A Killer in Winter

‘He did not follow Philippa at all,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘Or rather, it was not Philippa he thought he was following. She wears those silly shoes, but today she donned boots. It is obvious she lent the shoes to another person, so people would think it was her hurrying to the friary.’

‘I do not see why she would do that,’ said Meadowman doubtfully. ‘Especially since you just said she was at pains to make folk believe she never walks out unescorted.’

‘I suppose the person wearing the thin shoes was actually Giles,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his head tiredly. ‘There is not much difference in their size. He took her shoes with the intention of making people believe he was her.’

‘We need to look in some of these deserted outbuildings,’ said Meadowman, wanting to waste no more time in speculation.

Together they began a systematic search of the ramshackle sheds and storerooms that formed a separate little hamlet behind the main part of the friary. Most were lean-tos, which had been used to store firewood, peat, and hay and straw for horses in more prosperous times. There was also a disused brewery, a laundry and some substantial stables. But all were empty.

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Where can he be?’

‘Hopefully in the Brazen George, unaware of the worry he is causing,’ said Meadowman. ‘I shall go there now, then round up some of the lads to search his other favourite haunts.’ He left without waiting for an answer.

‘I will look in Peterhouse and the King’s Head,’ said Cynric. ‘The food is good at Peterhouse, and he may have gone there for a meal and not realised how much time has passed.’

He slipped away, leaving Bartholomew alone in the overgrown yard. The physician supposed he should follow Cynric and Meadowman but he remained convinced that Michael’s disappearance was somehow connected to Philippa, and was certain the monk was not far away. He walked through the outbuildings again, this time more carefully, searching for any clue that might tell him that Michael had been there.

The last place he explored was the stables, a low, thatched building with a sizeable loft. There were three horses in residence, none looking very wholesome. The place had not been cleaned since the snows, and the stink of manure and the sharp tang of urine was overpowering. But Michael was nowhere to be found. Bartholomew stood still and looked around slowly.

Clippesby said he had overheard Philippa talking to her lover from the stables, so her trysting place could not be far. The hayloft was derelict, so she had not scrambled up a ladder to frolic there among the straw. Hoping he was not wasting his time by placing so much faith in the word of a man who spoke to animals, Bartholomew continued his careful assessment of the building. If the upper storey was unavailable, and he could not see Philippa setting her pretty shoes in the uncleaned filth of the stalls, then her secret place must be in a downward direction. Many buildings contained basements for storage, and the friary had been built in an age where cellars were commonplace. Bartholomew began to walk back and forth, searching for a trapdoor.

It was not long before he found it – an iron-handled affair, which had been concealed under some straw. Bartholomew grasped the ring and began to pull, but stopped when he realised something was securing it. Initially, he assumed it was locked from the inside, but then reasoned that no one would be likely to lock himself in a cellar. He kicked away more straw, and saw that a bolt was keeping the trapdoor down.

He was completely unprepared for the attack when it came. He was off balance anyway, since he was bending, and fell heavily when the pitchfork slammed across his shoulders. He forced himself to roll, so he could use the momentum to scramble to his feet, and winced when two prongs stabbed violently into the floor where he would have been had he been less agile. The blow was sufficiently vigorous to cause the pitchfork tines to stick fast, and Bartholomew used the delay to launch himself at his assailant. Both went tumbling to the ground.

The physician clawed wildly, using every scrap of his strength. His fingers encountered the hood that covered the man’s face, and he snatched it away, expecting to see the soft, feminine features of Giles Abigny.

‘You!’ he exclaimed in astonishment.

Harysone used Bartholomew’s momentary confusion to scramble to his feet and haul the pitchfork from the floor. Then he came at the physician in a series of smooth, fluid movements that suggested he had done this sort of thing before. Bartholomew backed away, flinging handfuls of muck and straw from the floor at Harysone’s eyes. The pardoner’s relentless advance did not falter. He stabbed again, and this time his tines became tangled in some rotting wood.