a suspect for the killing because there was no apparent motive for the wealthy merchant to slay the indolent student. ‘I thought it was Frith.’

Ailred’s voice was so soft it was difficult to hear. The physician inched forward a little more, and felt the ice begin to bend. He stopped in alarm.

‘I sent Norbert several notes in Dympna’s name,’ Ailred was saying. ‘I lied about that, too, I am afraid. Frith tried to force Norbert to pay me back, but it was Turke who murdered him. You should have known that; Turke was a natural killer. If you need evidence, look for bloodstains on his sleeve. His wife must have seen them, but perhaps she thought they were left from when he murdered John.’

‘But why did Turke kill Norbert?’ pressed Bartholomew, seeing the friar slip further into the water. He was weakening fast, and the physician saw he did not have much time left.

‘Turke would not give us the details, but I was under the impression that Norbert overheard him making some insalubrious business arrangement and threatened to blackmail him. So, Turke stabbed Norbert, then hit him with a rock. Poor Norbert did not deserve to die in such a manner, even though he was dissolute and selfish. Now do you see why I so badly wanted you to catch Norbert’s killer? The culprit was the one man in the world whom I truly despised.’

‘Frith had no hand in Norbert’s death?’

‘None.’

‘But it was Frith who pushed me and grabbed the salted fish?’

Ailred sighed. ‘I think so. I cannot prove it, but I think my nephew met Turke here, in the middle of the night, and begged him to continue the payments for my hostel. I think he probably witnessed the murder, which is why he denied any knowledge of it to you. He does not want to be charged as an accessory to such a crime.’

‘Did you really think you would get away with it?’ Bartholomew felt the ice stabilise and began to move forward once more. ‘Murdering Turke and Gosslinge?’

‘No one killed Gosslinge. He managed to acquire one of the notes we sent to Norbert. Norbert was careless, so I imagine he threw the message in the street, where Gosslinge picked it up. Gosslinge must have asked Turke to it read it to him, then decided to hide in St Michael’s Church to see what would happen. Those rotten albs are an excellent place to lurk unseen.’

‘How do you know all this? Were you there?’

Ailred nodded feebly. ‘Standing behind a pillar, so Norbert would not see me. But Frith and I discovered Gosslinge’s presence long before Norbert arrived. Gosslinge was a noisy breather and we heard him. Frith demanded the note back. Gosslinge claimed this was not the first time he had watched, and said he had already told Turke about my muddle with Dympna. He maintained it was one of the reasons why Turke had decided not to pay me any more – because he knew something bad about me, just as I knew about the vile death of Isabella.’

‘So, Gosslinge was spying for Turke,’ mused Bartholomew. He recalled Harysone mentioning that Gosslinge had smelled of mould. The pardoner had been right: the servant had spent more than one evening hiding among the decaying robes in order to watch clandestine meetings in St Michael’s.

‘Turke used Gosslinge for underhand acts,’ said Ailred. ‘It was why Gosslinge held such a unique position in his household. Turke did not like the man, but he was useful.’

‘Did Turke relieve him of his thumb?’

Ailred was surprised. ‘I understood he lost it to the King’s justices for stealing. But to go back to the church, Frith demanded the note from Gosslinge. Gosslinge looked him in the eye and ate it. Then he choked. We did our best, and Frith even broke one of the man’s teeth trying to pull the thing from his throat, but it was all to no avail. It was a horrible thing to watch.’ He closed his eyes.

Ailred’s account tallied with Frith’s, and explained why Gosslinge’s mouth was damaged. Gosslinge’s fingernail must have been torn in his death throes. Although bruised lips and broken teeth were usually indications that someone had been deliberately suffocated, in this case they had been the result of clumsy attempts to save him. Bartholomew was inclined to accept that Frith had been telling the truth after all – about this particular incident, at least. No one had killed Gosslinge.

‘What else did Frith tell you?’ Bartholomew could see that Ailred was beginning to lose consciousness, and sensed it would not be long before he relinquished his hold on the ice. And then there would be nothing anyone could do to save him. The friar had to be kept alert. ‘Come on, Father! Speak to me!’

‘Gosslinge was wearing his livery, but Frith said it was a pity to waste good clothes when such items are expensive. He took them, then replaced Gosslinge among the albs in exactly the same way in which we had found him. He hoped you would see what had really happened – that Gosslinge had choked on something he was trying to keep for himself, and that he had been spying. But you misunderstood and misdiagnosed everything.’

‘The change of clothes did not help,’ said Bartholomew defensively, hurling the rope. He did not want to hear again how he had failed everyone with his careless examination of Gosslinge. Ailred reached for the twine, but it was still too short. The ice under Bartholomew bowed more than ever, and he saw part of it disappear under the black water in front of him.

‘Go back,’ ordered Ailred. ‘I do not want to be rescued.’

‘You might have mentioned that before I started,’ said Bartholomew, throwing the rope again. This time, it reached the hole where Ailred floated. The friar did not touch it.

‘I want to die,’ he said quietly. ‘That was my intention when I began to skate on ice that I knew was too thin. I have spent the past few days meditating on all that has happened, and it seems fitting that I should die in the same way as Turke and my sister. I have gone too far along a dark road, and all I want to do is atone for my mistakes. I was confused when I came to the surface again and allowed my fear to deter me from the course I had chosen. Go back. You have done all you can.’

