A Killer in Winter

‘His behaviour, for a start. He told you about meeting the Waits when you went to treat his back. He wanted to make sure you understood it was a chance encounter. He anticipated someone would tell you they had been seen together, and he wanted you to believe the meeting was meaningless before it figured in our investigation. But he is our man. Why else would he be here?’

‘To sell copies of his book?’

Michael pulled a face to show what he thought of Harysone’s attempts at scholarship. ‘His “book” is not worth the parchment it is written on. It is a ruse – an excuse for his presence here so no one will ask questions.’

Bartholomew gave a sudden laugh. ‘Did you hear William complaining about it this morning, after you excavated me from the snow? He is supposed to tell Langelee whether it is suitable for the library, and is enjoying it because it is not. He does not know whether to be amused or shocked. He read me the parts he considered most damning.’

‘What did they say?’

‘All sorts of rubbish, but what really caused him to launch into one of his tirades was Harysone’s statement that fish are angels. Harysone’s logic is that fish have silver scales, but their brilliance fades after they die; this is because the angel’s soul leaves the fish to go to Heaven. He also says angels are the only creatures on Earth that do not breathe air. Ergo, angels are fish.’

Michael gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘Harysone really wrote that?’

‘You should borrow the book from William before he wears it out with his aggressive thumbing and browsing.’

‘I could not bring myself to touch it,’ said Michael primly. ‘But all this merely confirms my suspicions: Harysone is the Waits’ accomplice.’

‘Because he writes heretical books?’ asked Bartholomew, laughing. ‘You will need something better than that to convict him! However, remember that if Harysone is the Waits’ accomplice, they would not have relieved him of his gold in the King’s Head.’

Michael was not pleased to see his argument thwarted. He muttered something incomprehensible, then declared they would pay Harysone a visit immediately. Bartholomew saw that the monk obviously preferred to trust his own instincts about the pardoner than the physician’s scientific analysis of the facts.

It took a long time to reach the King’s Head, partly because it was difficult to walk, but mostly because people kept stopping them to ask for help or to enquire whether they had seen someone who was missing. Matilde was out, taking bread and milk to those in need, assisted by Yolande de Blaston’s older children. They struggled through the snow carrying baskets and jugs, putting their feet in her footprints, so that Bartholomew was reminded of the legend about the sainted King Wenceslas. She waved to him, but was too busy with her charity to stop and talk. They met Langelee near Bene’t College. Looking pleased with himself, he waved a bag of coins at them.

‘Five pounds,’ he said with satisfaction, bracing himself against the monstrous pile of snow outside that College in order to let Robin of Grantchester slink by without touching him; the drift made the road very narrow at that point. A trail of red in the white after Robin had passed indicated the surgeon had been practising his trade that morning.

Michael grinned conspiratorially. ‘You persuaded Harysone to part with five pounds? That is five times what he wanted for one of his miserable books. I knew he would be unable to resist!’

‘St Zeno’s finger,’ said Bartholomew, looking from one to the other. ‘You sold Harysone the relic Turke gave you?’

‘For a modest sum,’ bragged Langelee, clearly delighted. ‘I played on his love of fish, as you suggested, Michael. I thought I might have to exaggerate Zeno’s association with fishermen to make him bite – so to speak – but he already knew all about the Saint of Anglers, and all I had to do was appear to be reluctant to part with the thing.’

‘I was going to inspect that,’ said Bartholomew, disappointed to learn it was no longer in Michaelhouse’s possession. ‘I thought it might be Gosslinge’s thumb.’

‘More than likely,’ said Langelee carelessly. ‘I had a good look at it myself, and it is definitely a human digit of some kind or other. It was blackened and covered in dried skin. I saw many relics when I worked for the Archbishop of York, and I sensed Turke’s was a fake from the beginning. When I touched it, and was not struck down by the Wrath of God, I knew I was right.’

‘That was a risky way to find out,’ said Bartholomew, disapprovingly. ‘You should have asked Kenyngham to assess it first. If anyone can identify saintly objects, it is him.’

‘He did,’ said Michael, shooting the Master an admonishing look for telling only part of the story. ‘Kenyngham blessed it, but said it felt tainted. We decided to rid Michaelhouse of the thing as soon as possible. And who better than to a pardoner with an obsession for fish?’