A Killer in Winter

Langelee jingled his coins in boyish glee. ‘I must go – to consult with Agatha about how best to spend five whole pounds!’

Harysone was sitting in the main chamber of the King’s Head when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. Lounging elegantly near the hearth, he was enjoying the company of two merchants who also wanted the warmth of a fire that winter day. He wore the relic bag around his neck, and was fingering it as he spoke. The merchants looked pleased when Michael beckoned Harysone away, glad to be rid of him. Bartholomew saw one of them held a copy of Harysone’s book, and supposed the pardoner had been working on a sale.

‘Cordwainers,’ said Harysone, revealing his teeth in a predatory smile. ‘They love to hear about my escapades in Chepe, among the best and most ruthless traders in the country.’

‘They did not look as though they were loving it to me,’ said Michael rudely. ‘They looked bored to tears.’

‘Chepe?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘When were you in Chepe?’

‘I do not remember precisely,’ said Harysone carelessly. ‘A year ago, perhaps. When you travel a lot, as I do, you tend not to recall details. Perhaps it was not Chepe at all, but Smithfield or the Fleet. They, too, have great markets.’

‘But you said, quite categorically, that Chepe merchants are among the “best and most ruthless in the country”,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘How can you now say you may have been referring to traders from other markets?’

‘I am tired, and my back is paining me,’ snapped Harysone, irked at being caught out in a falsehood. He went on the offensive. ‘What have you done about the student who stabbed me? You seem willing to quibble about the locations of markets, but have you caught the man who inflicted this grievous wound on my person?’

‘Why do you frequent markets?’ asked Michael, ignoring Harysone’s questions and persisting with his own. ‘You are a pardoner, so your trade will be in and around churches, where you can catch the conscience-stricken before they are obliged to make embarrassing confessions.’

‘I like markets,’ said Harysone defensively. He sipped wine from his goblet, and his teeth clanged noisily on the rim. Bartholomew wondered if the man had ever considered having them filed to a more manageable size. ‘I like the smells and the atmosphere. It is not a crime.’

‘You like fish, too,’ said Michael, making it sound like an accusation.

Harysone smiled fondly, ignoring the monk’s hostile tone. ‘Yes, I do. Fish are God’s glimpse into Heaven. You know the story of the loaves and the fishes – God made many fish out of an original two or three, because He wanted everyone to enjoy them and see how wonderful they are to eat. Fish are marvellous creatures, and so useful.’

‘Useful?’ asked Bartholomew warily, sure that Harysone’s interpretation was not the message the gospel writers had intended to impart.

Harysone flashed his teeth. ‘As a physician, you should know their myriad virtues. Fish oils can cure diseases, and they produce luxuriant and glossy curls, if applied to the hair.’

‘I thought I smelled something odd,’ remarked Michael, edging away from him.

‘They are also tasty, and are better than meat for the digestion,’ Harysone went on. ‘They are in every sea, river and stream, providing an inexhaustible supply for human delight. And they make for good friends – better than dogs.’

‘You have a lap-fish?’ asked Michael wryly. ‘Like rich widows have lap-dogs?’

‘Of course not,’ said Harysone scornfully. ‘They die if you put them in air, and no one wants to sit around with a water-filled lap. You keep them in a jug or, if you are wealthy, in a pond in your garden. If you find one dull or unresponsive company, you can eat it and buy another.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, regarding Harysone as though he had escaped from St John’s Hospital, where the town’s lunatics were housed. ‘Have you always been a pardoner, or does your obsession with matters piscine stem from an earlier career as a fisherman or a fishmonger?’

Bartholomew supposed that this none too subtle question was intended to raise the subject – again – of whether Harysone had known Turke or Gosslinge.

Harysone’s face bore an expression of genuine regret. ‘I wish I were a fishmonger, because I can think of no occupation that would suit me more. However, we cannot always do what we want, so I am obliged to make my living by selling pardons. My book – I have a spare copy for sale, if you are interested – is my little tribute to the creatures I revere.’

‘I see you have a relic,’ said the monk casually. ‘Is it a fish, by any chance?’

‘The best relic would be a fish Jesus caught in the Sea of Galilee,’ declared Harysone wistfully. He fingered the pouch. ‘But this is almost as good: St Zeno’s finger.’

‘May I see it?’ asked Bartholomew politely, wondering whether his knowledge of bones would allow him to distinguish a finger from a thumb if the skin was withered away.