‘I can save you,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Although I hate to admit it there is very little solid evidence against you, if you recant your confession to Turke’s murder.’

The friar gave a grim smile. ‘I know. And that is why you will allow my nephew and his friends to go free. But I do not want to live. I was a good man, but I do not like what I have become. So, go away, and leave me in peace.’

‘But I can almost reach you,’ objected Bartholomew, starting to move forward again.

The friar gave a smile that was unreadable, before lifting his arms above his head. The current immediately snatched him and his head disappeared from view. Bartholomew glimpsed his face, distorted with anguish, as it passed under the transparent ice below, and thumped the surface hard with his fists, trying to smash it and grab the man. But the current was too strong, and Ailred was gone.

Within moments, Bartholomew realised that striking the ice with such force had not been a wise thing to do. It started to crack, tiny zigzags spreading around him in all directions with a noise like close thunder. The planks on which he lay were suddenly on the move, and Bartholomew saw the black water of Ailred’s hole rushing towards him. He was certain he was about to suffer the same fate as the friar, but the shocking cold never came. He felt hands hauling him to safety, and realised Cynric and Michael had tugged the wood free, with him on it. For a long time, he stared at the opaque surface of the Mill Pool, hoping that Ailred was not still struggling underneath it.

‘You and Ailred had a lot to say to each other,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands vigorously as he watched people disperse from the Mill Pool now that the excitement was over. The physician supposed he should feel satisfied – he finally had answers to the questions that had plagued him since Norbert had been murdered – but instead he felt tainted, as though he had uncovered secrets that should have been left undisturbed.

He gave Michael a terse summary of the friar’s confession, adding that Turke had probably stabbed Norbert in a fit of outraged indignation. It was not the first time the fishmonger had vented his temper by using a knife on a man who had offended him. It also made sense that he had braved the ice he so feared in order to hunt for the weapon that would link his household to the crime – it was a desperate act of self-preservation.

‘Why did he choose that particular day to conduct his search?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Why not sooner? Or later?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Think about what transpired when he identified Gosslinge’s body. The matter of the missing knife was raised. Giles told us that Gosslinge had a dagger that was too large for him. We made the assumption that it was stolen with Gosslinge’s clothes. Then Turke gave us the relic to pay for a requiem, and we discussed St Zeno and fishermen.’

‘Giles said the relic would do Michaelhouse no good as long as the river was frozen,’ recalled Michael, ‘because anglers would not be able to break through the ice to reach the fish. Turke then mentioned a dislike of ice.’

‘Exactly. Giles also said he had thrown a stone on the river, and it had skittered across the surface. I think Turke realised then that the knife he had used on Norbert might have suffered a similar fate – it was not in the water, but on it. He searched for it that very day, perhaps obliged to wait until the Mill Pool was suitably deserted, but knowing it would only be a matter of time before someone recovered the murder weapon. And, if you recall, he said we should not bother to look for Gosslinge’s knife – only his valuable clothes.’

‘Because he did not want us to find the thing at all,’ concluded Michael, nodding. ‘A cold killer indeed. Poor Ailred! How hard it must have been to meet the man who had murdered both his siblings, and see he felt no remorse. Turke’s pilgrimage was not to atone for their deaths, but to make sure he was eligible to be elected Lord Mayor of London.’

‘There is no evidence to convict Frith of killing Turke. Morice cannot charge him with the murder, because we only have Ailred’s confession to go on, and Ailred is dead.’

‘True, but Frith was about to incinerate Michaelhouse,’ said Michael grimly. ‘He and his accomplices will not go free.’

‘They might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much do you think Morice demands from would-be arsonists for an early release?’

‘More than Frith has,’ determined Michael firmly. ‘If Morice does release them, he will be in for a bitter dispute with the University. He will not want that.’

‘Tulyet would not want that,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Morice does not care. And there is a lot you can do with the kind of bribe it would take to free four people from such serious charges.’

‘Look, Matt,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing the physician’s arm and pointing. ‘It is Philippa, and she is heading in the direction of the Gilbertine Friary. She is going to meet her lover, just as Clippesby told us she would.’

‘How do you know it is her?’ asked Bartholomew, eyeing the huddled figure doubtfully. ‘It is just someone wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up.’

‘It is her – she is wearing those elegant but impractical shoes she always dons when the snow lies thick on the ground. Shall we follow her?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I have just watched a man die, and I am in no mood for chasing widows through the Gilbertines’ stables. Besides, I am cold.’

‘You are not cold,’ determined Michael. ‘And you must want to see the man Philippa loves?’

‘I have had enough of Philippa, Turke, Gosslinge, Giles, Ailred and everyone else associated with this nasty case. We have solved your murders, Brother: Turke killed Norbert, Ailred and Frith killed Turke, and Gosslinge died because he tried to eat something he did not want someone else to have. That is all we need to know.’

‘Well, I am going,’ said Michael. He nudged the physician in the ribs and his voice became wheedling. ‘Come on, Matt. It will be interesting.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Teaching starts tomorrow, and I have lectures to prepare. You go, if you must. I will see you in Michaelhouse later.’

They parted company at the end of Small Bridges Street. Bartholomew turned to walk along Milne Street towards the College, while Michael left the town through the Trumpington Gate, dodging this way and that as he dogged Philippa’s footsteps along the road that led past the Hall of Valence Marie, Peterhouse and the King’s Head. Bartholomew watched him zigzag back and forth like a huge black crow, and smiled. It was good that Philippa was concentrating on walking and did not glance behind her, or she would have spotted the monk’s clumsy manoeuvres in an instant.

