A Killer in Winter

‘You may not,’ said Harysone haughtily. ‘This is a sacred relic, and not for pawing by curious physicians who want to examine everything they see.’

‘How much did it cost?’ asked Michael wickedly. ‘I am sure saints’ bones are expensive.’

‘Terribly,’ agreed Harysone. ‘This was five pounds, but worth every penny, even though its purchase has left me impoverished. I shall have to sell more books. Are you sure you do not-?’

‘What about the gold Sheriff Morice returned to you?’ interrupted Michael, as quick as lightning. ‘Could you not have used that? How much was it, anyway? Morice is fond of gold himself, so I wager he took a small something for himself.’

‘It was not small,’ grumbled Harysone. ‘He offered me all my recovered gold, plus interest, but then informed me he always keeps a percentage of any recouped stolen property for the needy. By “needy”, he meant himself, I gather. However, I do not make a habit of contesting rules set by venal officials. I do not want to end up dead in a ditch over a mark or two.’

There was an element of wisdom in Harysone’s position. It was not unknown for folk who spoke out against civic corruption to die in mysterious circumstances, and Bartholomew thought Harysone was probably prudent to pay what Morice asked and forget about the loss – especially in a town where he was a stranger and friendless.

‘You did not mention this before,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You said Morice returned it all with interest. But I shall ignore your dishonesty for now, if you tell me how much was stolen.’

‘Eight nobles,’ replied Harysone, bristling at Michael’s rudeness. ‘And Morice took three of them. I suppose I should count myself fortunate that he did not steal them all.’

Bartholomew thought the same thing, and did some rapid calculations. Since a noble was a third of a pound, Harysone’s returned gold would only have covered a third of the cost of the relic. He wondered whether the man’s book sales had provided the rest.

‘Do you know the identity of the culprits who stole your gold?’ asked Michael.

‘I do not,’ said Harysone. He raised a dirty hand to prevent Michael from speaking. ‘And I do not want to know, so do not tell me. There is nothing I can do about it now and I want to forget the whole miserable business.’

‘You love fish, yet you did not take the opportunity to converse with Walter Turke or his servant,’ Bartholomew observed, changing the subject. ‘They stayed in this tavern before moving to be with friends. Surely, you would have enjoyed their company?’

‘I have already told you Turke was not a gentleman,’ said Harysone. ‘And I doubt he loved fish anyway. For him, they would have been just a way to make money.’

‘Unlike you,’ said Michael, staring pointedly at the book. ‘But you were seen with Gosslinge by reliable witnesses.’

‘The inn has been busy since I arrived,’ explained Harysone patiently. ‘The man may have shared my table once, but we did not speak. I recall finishing my meal and leaving as soon as I could. I do not waste my time in discussion with illiterate menials.’

‘How do you know Gosslinge was illiterate?’ pounced Michael.

Harysone made an impatient noise. ‘He was a servant, and servants do not read. I am here in Cambridge only to sell copies of my book, so there is little point in chatting to folk who are unlikely to want one.’

‘You tried to sell Agatha the laundress a pardon,’ said Michael immediately, recalling her outraged reaction when she mentioned Harysone had offered her one that would take care of all seven deadly sins simultaneously. ‘So you are not here just to sell your book.’

‘You cannot blame me for trying to help a soul in need,’ said Harysone wearily. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me – for pardons. That is Revelations, of course.’

‘It is the gospels, not Revelations,’ corrected Michael. ‘Your theology is very hazy for a pardoner.’

With some effort, Harysone drew his lips over his teeth and managed to purse them. ‘You are not in a position to criticise the way I practise my profession. You are a proctor, yet you have not discovered the identity of the man who stabbed me. Who is the worst offender: the pardoner who makes an occasional mistake with his references, or the proctor whose ineptitude allows a would-be killer to walk free?’

‘The Chepe Waits,’ said Bartholomew quickly, thinking that Harysone had a valid point, but not wanting Michael to become involved in an argument when they had work to do. ‘Have you met them before?’

‘You have asked me this already,’ snapped Harysone. ‘And my answer now is the same as it was then: why would a respectable man like me know a group of ruffians?’

‘Because you travel?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Because you said yourself you often meet interesting and unusual people in the course of your wanderings. And there is the fact that the Waits come from Chepe – where you profess to know the merchants.’

‘We may have met,’ said Harysone cautiously. ‘I really do not recall. I see so many people that it is difficult to keep track of them all.’