A Killer in Winter

‘Dick is a good man, and he and I worked well together,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘But Morice uses his office solely to make money for himself.’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm in a sudden, vicelike grip that made the physician wince. ‘Harysone is heading towards St Michael’s Church. He is going inside!’

The horror in Michael’s voice as Harysone walked purposefully towards the small building that belonged to the scholars of Michaelhouse made Bartholomew smile. ‘Visiting a church is not illegal, Brother. But I have lectures to prepare; I cannot spend all day stalking innocent men with you.’

‘Harysone is not innocent,’ said Michael with grim determination, watching with narrowed eyes as the man wrestled with the awkward latch on the church door. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’

‘That is the cold weather,’ said Bartholomew practically. He broke away from Michael and headed for St Michael’s Lane. ‘I am going home. It is too chilly for this kind of thing.’

‘Come with me to speak to him,’ ordered Michael peremptorily. ‘I shall only leave when we have assured ourselves that he has no sinister purpose in daring to set foot in St Michael’s. For all you know, he may be planning to steal our silver.’

‘He would be hard pressed to do that. We only use it on special occasions, and the rest of the time – like now – it is safely locked away. And anyway, he does not look like a man who needs to steal from churches. He is well dressed and appears to be wealthy.’

‘I was at the Trumpington Gate when he arrived,’ said Michael, watching Harysone give the door a vigorous shake in an attempt to open it. He was not successful. ‘He had a cart with him, loaded down with what he claimed were philosophical texts written by himself. He said he was going to sell them here.’ The monk turned to Bartholomew and raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Have you ever heard a less convincing story?’

Bartholomew had heard a good many less convincing stories, and he told the monk so. It seemed to him that Harysone’s reason for being in Cambridge was a perfectly valid one: if anyone wanted to sell academic texts, then Cambridge and Oxford were good places to be. They were full of scholars hungry for new knowledge and ideas, and Harysone could expect not only that copies would be purchased, but that they would be read and discussed by clever minds. Harysone might even learn ways to improve on his work.

‘Well, I do not believe him,’ declared Michael. ‘I know his type. He is one of those men who makes his living by preying on the weak and the trusting. He will cheat widows, orphans and the weak-witted out of their inheritances, and will have every scrap of silver out of our churches before he melts away into the night.’

Bartholomew gave a startled laugh, astonished by the list of crimes Michael was blithely laying at the door of a man he did not know. ‘Really, Brother! Do you have any evidence to suggest that he is a trickster?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I will. I have been watching him for the best part of a week now, and he will make a mistake before long. And then he can enjoy his Yuletide celebrations inside the proctors’ prison!’

Bartholomew was nonplussed. ‘I do not understand this at all. It is not like you to take a rabid dislike to visitors to our town without cause.’

‘I have cause. Harysone disturbs me. I feel with every fibre in my body that there is something sinister about him.’

‘That does not sound like you, either,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘You do not usually give credence to something as insubstantial as a “feeling”. You usually demand solid evidence before judging a man.’

‘I cannot explain it,’ replied Michael impatiently. ‘But I have been Senior Proctor for five years now, and I know a rotten apple when I see one. That man is a prince among villains, and I do not want him in my town.’

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, but accepted that the Benedictine had gained enough experience to be able to identify potential troublemakers. Still, Michael was not immune to making mistakes, and the physician did not condone persecuting a man on the basis of a mere ‘feeling’.

Harysone was still tussling with the sticky church door when Tom Meadowman, Michael’s chief beadle, approached them, red faced and slightly breathless. The beadles were the proctors’ private army, a stalwart band of men employed to keep hundreds of unruly and feisty scholars under control, as well as patrolling the taverns to prevent explosive combinations of students, townsfolk and ale from occurring.

‘Master Tulyet is looking for you, Brother,’ said Meadowman, addressing Michael. ‘His cousin Norbert has been found dead – murdered, he says – and he wants you to look into it.’