The physician walked slowly, thinking about Godric’s tears of grief when he heard Ailred was dead. Although shocked by his principal’s confessions, Godric insisted the recent changes in Ailred’s behaviour were an aberration, and said there must have been a bad alignment of celestial bodies to induce him to act in such a manner. Bartholomew thought about Turke, too, and his careless attitude towards the people he had killed. However, the physician gained no satisfaction from the knowledge that he had been right about why Turke had ventured near the Mill Pool the day he had died. It was not the kind of case where jubilation was in order.

The snow was still melting rapidly, and what had once been a pretty white carpet was now ugly brown sludge. Since the ice was thawing more slowly than the snow, the drains were still blocked, and filthy, slushy water stretched from one side of the High Street to the other in a foul lake. It was calf deep in places, and lumpy with pieces of rubbish, dead birds, straw, animal manure, fragments of ice and sewage. It was like walking through a cold porridge of filth and excrement.

Michaelhouse was alive with activity when Bartholomew returned. The snow had been dug away, so it was once again possible to enter the north wing. He went to his own room and threw open the window shutters, to fill the chamber with the milder air from outside and dispel the dank chill that pervaded it. He discovered a thin layer of ice coating the walls, where mildew and running damp had frozen solid, while there were slippery patches on the floor that reminded him of Ailred and Turke, and their diametric attitudes to ice. He begged some logs from Langelee and lit a fire, prodding it until it blazed furiously. Then he swept the last remnants of snow from the windowsill and shelves, while William shook the ice from the blankets on the bed. Eventually, the room began to look more homely.

Enjoying the luxury of a private fire, Bartholomew closed the shutters and sat at the table with a lamp. He worked on a lecture until the bell chimed for the midday meal, then strolled across the courtyard to join his colleagues in the hall. Michael was not there, but the monk often missed College meals when he was engaged on proctorial duties. Bartholomew was surprised, and a little disgusted, with himself when he realised he was disappointed, for there was a part of him that very much wanted to know the identity of Philippa’s lover.

Since it was the last day of Deynman’s rule, the student had gone to some pains to ensure it was pleasantly memorable. There was undiluted wine to drink, and several fine hams had been purchased, all glazed with honey and flavoured with winter herbs. The bread was made from expensive white flour, and there were pats of creamy butter to go with it. Bartholomew knew Michael would be chagrined to learn that spying on a lusty widow had deprived him of such a fine, if simple, meal.

After Deynman had struggled through what he considered to be an accurate rendition of the final grace and had dismissed his ‘court’, Bartholomew found Cynric waiting with a summons. Harold, Stanmore’s apprentice, had been hit with a snowball that contained something sharp, and had a bleeding scalp wound. Bartholomew grabbed his bag and set off at a trot to Milne Street.

When he arrived, he saw that Edith had been overly hasty in demanding that her brother come at once. Harold’s cut had clotted of its own accord, and the lad’s initial fright at the sight of his own blood was being assuaged by piles of comfits and candied fruits. Bartholomew cleaned the gash, although it was obvious that Harold just wanted the physician to go away, so he could concentrate on the array of treats that were laid out in front of him on the kitchen table.

‘They were throwing snowballs in the Market Square,’ said Edith, smiling fondly as she left the boy to his feast and led Bartholomew to the solar. ‘But the snow is not what it was yesterday, and it was apparently difficult to find a clean handful. In the excitement, missiles were thrown that contained more than snow.’

‘Harold has had quite an eventful day,’ said Bartholomew, following his sister up the stairs. ‘First he helped with Ailred’s rescue, and now he has himself a sliced head.’

‘Oswald was proud of him for acting so promptly, and wanted to reward him. The best of the snow will be gone tomorrow, and he decided to give him a last chance to enjoy it. Who knows when we will see its like again?’

‘Not too soon, I hope; I have only just retrieved my room. But this warmer weather must mean Philippa and Giles will be leaving soon?’

Edith nodded. ‘Tomorrow morning, assuming there is not another blizzard tonight. I like company, as you know, but I confess I shall be glad to bid them farewell.’

‘They have not been easy guests. Giles is no longer the carefree, amiable man he was before the Death, while Philippa is …’ He gestured expansively, not quite sure how to put his thoughts into words.

‘She is not the Philippa you were set to marry,’ supplied Edith. ‘Having a wealthy husband brought her luxury, but also disappointments. My heart broke when I saw what she had become.’

‘Rumour has it that she fashioned her own remedy to Walter’s inadequacies,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting his sister to waste sympathies where they were not needed. ‘Michael followed her this morning, when she went to meet a lover behind the Gilbertine Friary.’

Edith was startled. ‘Philippa did not go to meet a lover this morning. She has been in her chamber, folding clothes and deciding which of her husband’s possessions to donate to the poor. Did I mention that one of his sleeves was covered in blood? I suppose it must have happened when he murdered Fiscurtune in London, although the stain looks more recent to me.’

‘She must have slipped past you,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in Philippa than in the fact that the stained sleeve was evidence that Ailred had been right about Turke killing Norbert. ‘I saw her myself, and we know she uses Giles’s cloak and hat to go about business of her own. It was not him who wandered freely around the town – he is restricted by his chilblains – but her.’

