A Killer in Winter

William blanched, rubbing the still-splinted leg in agitation. He began to prevaricate, clearing his throat and coughing, while he tried to invent a reason for the gift that Michael would accept. He certainly did not want the Senior Proctor to know he had been malingering.

‘It was payment for treating his leg,’ replied Bartholomew truthfully, although he was aware that Michael knew perfectly well William’s injury was not as serious as he claimed. ‘And for keeping certain personal details confidential.’

‘What kind of details?’ demanded Michael immediately.

Bartholomew laughed. ‘This is an excellent book, and I do not want to give it back by betraying William’s medical history. Anyway, his injury is none of your affair. Leave him alone.’

‘Thank you, Matthew,’ said William, relieved. ‘But I still mean what I said about Bradwardine. The next time I require your confidential services, you will be getting Sutton.’

‘Look at this, Matt,’ said Michael, proffering a piece of parchment.

‘It is the list of loans made by Dympna since its origins during the plague,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at it. His eyes strayed back to the much more tempting words of Bradwardine. ‘I saw it yesterday, when Frith had us trapped in the conclave.’

‘I have been going over it with Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘Ailred made loans totalling almost ten pounds over the last few weeks. Some money has been repaid, but most has not. Norbert was lent three pounds, eight shillings and fourpence, which was the amount mentioned on the note we found inside Gosslinge. Meanwhile one pound, thirteen shillings and fourpence, the amount on the note Quenhyth found in Frith’s belongings, was demanded from him the day he died.’

‘So, you were right about the “missing hour” in Norbert’s last night,’ said William. ‘He left Ovyng and went to St Michael’s to meet Dympna, who was actually Frith. It was only after that he went to the King’s Head, where he stayed for the rest of the evening.’

‘He left the tavern at midnight and was stabbed on the way home,’ said Michael. ‘By Frith, I imagine, because he failed to bring money for Dympna, yet promptly went to a tavern and bought ale and a woman. But Norbert’s is not the only name next to an amount that is outstanding.’

Michael looked pleased with himself, and the physician knew why. ‘Harysone’s is there.’

Michael was crestfallen. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I noticed it yesterday. You must be happy: you have been looking for an opportunity like this ever since he arrived.’

‘It is enough for me to expel him from the town if he refuses to pay. I am going to see him now, in the King’s Head. Come with me.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want to help you victimise a man who has done nothing but borrow money. You had him marked down as involved in the deaths of Gosslinge, Norbert and Turke at various stages of the investigation, and you were wrong.’

‘He borrowed two pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence.’ Michael grinned with delight. ‘And that is what he must pay me today, or he can leave my town. I do not want debtors here: we have enough of our own.’

‘But if you send him away, Dympna will never be repaid.’

Michael sat on the windowsill and folded his arms. ‘You think I am unreasonable, but I do not trust that man. He has done nothing illegal – at least, nothing that I know about – but it is only a matter of time before he does. I want him gone. Trust me, Matt. I am not often wrong about these things.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, rising reluctantly and placing his new book on a shelf. He glared at William. ‘Your splint can come off soon, and then you can trail around after the Senior Proctor like a performing bear.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said William. He cast a disparaging look at the Bradwardine. ‘I would rather be evicting pardoners from taverns than listening to theories about things that push and pull, anyway.’

‘Do not hurry on my account,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew as they started to walk to the High Street, Bartholomew still fastening the clasp on his cloak. ‘It has been a pleasant relief to be rid of him for a while, although my fines chest is not what it was. You can let him malinger a little longer, so he has his money’s worth for the book he gave you. You are as bad as Morice – prepared to sell your soul for material goods. But speak of the Devil and he will appear.’

Sheriff Morice was riding along the High Street on his handsome grey horse. His saddle gleamed expensively, and his fur-lined cloak was thick and heavy. His lieutenants flanked him, gaudy, fluttering hens around a strutting peacock. Morice was in the very centre of the road, where he was least likely to be deluged by the snow that still dropped from roofs. He rode carelessly, making no attempt to steer around other folk, and anyone who did not move was casually trampled.