A Killer in Winter

Harysone scratched at his face until the beard came off on his fingers, and Bartholomew saw it had the same texture as the horsehair used to make false moustaches for the female Waits.

‘My hair is dyed,’ Harysone added, ‘and I have also coloured my face, to make it swarthy. As I said – even my kin did not recognise me, and Frith and I spent time in the same tavern! We even exchanged one or two words, although not many. I did not want him too close.’

‘That is partly because they did not anticipate meeting you here,’ said Philippa. ‘Poor Ailred!’

‘Ailred did not recognise you when he arranged the loan from Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Your disguise must have been excellent.’

‘It is excellent,’ said Philippa. ‘Even Giles, who is very observant and has purchased one of John’s books, has not guessed his true identity.’

‘Uncle Ailred was a fool to loan me that money,’ said Harysone, gloatingly. ‘I had no intention of repaying it – not the original amount and certainly not the interest. That will teach him to destroy my hopes of a glittering future.’

‘Frith and his friends will probably hang for Norbert’s murder,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Your testimony could save them but I am sure you have no intention of helping.’

‘Frith has the funds to buy his freedom,’ said Harysone carelessly. ‘And I should know, for I am well acquainted with his financial situation.’

‘You are the man to whom they passed their stolen goods?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Certainly not,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘My father was – but only in Chepe, obviously. They use other people when they travel. My father kept careful records, which I unearthed when I went through his possessions after his death. Perhaps I can blackmail Frith instead – threaten to tell the Chepe merchants about his activities. A percentage of his ill-gotten gains, along with Dympna, will suffice to compensate me for this horrible adventure and its unfortunate conclusions.’

‘You cannot have Dympna,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kenyngham has hidden it.’

‘You are right,’ said Harysone. ‘He left it in that cellar you were so keen to explore. But I have retrieved it, as you can see.’ He nodded to a corner, where Bartholomew could see the outline of the walnut-wood chest among the shadows.

‘Kenyngham told you where he hid it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, hoping Harysone had not harmed the old friar.

‘Frith had the right idea when he said he would fire Michaelhouse unless the chest was handed over. I merely used the same tactic and offered to fire the Gilbertine Friary. Kenyngham claimed he was sick of the money and the evil it brought, and relinquished it almost willingly.’ He nodded towards the trapdoor. ‘He is down there, waiting until we leave. Join him, and see for yourself.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, knowing Harysone had no intention of allowing him to climb into the cellar or anywhere else. Harysone wanted him dead.

The ‘pardoner’ was becoming impatient and fingered his pitchfork. ‘You have two choices, physician. We can dodge around like this and I will reduce you to small pieces slowly, or you can stand still and allow me to finish you in a single stroke. It will probably not even hurt – much as the knife did not hurt me when I was first stabbed in the back.’

‘No!’ cried Philippa, dismayed. ‘Put up your weapons. Both of you!’

‘Go to Hell, Harysone,’ said Bartholomew between gritted teeth. ‘It is a pity Philippa did not aim better, because then you and I would not be in this ridiculous situation.’

‘Philippa?’ asked Harysone, glancing at the agitated widow with an amused expression on his face. ‘She would not harm me. She is too afraid I will tell the truth about Turke as I die.’

‘Perhaps. But the knife with the broken point is in her possession, nevertheless. I can see the missing tip from here – I noticed it when she wore it in Edith’s solar earlier today.’

Harysone looked at Philippa again, but this time he was not smiling. ‘Tell me he is lying.’

Philippa did not reply, and Harysone’s expression became murderous. He turned on Bartholomew and began to advance. He moved quickly, and the hoe was smashed in two in Bartholomew’s hands. The physician saw that the man had done with playing and meant business. It was only a matter of time before one of the swiping tines hit its mark, the injury would weaken him and make him vulnerable to the next blow, and then it would be over.

‘No!’ Bravely, Philippa moved to stand between them. ‘I will give you anything you want, John. You can have the house Walter left me. Just do not harm Matthew.’

‘It is too late,’ hissed Harysone furiously. ‘He knows enough to hang me, and I do not want to settle into my new home only to be arrested for theft and blackmail.’

‘You cannot kill him,’ said Philippa, shoving the tines of the pitchfork down when Harysone raised them again. ‘I will not let you.’

‘What about Michael?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the opportunity to dodge away from the deranged fishmonger’s son and trying to drag Philippa with him. ‘Where is he?’