‘That may have been so in the past, but not today,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She is upstairs. Listen – you can hear her walking in the chamber above us. She has not left the house.’

‘It must be Giles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is him you can hear.’

Edith cocked her head as footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘Here she comes. You can ask her.’

Philippa seemed tired and careworn. She smiled at Bartholomew as she entered the solar, although her expression was more wary than friendly. She was already wearing clothes for travelling, the others presumably packed away. Attached to the belt around her waist was a knife and a pomander for warding off the foul smells she was likely to encounter on her journey.

‘Matt thinks he saw you out today,’ said Edith bluntly. ‘I have been telling him you have not left the house.’

‘Edith is right,’ replied Philippa, regarding Bartholomew with a face that was curiously devoid of expression. ‘There is much to do if we are to go tomorrow. Giles has gone to check the horses, and I am obliged to pack our belongings, since Gosslinge is not here to do it.’

‘Rachel is helping,’ said Edith, indignant that her guest appeared to be complaining when assistance in the form of Cynric’s competent wife had been provided. ‘She has been with you all morning – and continued the work when you were receiving your various guests here in the solar.’

Philippa gave an absent smile. ‘She has been very helpful, especially since visitors like young Quenhyth have interrupted me so often. But I shall be finished before dusk, and we will be on our way at first light tomorrow.’

‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did he come?’

‘He visits me often,’ replied Philippa. ‘His father is a colleague of Walter’s, and he feels obliged to see me on a fairly regular basis.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘London manners.’

Bartholomew glanced at her shoes as she left, half expecting to see the delicate leather sodden with muck from the High Street. But Philippa was not wearing her flimsy shoes, and he was not surprised she had been making such a noise on the wooden floor above when he observed the pair of heavy boots. He regarded them uneasily, wondering why she had donned such robust footwear when she had just claimed that she planned to spend the rest of the day packing.

Bartholomew was thoughtful as he strode the short distance between Milne Street and Michaelhouse. He asked Quenhyth, who had been assigned gate duty again, whether Michael had returned, and the student said that he had not. Quenhyth mentioned that Beadle Meadowman had asked the same question less than an hour ago, because the Chancellor had been demanding a report on Ailred’s death and wanted Michael to provide him with one. A nagging concern gnawed at Bartholomew as he trotted up the stairs to Langelee’s room to ask whether the Master knew where the monk might be. Langelee shook his head.

‘Why do you ask? Is he in trouble? I heard there was a scuffle in the Market Square, when a snowball fight between scholars from Peterhouse and Stanmore’s apprentices turned into something a little more dangerous. Perhaps he is still dealing with that.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew, although his growing sense of unease would not be ignored. He went to his room, intending to spend the rest of the afternoon working on his lecture, but found he could not settle. He grabbed his cloak and set off again, heading for Michael’s offices at St Mary the Great. On the way, he met Cynric, who also claimed he had not seen the monk since the incident at the Mill Pool. Without waiting for an invitation, the Welshman fell into step as the physician walked briskly towards the High Street.

Michael was not at St Mary the Great, and Meadowman claimed he had spent the last three hours trying to find him. The beadle’s irritation with his master’s disappearance turned to worry when he saw he was not the only one who had been trying to track Michael down. He mentioned the incident in the Market Square, and informed Bartholomew that it was unusual for the monk not to appear in person to ensure potentially explosive situations were properly diffused – especially since the incompetent Morice had become Sheriff.

‘I am going to the Gilbertine Friary,’ said Bartholomew, looking both ways up the High Street, and half expecting to see the familiar figure sauntering towards them. ‘That was where he was going when we last spoke. He wanted to follow Philippa, to see her lover – although she denies that she has left the house today.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Meadowman, his pleasant face creased with concern. ‘Brother Michael does not usually wander off without telling a beadle where he might be found.’

‘I am uneasy with him following this Philippa, who was not Philippa,’ said Cynric. ‘Edith is right: Philippa has not been out today, because my wife has been helping her pack. However, although Philippa may not have ventured out today, she certainly has done so on other occasions.’

‘Clippesby said that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was sceptical at first, because I was under the impression that she always demanded a male escort when she went out – even when it was inconvenient for them.’

Cynric shrugged. ‘She insisted on escorts so everyone would think she would never leave without one. But the reality is that she did. Often. I followed her once, just for something to do. She went to the Gilbertines’ stables, where there are several derelict outhouses. Because there are not as many Gilbertines now as before the Death, most of these sheds have fallen into disuse.’

‘We are wasting time,’ said Bartholomew abruptly and, with Cynric and Meadowman at his heels, he ran along the High Street and through the Trumpington Gate. He pounded on the door to the friary, and fretted impatiently when the gatekeeper took his time to answer. But the lay-brother said there had been no visitors that day, and he had not seen Michael, Philippa or anyone else.

‘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.’

‘So, Frith and Ailred unwittingly spoiled your plans,’ said Bartholomew to Harysone. ‘Turke dead is not in a position to be blackmailed.’

‘I made a mistake by not revealing myself to them when I first arrived,’ said Harysone bitterly. ‘I assumed Josse had delivered my message to Ailred, and that he knew what I intended to do, but now I see Josse failed me. I shall have words with that young man when I return to Chepe.’

‘Did Ailred and Frith not see you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. The town was not so large that three close relatives could spend days without meeting.

Harysone tapped his long teeth. ‘My disguise as a pardoner was so good that even they did not recognise me.’

