A Killer in Winter

‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘I would not like to learn later that you have misled me. Lying to the Senior Proctor is a serious offence in this town, and carries a heavy fine.’

This was the first Bartholomew had heard about a fine for lying, although he was certain Michael would love the introduction of such a measure, while Father William would make the University fabulously wealthy on it. The threat of parting with money had an instant effect on the pardoner. He appeared to reconsider.

‘Perhaps I have met them before, but I do not recall whether it was in Chepe or elsewhere.’

‘How did you meet them?’ asked Michael, victory gleaming in his eyes, as he sensed he was getting somewhere at last.

‘Perhaps I asked them to play for me. I like a little entertainment now and again, and employ musicians when I have funds to spare. I hired one the other night, so people could see me dance.’

‘I do not suppose the Chepe Waits ever gave you anything in return?’ asked Michael. ‘And I do not mean the benefit of their musical talents. I mean things like salt dishes and inkpots.’

‘Why should they do that?’ asked Harysone, raising his eyebrows. ‘Really, Brother! I am not surprised your investigations have been unsuccessful, if this is your idea of solving crimes. I may have passed the time of day with your Chepe Waits, and I may have encountered them on my previous travels, but I have certainly never taken anything from them. And now …’

‘I hear you have been making enquiries about a certain Dympna,’ said Michael smoothly, when the pardoner rose to his feet. ‘What do you say to that?’

‘Nothing,’ said Harysone angrily. ‘Because I do not know what you want me to say. I heard she is good with her hands, and was hoping she would heal my afflicted back, since your physician is incapable of relieving my pain. Why do you ask? Is she dead, too?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Michael. ‘Is there something you would like to tell me?’

Harysone sighed. ‘Why do you persist in treating me like a criminal? I am the one who has been stabbed, yet you come here and demand to know inner meanings to every conversation I have had since I arrived. You would do better to interrogate those Michaelhouse boys, because if you do not charge one of them soon, I shall go to the Sheriff and demand justice. And that will cost you a good deal more than your time!’

‘Harysone is hiding something,’ said Michael, as he struggled through a particularly deep drift en route to the Trumpington Gate. ‘I know he is.’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you remember Langelee, when he first arrived here? He pretended to be a scholar, but all the time he was spying for the Archbishop of York.’

‘What does that have to do with Harysone?’

‘Perhaps it is no coincidence that Harysone arrived the same day as the Waits. Perhaps they made a powerful enemy by stealing from one particular household – someone who does not like his good faith abused and who wants revenge. In other words, Harysone is an agent, employed by some wealthy merchant from Chepe to catch the Waits and bring them to justice.’

‘They would not be worth the expense,’ said Michael. ‘That singer said the Waits’ light fingers land only on paltry items; he said they would never take anything valuable.’

‘But he also said the money generated from these thefts was considerable. Would you want those kind of people wandering around the villages or land that you owned?’

‘I do not think Harysone is here for any purpose other than to benefit himself. He is not some avenging angel, intent on putting right what is wrong in the world.’

‘The Waits have made enemies, though. The singer disliked them enough to tell Sheriff Morice they had stolen Harysone’s gold, while Quenhyth is positively rabid about them. There must be others who feel the same way. Harysone may be one of them.’

‘I suppose,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘However, although you think it is highly suspicious that Harysone and the Waits all reached Cambridge on the fifteenth of December, do not forget that Turke and his household arrived that day, too.’ He gave a grim smile as he recognised a familiar figure battling through the snow. ‘And here comes Giles, limping almost as badly as our investigation and with his feathered hat looking as dishevelled and disheartened as I feel. I intended to visit him later today, but we can talk to him now instead. It will save me a journey.’

‘It is too cold to chatter in the street,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘The snow has melted in my boots, and my feet are frozen. I shall have chilblains, like Giles, if I do not go home soon.’

‘It is mild,’ contradicted Michael, warmed by the mulled ale from the King’s Head and the effort of walking. He shot out a powerful arm to prevent the clerk from hurrying past. ‘Giles! Do you have a moment?’

‘No,’ said Abigny, trying without success to free himself. ‘I must meet someone, and I am already late. You can talk to me later, in Stanmore’s house where it is warm and dry.’

‘Who are you meeting?’ asked Michael.