A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew complied. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘In a moment, in a moment,’ said Harysone testily. ‘First, I must establish whether you are sufficiently well qualified to treat me. Where did you train, and what books have you read?’

‘I studied at the universities in Oxford and Paris,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot possibly provide you with a list of all the books I have read. However, if you would like someone who can, I can suggest one or two names. Robin of Grantchester will not overwhelm you with medical knowledge.’

‘Not a surgeon, thank you very much,’ said Harysone with a shudder. ‘I do not like men who poke about inside men’s bodies with sharp knives. It is not natural. Are you a local man?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

‘Just conversing. I want to know something about you before I reveal any intimate secrets.’

‘There is no need for you to divulge anything personal,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the nature of the consultation Harysone seemed to have in mind. ‘I am a physician, not a confessor.’

‘Nevertheless, you will want to know details about my birth and suchlike, so you can construct a horoscope to determine my course of treatment. That kind of information is very personal, and might be dangerous in the wrong hands.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, declining to mention that the date of a man’s birth was hardly sensitive knowledge. He stepped forward, wanting to examine the man, identify the cause of his illness, recommend treatment and leave. He found, again, that he appreciated exactly why Michael had taken such a dislike to Harysone, and why Matilde found him unsettling. ‘Shall I …?’

‘In a moment!’ repeated Harysone aggressively. ‘You are as bad as that landlord, all business and no time for a chat.’

‘Have you had chats with many other people here?’ asked Bartholomew, reluctantly taking the opportunity to question Harysone, since he seemed willing to talk about any subject other than his malady. He decided he would try to learn whether Harysone would admit to speaking with the Waits, as Quenhyth had seen him do, or sitting with Gosslinge, as the Waits had claimed.

Harysone pulled a face of disgust. ‘The patrons of this tavern are an uncivilised crowd. I wish I had arrived early enough to secure lodgings at the Brazen George, where the clientele is more genteel. Here, I have been obliged to pass time with blacksmiths, grave-diggers and even jugglers!’

‘Jugglers?’ asked Bartholomew innocently.

As Harysone regarded him with his wet eyes, Bartholomew had the feeling that the man knew he was Michael’s colleague and that his mention of the Waits was deliberate. Harysone had told Bartholomew he had met the entertainers, because he knew that he had been seen with them. He was covering his tracks. Bartholomew wondered why he should feel the need to take such precautions, and whether that in itself was significant.

‘Terrible folk,’ Harysone went on, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Bartholomew. ‘A number of us arrived in the town on the same day – the Chepe Waits, a fishmonger and his household, and me – so I suppose the jugglers imagined a bond between us. I put them right with one or two steely glances.’

‘What about Walter Turke? Did you talk to him?’

‘The fishmonger?’ asked Harysone disapprovingly. ‘I did not. The man is a lout, for all his fine clothes, and I wanted nothing to do with him, his fat wife or his snivelling retainers.’

‘Retainers?’ asked Bartholomew, interest quickening at the plural. ‘I thought there was only Gosslinge.’

‘There were two,’ corrected Harysone. ‘A fair-headed clerk and a rascally servant. The servant and I were obliged to share a table one night. I ate my food, then excused myself as soon as was polite. Nasty little fellow. He was missing a thumb and smelled of mould.’

Bartholomew smiled to himself, wondering what Abigny would say if he thought Harysone believed him to be a servant, then thought about the smell of mould on Gosslinge. Did that mean Gosslinge had hidden himself among the rotting albs on more than one occasion? Had he made it a habit to linger there, perhaps hoping to overhear private conversations? But why St Michael’s? Surely the man would have fared better in a church with a larger secular congregation. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Or was it a scholar whom Gosslinge had wanted to watch?

‘I find it odd that the inn’s two most wealthy patrons – you and Turke – did not find solace in each other’s company,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Harysone was preparing to change the subject. ‘And Philippa Turke is a pretty woman.’

‘Fat,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘And married. I do not waste my time on wedded matrons – they are more trouble than they are worth. But I am a gentleman, and the fishmonger is not the kind of fellow with whom I like to associate. He is rude, loud and overbearing.’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He fell through some ice while skating.’