‘But it was Frith – your cousin – who stole from you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He took your gold at the King’s Head. Morice returned it to you, but took a handsome finder’s fee in the process.’

‘That gold was money I had demanded from Turke when I met him by the Mill Pool, the night he murdered Norbert,’ said Harysone. ‘It was a pity to lose it, but it came easily, and I did not miss it too much. Frith is a natural thief, and I should have known he would see a pardoner as fair game. He burgled two other patrons, too, although they accepted the loss with stoicism and declined to involve the Sheriff. Anyway, you see why I agreed to Morice’s vile arrangements. Obviously I did not want a Sheriff prying too deeply into where the money had come from.’

‘It was also because you did not want to risk closer contact with Frith, lest he recognised you,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Your lenience was not because you wanted to protect your cousin, but to safeguard yourself.’

‘I do not like Frith,’ admitted Harysone. ‘He was always trying to persuade my father to disown me and make him sole heir. However, it is Uncle Ailred’s motives, not mine, that will provide you with your answers. Do you understand now why he was so keen for Brother Michael to solve Norbert’s murder? It was because the hated Turke was the culprit. Turke admitted to Uncle Ailred that he had stabbed Norbert with Gosslinge’s knife, and Uncle Ailred wanted him revealed as a killer, even after he was dead.’

‘Does this mean you were with Turke that night?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Ailred implied it was Frith.’

‘Then he is wrong: it was me. I was demanding money from Turke to pay for my board at the King’s Head.’ He smirked again. ‘I was the one who pushed you over after you heard Norbert scream. I grabbed my fish as I ran.’

‘The tench was important after all,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘We should have known that only someone who was afraid of the association between the rotten fish and the murdered student would have bothered to snatch it up as he fled.’

‘Quite, but you did not see that connection – luckily for me. But Norbert is irrelevant. It was Turke’s death that really inconvenienced me. I did not imagine for a moment that my kindly uncle and my inept cousin would kill him and deprive me of my future fortunes.’ He smiled nastily at Philippa. ‘But fortunately Turke’s wife is keen to protect her dead husband’s reputation, so we have continued to meet, to see if we can reach an acceptable arrangement.’

Bartholomew shook his head, disgusted by Harysone’s determination to wring money out of anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. ‘Was blackmailing Turke really worth a winter journey to Walsingham? Why not wait until the eve of his election or some other opportune time?’

‘Because I need money now. You see, my father devised a new way of salting fish, and had invested all we owned in the venture. But Turke would not allow the method to be used and, after my father’s murder, I learned I had no inheritance left. Nothing at all. Since I do not want to live in poverty I was obliged to act promptly.’

‘I suppose the tench Norbert won was prepared using your father’s method?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That was why it was rotten.’

‘The technique requires honing,’ admitted Harysone. He fingered the relic that still hung around his neck, as if hoping to draw strength from it.

‘And now you have St Zeno to help you do it,’ said Bartholomew, not at all sure he did.

Harysone nodded. ‘I know you think my relic is Gosslinge’s thumb, but you are wrong. Langelee should have asked a good deal more than five pounds for this. I shall sell it to the Fraternity of Fishmongers for three times that amount.’

‘I should have seen you were no pardoner when you showed your ignorance of theology,’ said Bartholomew. He regarded Harysone closely. ‘I should have noticed that your teeth are not real, too. They are too large, and you are unused to them, because I once heard them clang on the rim of your wine cup. A man comfortable with his teeth does not allow that to happen. Also, my students commented that your eating was a spectacle that caused them some entertainment.’

Harysone inclined his head. ‘I would remove them for you, but they are not easily taken in and out. I cement them in with gum mastic each morning, and I do not want to slip them out without the aid of a mirror. I might lose some of my real ones in the process and I do not have many left. Like my father, I am sadly bereft of them.’

Bartholomew recalled what he himself had said to Michael, when William had discovered the remains of the marchpane figure: that people often have one distinguishing feature that outshines all others. Harysone’s teeth were so prominent that they drew attention away from everything else. Without them folk might have recognised his gait or the shape of his mouth.

Harysone scratched at his face until the beard came off on his fingers, and Bartholomew saw it had the same texture as the horsehair used to make false moustaches for the female Waits.

‘My hair is dyed,’ Harysone added, ‘and I have also coloured my face, to make it swarthy. As I said – even my kin did not recognise me, and Frith and I spent time in the same tavern! We even exchanged one or two words, although not many. I did not want him too close.’

‘That is partly because they did not anticipate meeting you here,’ said Philippa. ‘Poor Ailred!’

‘Ailred did not recognise you when he arranged the loan from Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Your disguise must have been excellent.’

‘It is excellent,’ said Philippa. ‘Even Giles, who is very observant and has purchased one of John’s books, has not guessed his true identity.’

‘Uncle Ailred was a fool to loan me that money,’ said Harysone, gloatingly. ‘I had no intention of repaying it – not the original amount and certainly not the interest. That will teach him to destroy my hopes of a glittering future.’

‘Frith and his friends will probably hang for Norbert’s murder,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Your testimony could save them but I am sure you have no intention of helping.’

‘Frith has the funds to buy his freedom,’ said Harysone carelessly. ‘And I should know, for I am well acquainted with his financial situation.’

