A Killer in Winter

The Market Square was lively that morning, despite the bleak weather, as traders competed to sell their wares. Folk were more inclined to spend their money with the prospect of twelve nights of festivities looming ahead of them, so competition between vendors was fierce. The stalls’ awnings snapped and hummed in the wind, people shouted, and animals neighed, bleated, crowed and honked. The air was rich with the odour of manure, fish and spices, and the market was a bright, cheerful rainbow in a town dominated by winter browns and greys. There was another splash of colour near Holy Trinity Church, where a troupe of entertainers dressed in red and gold juggled and tumbled for pennies, accompanied by a musician who played a pipe and tabor. The trill of the whistle and the thud of the drum were all but drowned out by the bustle and noise from the Market Square, and only the highest notes were audible.

Abruptly, Bartholomew stood up. It was a bitterly cold morning, with a frigid wind slicing in from the north-east and the threat of more snow in the air. Underfoot, the frozen ground crackled, and ice glazed the puddles in the High Street. It was no kind of weather to be hiding behind tombs in churchyards, and he decided it was time he returned to Michaelhouse, the College at the University where, as a Fellow and Master of Medicine, he lived, taught his students and saw his patients. Michaelhouse was not the warmest of places to be, either – there were fires in the kitchen and the communal halls, but not in the scholars’ private rooms – but it was preferable to being outside.

‘Agatha is making spiced oatcakes this morning,’ he said, confidently anticipating that the mention of food would induce the fat Benedictine to abandon his peculiar fascination with the oily man in the Market Square.

He was wrong.

‘Later,’ said Michael, grabbing his friend’s sleeve with a meaty hand. ‘I need to know what you think about him. Can you see signs of incipient madness in his behaviour? Is there a hint of criminal intent in his movements?’

Bartholomew shook his head in exasperation before walking away across the graveyard, not deeming either question worthy of an answer. His feet were so cold that they felt as though they belonged to someone else, and he moved unsteadily across the spiky, crisp carpet of snow. Reluctantly, Michael abandoned his ‘hiding’ place and followed, tugging his thick woollen cloak around him. They reached St Mary’s newly completed porch, and Bartholomew paused.

The University Church seemed to grow grander and more elegant each time the physician studied it. It had recently been renamed ‘St Mary the Great’, because the smaller church of St Peter Without had been rededicated as St Mary the Less. While Bartholomew examined its pleasing lines and handsome tracery, Michael glared back towards the Market Square. His quarry was still visible, the dark cloth of his hat bobbing among the stalls as he made his purchases.

‘Well?’ demanded Michael, determined to have an answer and aware that his friend had so far avoided giving one. ‘What do you think? Can I instruct my beadles to arrest him on the grounds that his insanity makes him a danger to himself and to others, and have him evicted from the town?’

‘I cannot tell such things from watching someone buy ink, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to be party to that kind of activity. ‘We could stalk him all day and still not know the state of his health. I would need to talk to him, ask him specific questions – and even then insanity can be difficult to diagnose. Why do you want to know, anyway?’

‘He arrived in Cambridge a week ago,’ replied Michael, his green-eyed glare still firmly fixed on the hapless figure in the Market Square. ‘He says his name is John Harysone, but I am sure he is not telling the truth.’

‘Why would he lie?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And why does he warrant this kind of attention from you? Surely, you should let your beadles watch suspicious characters, not crawl around in cold cemeteries to spy for yourself.’

‘I am not spying,’ said Michael tartly. ‘I am observing. You think that being Senior Proctor of the University of Cambridge means just counting fines and subduing rowdy undergraduates, but I can assure you I do a good deal more than that. It is my duty to ensure that the town is peaceful and trouble-free.’

‘I thought that was the Sheriff’s responsibility,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘You are responsible for law and order only insofar as it affects the University.’

‘If there is unrest in the town, then there is disorder in the University,’ preached Michael. ‘It has been a year since we have had any serious strife – and that is entirely due to me and the way I have organised my beadles. The Sheriff has nothing to do with it. He would not know how to avert a riot to save his life.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘Stephen Morice is not the Sheriff that Dick Tulyet was. It is a pity Dick was obliged to resign in order to help with his father’s business.’