A Killer in Winter

Harysone gazed at him. ‘That was him? I heard about the accident, but I did not know Turke was the victim.’ His expression became predatory, and he licked his lips with a moist red tongue. ‘Perhaps I should visit his woman, and offer her the help of a gentleman. You are right – she is pretty after a fashion, and a widow is so much more attractive than a wife.’

‘My sister is looking after her,’ said Bartholomew quickly, not liking the notion of Harysone lurking around Philippa any more than he had Matilde. ‘She does not need any gentlemanly help.’

‘Pity,’ said Harysone. ‘But never mind. She was no more friendly to me than was her arrogant husband, so I would doubtless be wasting my time anyway. But enough of me. Have you heard about my book?’

‘Book?’ asked Bartholomew keenly. ‘You own one?’ Books were expensive and rare, and no scholar ever passed up an opportunity to inspect a new volume.

‘I have written one,’ said Harysone proudly. ‘It is a devotional treatise concerning fish.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself from sounding disappointed as he glanced at the pile of tomes near the window. ‘I thought you meant a real one.’

Harysone glared at him. ‘It is a real one. It has covers, a spine and erudite contents. What more do you want?’

‘Forgive me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he had been rude. ‘You say it is about fish?’

‘We can learn a great deal from fish,’ said Harysone preachily. ‘I use them allegorically, to shed light on the human condition. I have been told by eminent theologians that my work is a remarkable piece of scholarship. Would you like to buy a copy? I happen to have a spare.’

He gestured to the stack near the window, so Bartholomew went to fetch one. He sat on the bed again and opened the boards to reach the parchment inside. Harysone had evidently hunted down the cheapest scribe he could find to make copies of his treatise; its few pages were full of eccentric spelling and peculiarities of grammar.

‘Troute is Best Servd with Vinnegar, but Sturgeon May bee Ate with Grene Sauwse, if you have It.’ He glanced up at Harysone. ‘That does not sound devotional or allegorical to me.’

‘You have started in the wrong place,’ said Harysone testily. ‘I included other information, too, since I wanted my work to be comprehensive. Try reading the part where I recommend specific fish for particular ailments. You will learn a great deal from that, I can promise you.’

‘Later,’ said Bartholomew, laying the tome down. ‘I have other patients, and cannot stay here all morning, pleasant though that might be. How can I help you?’

‘I have injured my back. I was dancing an estampie last night and it just went.’

‘“Went”?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. Went. It started to hurt. It took all my strength to return to my room, and I have been lying here in pain ever since.’

‘Has it happened before?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what kind of dancing the man had been engaged in to reduce him to such a state.

‘Never. Now, I know there are sense-dulling potions you can give me, so I shall have some of those. And then you can calculate my horoscope.’

‘First, I think we should see what the problem is. Lie on your stomach, please.’

‘Are you asking to look at it?’ asked Harysone uneasily. ‘My own physician does not embarrass me by wanting to inspect my person, so why should you? And anyway, the problem lies with the bones and, unless you can see through skin and muscle or intend to pare away my flesh to see what is underneath – which I will not permit – looking will do us no good.’

‘There may be tell-tale bulges or dents,’ persisted Bartholomew.

‘Very well,’ said Harysone with a long-suffering sigh. ‘But be careful.’ He winced when the physician’s hands came in contact with his skin. ‘And please keep those cold hands to yourself. You can adjust my shirt, but only as long as your fingers do not touch me. What have you been doing? Throwing snowballs?’

Bartholomew pulled up Harysone’s fine linen shirt to reveal a bony back that was none too clean. There was no obvious indication that anything was wrong, but Harysone claimed the pain was lower, near the base of his spine. A fluttering hand indicated where, so Bartholomew eased the undergarments away, then stared in surprise.

There was a small round bruise in the place Harysone had indicated, and in the centre of it was something dark. Bartholomew fingered it gently, ignoring Harysone’s protestations of pain. It was the tip of a knife, which had been driven into the hard bones and broken off in the wound it had caused.

‘How did you say you came by this?’ he asked again.

‘Dancing,’ said Harysone impatiently. ‘We have been through this. I was dancing an estampie, and there was a sudden pain. I came here, thinking rest might help, but it is still sore.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, you do not know you have been stabbed?’