‘You are the man to whom they passed their stolen goods?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Certainly not,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘My father was – but only in Chepe, obviously. They use other people when they travel. My father kept careful records, which I unearthed when I went through his possessions after his death. Perhaps I can blackmail Frith instead – threaten to tell the Chepe merchants about his activities. A percentage of his ill-gotten gains, along with Dympna, will suffice to compensate me for this horrible adventure and its unfortunate conclusions.’

‘You cannot have Dympna,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kenyngham has hidden it.’

‘You are right,’ said Harysone. ‘He left it in that cellar you were so keen to explore. But I have retrieved it, as you can see.’ He nodded to a corner, where Bartholomew could see the outline of the walnut-wood chest among the shadows.

‘Kenyngham told you where he hid it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, hoping Harysone had not harmed the old friar.

‘Frith had the right idea when he said he would fire Michaelhouse unless the chest was handed over. I merely used the same tactic and offered to fire the Gilbertine Friary. Kenyngham claimed he was sick of the money and the evil it brought, and relinquished it almost willingly.’ He nodded towards the trapdoor. ‘He is down there, waiting until we leave. Join him, and see for yourself.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, knowing Harysone had no intention of allowing him to climb into the cellar or anywhere else. Harysone wanted him dead.

The ‘pardoner’ was becoming impatient and fingered his pitchfork. ‘You have two choices, physician. We can dodge around like this and I will reduce you to small pieces slowly, or you can stand still and allow me to finish you in a single stroke. It will probably not even hurt – much as the knife did not hurt me when I was first stabbed in the back.’

‘No!’ cried Philippa, dismayed. ‘Put up your weapons. Both of you!’

‘Go to Hell, Harysone,’ said Bartholomew between gritted teeth. ‘It is a pity Philippa did not aim better, because then you and I would not be in this ridiculous situation.’

‘Philippa?’ asked Harysone, glancing at the agitated widow with an amused expression on his face. ‘She would not harm me. She is too afraid I will tell the truth about Turke as I die.’

‘Perhaps. But the knife with the broken point is in her possession, nevertheless. I can see the missing tip from here – I noticed it when she wore it in Edith’s solar earlier today.’

Harysone looked at Philippa again, but this time he was not smiling. ‘Tell me he is lying.’

Philippa did not reply, and Harysone’s expression became murderous. He turned on Bartholomew and began to advance. He moved quickly, and the hoe was smashed in two in Bartholomew’s hands. The physician saw that the man had done with playing and meant business. It was only a matter of time before one of the swiping tines hit its mark, the injury would weaken him and make him vulnerable to the next blow, and then it would be over.

‘No!’ Bravely, Philippa moved to stand between them. ‘I will give you anything you want, John. You can have the house Walter left me. Just do not harm Matthew.’

‘It is too late,’ hissed Harysone furiously. ‘He knows enough to hang me, and I do not want to settle into my new home only to be arrested for theft and blackmail.’

‘You cannot kill him,’ said Philippa, shoving the tines of the pitchfork down when Harysone raised them again. ‘I will not let you.’

‘What about Michael?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the opportunity to dodge away from the deranged fishmonger’s son and trying to drag Philippa with him. ‘Where is he?’

‘Locked in the cellar with Kenyngham,’ said Harysone. ‘Philippa can join them there, and I will send a message from London telling Stanmore where to find them.’

‘But that might be days,’ objected Bartholomew, knowing such a message would never be sent – just like the one that was supposed to have warned Ailred about his nephew’s plan to blackmail Turke. If Philippa entered the cellar, she would die there.

‘There is plenty of water, and a few days without food will do no one any harm,’ said Harysone harshly. ‘Move, Philippa or I will kill you, too.’

‘Let Matthew go,’ pleaded Philippa. ‘And then we will talk. Do not forget that I cannot give you Walter’s house if I am locked in a cellar.’

Without warning, Harysone lunged towards Philippa with the pitchfork. She ducked, and Bartholomew darted forward to seize it, trying to wrench it from Harysone’s grasp. They were locked solid, each straining to tear the implement from the other’s hands. Harysone kicked out, but lost his balance and fell, dragging Bartholomew on top of him. He rolled, twisting the handle savagely so that it tore from Bartholomew’s grip. The tines rose, then started to fall.

Bartholomew twisted hard to one side, thinking that the last thing he would ever see was Philippa’s stricken face. He was startled when there was a loud thud and a sudden weight landed on his chest. Harysone was lying on top of him. He struggled furiously, not sure what was happening. Then he saw the unmistakable shape of Agatha holding the copy of Harysone’s book that Deynman had bought for Michaelhouse. Bartholomew pushed the limp fishmonger away from him, and saw that Agatha had dealt him a serious blow to the head. Harysone was insensible.

Behind Agatha stood Abigny. He held out his arms to his sister, and she rushed towards them, then buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. He held her gently, rubbing her hair as he whispered words of comfort.

‘I hope he is dead,’ he said, glancing up from his ministrations and meeting Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘I never liked Fiscurtune the younger – or Harysone, as he called himself here. It is a pity circumstances led you to deal with men like him and Turke, Philippa. You deserve better.’

‘Matthew is decent,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I should never have chosen wealth over love.’

Agatha disagreed. ‘Take the wealth,’ she advised in a booming voice. ‘You can always get love from other quarters. If you come to see me tonight, I shall tell you how it is done.’

‘Someone should release Michael,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling next to the unconscious Harysone to see how badly he had been hurt. He saw he would recover. ‘And Kenyngham.’

