A Killer in Winter

Harysone, however, was not at his lodgings in the King’s Head, nor was he browsing among the stalls in the Market Square. Michael scratched his head thoughtfully, then began a systematic trawl of the town’s taverns, becoming more determined to find the man with each unsuccessful enquiry. When he met Meadowman near the Brazen George, the beadle informed him that Harysone had been in the Hall of Valence Marie, selling copies of his manuscript.

‘He is doing what?’ spluttered Michael, outraged. ‘Peddling his inferior scholarship to some of the greatest minds in the country?’

‘I do not know about that,’ said Meadowman stoically. ‘But he sold Valence Marie two copies of his treatise, and then went to Bene’t College.’

‘And what would this “treatise” be about?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘Harysone was never a student here, and I doubt even Oxford would accept the likes of him into their midst.’

‘Valence Marie’s porter told me it was about fish,’ said Meadowman. ‘And suchlike.’

‘Fish?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘Harysone told me it was a philosophical tract. And what do you mean by “and suchlike”?’

Meadowman shrugged, glancing up the High Street to where he could see two undergraduates emerging nonchalantly from the Brazen George. If he caught them, he could fine them fourpence, and he itched to be away after them.

‘You will have to read it yourself,’ he said. ‘You know I am not a man for words.’

‘I shall never read it,’ vowed Michael, abandoning his beadle and heading purposefully towards Bene’t, which was all but hidden behind a vast bank of snow. A great mass of icy slush had sloughed from its roof ten days before, and the mound had grown even more when snow shovelled from the street had been added to it by students who were too lazy to haul the stuff away.

But by the time Michael reached Bene’t, Harysone had already left, taking with him four marks from scholars interested in reading the treatise and leaving two copies of his work behind. No one knew where the man intended to go next, and Michael was forced to admit defeat. Midwinter Day was looming, and the few hours between dawn at eight and dusk at four passed far too quickly. Michael was running out of daylight. He decided to return to Michaelhouse for the evening, to sit by the fire and allow a cup of mulled wine to banish the chill from his limbs.

The following morning, Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, made a decision that was very popular with most of his students. Because there were only two days left before Christmas, he declared that lectures would be limited to mornings only, while afternoons were to be spent in preparations for the festivities to come. Some undergraduates were dispatched to gather firewood, so that the scholars could relax in rooms that had at least had the chill taken out of them, while others were sent to barter for special foods in the Market Square. Most were delighted by the unexpected reprieve, and Langelee was generally declared to be the best Master since Michaelhouse’s foundation.

Bartholomew was both pleased and frustrated by the enforced break. The two free afternoons would allow him to work on his treatise on fevers and visit his family, but there was a huge amount that his students needed to know if they wanted to be decent physicians, and he hated wasting time. Ever since the plague, there had been a chronic shortage of trained medical men, and Bartholomew was working hard to redress the balance. Teaching was suspended altogether during the Twelve Days, and he fretted that his students were being deprived of too much valuable learning time.

He attended morning mass in the church, although his mind bounced between worrying about his students’ poor grasp of Maimonides and considering the beggar he had found the previous day. He wondered who the man could be, and why he had chosen frigid St Michael’s in which to die. Michael said that Meadowman’s enquiries among the town’s other beggars had so far revealed nothing, so it seemed that the fellow would be buried in a pauper’s grave and be forgotten for ever if no one came forward to claim him as kin.

Bartholomew glanced across to the south aisle, where the body lay under a sheet, and then started to think about whether there would be enough ready-dug graves to last the winter. Digging frozen ground was almost impossible, and he had taken it upon himself to arrange for each church to prepare a few holes before the weather turned bad that year. If there were many more cases like the beggar’s, then they would soon run out.