Agatha hauled open the trapdoor and Michael clambered inelegantly from the chilly hole, complaining bitterly about the rough treatment he had suffered. However, it transpired that the worst part was hearing the meal bells in Peterhouse and the Gilbertine Friary while his stomached growled with hunger. Bartholomew saw that no serious harm had been done. Kenyngham emerged more quietly, and slipped away to the Gilbertine chapel to give thanks for his deliverance.

Meanwhile, Abigny explained how he and Agatha had come to the rescue. ‘I met Cynric, who said Michael was missing and last seen following Philippa. I knew immediately something was amiss. I noticed earlier she was wearing heavy boots that were not hers, and she had refused to answer my questions about them.’

‘What could I say?’ asked Philippa tearfully. ‘If I said I had lent mine to John Fiscurtune, I would have been obliged to confess the whole miserable story to you.’

‘You had no idea about any of this?’ asked Michael of Abigny.

Abigny’s face hardened. ‘I did not. I came on this wretched pilgrimage because I sensed Philippa might need a friend. I had no idea Turke was being blackmailed by Fiscurtune’s son, nor that Fiscurtune had kin in Cambridge – except Frith, of course. Seeing him juggling in Michaelhouse gave me a nasty turn, I can tell you!’

‘So, you did know the Waits?’ asked Michael, looking from Philippa to Abigny.

Philippa nodded. ‘I recognised Frith immediately, and I was horrified that they might be in Cambridge to make trouble for Walter, to tell folk he was a murderer. That was why I told you the reason for the pilgrimage – in case Frith mentioned it first.’

‘I assumed the same,’ added Abigny. ‘But I did not imagine for a moment they intended to kill Walter. I thought they were just going to embarrass the man. In case you have not guessed, Walter’s violent past was the reason neither of us wanted you to look into his death. You knew he murdered Fiscurtune, but not that he had killed Isabella, too. What would Edith have thought if she had learned about that monstrous act?’

‘Walter recognised the Waits, too,’ said Philippa. ‘And he was aware that when he murdered Fiscurtune he had also destroyed their friend in high places. That was why he was so keen to accept Edith’s invitation – to escape from their company in the King’s Head.’

‘You lied about the scars on Turke’s legs,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa. ‘You knew how he came by them.’

Philippa nodded. ‘But it was not my secret to tell. It would not have been fair to mention it when Walter was not here to tell his own side of the story.’

‘His own side was that he wanted to save himself,’ muttered Abigny, ‘and that he did not care how. I admire you for your loyalty, Philippa, but even you must see it is grossly misplaced. I know you take your oath of wifely obedience seriously, but I do not think it should include helping a husband evade justice as a murderer or acting as messenger between him and his blackmailer.’

‘I swore a sacred oath when I married Walter,’ said Philippa tearfully. ‘In a church. How can I ask God to bless me with children when I break the vows I made in His house?’

‘You met Harysone in the King’s Head, Giles,’ said Michael in the silence that followed. ‘Did you not recognise him as Fiscurtune the younger?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Abigny bitterly. ‘Or I might have been able to help Philippa sooner. As I told you, I bought the book for her to present to the Fraternity of Fishmongers in Walter’s memory. Offering tokens to commemorate dead husbands is a tradition for widows in Chepe. That is what you saw me doing with “Harysone” in the King’s Head – negotiating a price. I met him three times before a bargain was struck. He was so sure I did not know who he was that he even danced for me.’

Bartholomew recalled the Waits mentioning someone in a cloak and a hat, who had continued to watch Harysone’s dancing after the ‘other’ pardoners had left. His old roommate was right: Harysone had been so confident of his disguise that he had been quite happy to meet all manner of people he knew – even his own kin.

‘So, how did you know we were here, of all places?’ asked Michael, gesturing around the stables.

‘Cynric said Matt had stayed here, searching for clues to your whereabouts. Agatha offered to come with me, because she said I might need a mighty right arm. When we arrived, we heard you talking, and the rest you know.’

Agatha indicated the still figure on the ground with a jerk of her thumb. ‘I did not hit him that hard. Why does he not stir? Is it because he has damaged the balance of his humours with all that vulgar jigging and writhing?’ She shuddered in distaste at the memory of Harysone’s dancing.

‘Your right arm is mightier than you think,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But he will recover.’

‘Pity,’ muttered Michael.

‘I do not want to be here when he does,’ said Philippa, clutching Abigny’s arm. ‘Our bags are packed and I want to leave this town.’ She watched expressionlessly as Michael retrieved Dympna from the corner and prepared to take it to Kenyngham.

‘That was well timed,’ said Frith, entering the stable with a smile. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched in horror. ‘We have just purchased our freedom and have been given until nightfall to leave. Cambridge is an expensive town with Morice in charge, but at least justice can be bought.’

Jestyn, Makejoy and Yna were behind Frith, and all were armed with crossbows. As in the conclave, Frith’s accomplices were nervous and unhappy.

‘And how did you know we were here?’ Bartholomew asked them in a tired, hoarse voice.

‘We followed Agatha,’ said Frith, giving the laundress a nasty smile. ‘She was bellowing to Abigny, so half the town knows her plans.’ His fingers flexed, and Bartholomew saw he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the thump she had given him in the Market Square during the camp-ball. She glowered at him furiously, her eyes glittering with menace. Bartholomew thought Frith would be wise to dispatch her first if he did not want to risk another beating.

Rashly, the Wait turned his back on her. ‘I do not intend to leave empty-handed, so we will have the chest, please. And then the rest of you can climb into that cellar, where I may light a fire to keep you warm.’

‘Fire?’ asked Abigny in alarm. ‘But there are no windows. We would suffocate!’

‘Quite,’ agreed Frith coolly. ‘But do not be frightened. It is not as unpleasant as death by a crossbow quarrel, which is the alternative for anyone declining to obey me. Now, move!’ His voice was hard.

‘No,’ said Jestyn uneasily, dropping his weapon. ‘I want no part of this. We have only just escaped with our necks unstretched, and we will not be so lucky next time, especially now we have no friends to shield us. Morice will not help us again, and Dunstan and Athelbald, who took care of the various items we accumulated here, are dead.’

Bartholomew gaped at them. ‘It was the rivermen who helped you dispose of your stolen goods in Cambridge?’ He suddenly recalled the inkpot that the dead Athelbald had clutched in his frozen fingers, and realised he should have questioned at the time why an illiterate man possessed an item usually owned by scholars and clerks.

Jestyn nodded. ‘Father Ailred arranged it all. He said the money the old men earned from working for us would help them survive the winter. They were very good, too, because they knew so many people. It is a pity they both died so suddenly. Father Ailred was very upset.’

‘Enough chatter,’ said Frith sharply. ‘We need to take the chest, set the fire and be gone.’ He advanced on Agatha, but changed his mind when he saw her fists clench, and turned on Bartholomew instead. The physician felt a sharp jab as the tip of quarrel went through his clothes. ‘What will it be, Michaelhouse man? Stabbing or choking?’

‘Frith? Is that you?’ Harysone’s muffled voice came from the floor, and Bartholomew saw him ease himself up. Agatha’s blow had knocked the false teeth from his mouth, and he had already pulled off his beard. He looked very different without his disguise – older, fatter-faced and more sinister.

Frith gasped in surprise when he recognised his cousin, and Bartholomew considered making a grab for the Wait’s weapon while his attention was distracted, but Frith recovered himself quickly and moved out of reach.

‘John? What are you doing here?’

‘Turke,’ said Harysone, clinging to his cousin as he clambered to his feet, wincing and holding his head. ‘I was going to kill him myself, but you were there first.’

‘Liar!’ cried Philippa. ‘You were–’

‘Thrust these meddling souls into the cellar,’ interrupted Harysone before she could reveal that killing Turke had played no part in his plans. ‘Then set the fire and let us be gone. Hurry, Jestyn.’

‘No,’ said Jestyn again, exchanging a glance with the two women. ‘We will lock no one in the cellar, and we want none of that tainted gold. We are leaving – alone.’

Frith’s face was a mask of fury. ‘You will do as we say, or you will join this motley crowd choking in the ground.’

Harysone ignored the quarrelling Waits and calmly reached for the chest. Then, before anyone could stop him, he had snatched it up and darted away. Frith abandoned his squabble with Jestyn and followed with a bellow of rage, leaving the others gazing after them in astonishment.

‘I thought he was dazed,’ said Makejoy stupidly. ‘He could barely stand.’

‘That is what he wanted you to think,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘After him!’

The Waits had brought four horses when they had stopped at the friary stables, and Frith and Harysone were already mounted on two of them. They pushed and pulled at each other, as Frith tried to grab the chest from his cousin and Harysone fought to keep possession of it. They galloped across the main road, then down a lane that ran along the side of Peterhouse and towards the river. It was not the direction Bartholomew would have chosen to make a successful getaway, and he saw their attention was wholly focused on each other and Dympna. The people they had been threatening to kill were entirely forgotten.

Bartholomew raced after them, but had no idea what he would do if he caught them. Both were armed and dangerous, and he did not have so much as a surgical blade with him. But he ran, nevertheless, hearing the others pounding after him – the lighter footsteps of Abigny and Philippa, and the heavier ones of Agatha and Michael. The remaining Waits did not follow. They took the opportunity to escape, Jestyn on one pony and the two women on the other.

Bartholomew reached the river, and saw the two men still fighting and shoving each other as they fought to gain possession of the box. Their jerky movements were frightening the horses, which pranced and lurched, uncertain which direction they were supposed to take. In the end, Harysone’s turned right, and started cantering towards the Small Bridges and the Mill Pool. Frith followed hard on its heels, and Bartholomew ran after them, doggedly trying to catch up.

The cousins reached the larger of the Small Bridges, where Frith managed to spur his mount ahead, so he and Harysone were riding neck and neck as they thundered forward. Fortunately, no one else was using the bridge at that point, or he would have been trampled.

Frith finally managed to secure a grip on Dympna, and ripped it from Harysone’s hands. With a scream of fury, Harysone lunged after it, both hands reaching for the box. His flying leap knocked Frith from his saddle, and both men went tumbling over the side of the bridge. There was a thump, followed by a series of cracking and popping sounds.

Bartholomew reached the bridge, gasping for breath, and peered over the edge just in time to see the two men sprawled on the ice, still struggling over the box. Then the ice opened into a great black hole, and men and chest disappeared from view. The water frothed for a moment, then became calm, until all that was left was a dark, jagged hole, a short distance from the one that had claimed Ailred. Bartholomew saw a hand break the surface, before slowly sinking out of sight amid a circle of gentle ripples.