‘Do you have any idea how many people are stabbed each year?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Since virtually every man,
woman and child carries a knife for everyday use, it is the weapon of choice when ridding yourself of enemies. That both Norbert
and Fiscurtune were stabbed means nothing.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Bartholomew, seeing they had reached an impasse, and neither was prepared to accept the
other’s point of view. ‘Ah! Here it is.’
‘You have the weapon?’ asked Michael, moving forward eagerly, as Bartholomew stooped to retrieve something. He grinned in
triumph when the physician held up a dagger that was far too highly decorated and expensive to have been thrown away for no
good reason. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Michael, no!’ cried Bartholomew. But it was too late. The monk’s bulk was already on the ice, which immediately began to
bow. Both scholars watched in horror as a series of small cracks began to zigzag away from him, accompanied by sharp snapping
sounds. For an instant, nothing happened. And then the ice broke.
Bartholomew felt the surface under his feet begin to tip as though it were a small boat on a stormy sea. Instinctively, he
hurled himself forward, landing flat on his stomach on a part that was solid. From Michael’s direction he heard a splash,
and the rope around his waist was tugged so sharply that it took his breath away. A distant part of his mind noted that it
was ironic that he had borrowed the rope so that Michael would be able to pull him to safety, not the other way around. He
glanced behind him, expecting to see the top of the monk’s head bobbing among shards of ice.
Michael, however, had apparently broken through at a point where the river was shallow, because the water did not even reach
the top of his boots. He stood among the ice like some vast, black Poseidon, and began reeling in the rope that connected
him to Bartholomew. There was a sharp tug around the physician’s waist, and then he felt himself begin to move.
‘Do not worry,’ the monk called, as he hauled on the line in powerful hand-over-hand motions that made Bartholomew feel like
a landed fish. ‘I have you.’
He certainly did, thought Bartholomew, powerless against the mighty force that was heaving him shoreward. He wanted to stand,
to make his own way to the bank, but his fingers scrabbled ineffectually on the slick surface and there was no purchase for
his feet. With a grimace, he gave up his struggle and submitted to Michael’s ‘rescue’ with ill grace, sighing with irritation
when a sharp piece of ice ripped a gash in his best winter cloak. By the time he was on the river bank, he had ruined a perfectly
good tabard, his cloak would need some serious attention from the laundress’s needle, and the knee was hanging from his hose.
Still, he thought wryly, at least the ice was hard and dry, and his uncomfortable journey across it had not rendered him soaking
wet.
‘You should have been more careful,’ said Michael, looking him up and down critically.
‘Me be careful?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly. ‘It was you who started to surge forward like Poseidon emerging from the
deep.’
‘Where is the knife?’
‘I dropped it,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how it had slipped from his fingers when he had made his
headlong dive for safety.
‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, aghast. ‘How?’
‘While trying to save myself from drowning,’ Bartholomew replied tartly.
‘You should not have tried to come for it.’
‘I only wanted to look,’ said Michael sulkily, realising that the fault lay with him, but not prepared to admit it. ‘Where
did you drop it? Is it retrievable?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I saw it go into the water at a point where the river runs fast and strong. It will have been
swept forward, and I have no idea where it will be now.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That thing might have allowed us to trace Norbert’s killer. And now it has gone.’
‘I can describe it,’ offered Bartholomew.
‘Well, that is something, I suppose,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘Go on, then.’
‘The hilt was decorated, but not with precious stones. I think they were glass, because the thing looked well used. You do
not have a jewelled knife for everyday use.’
‘That very much depends on who you are,’ said Michael sourly. ‘But, in this case, you may be right. Continue.’
‘The blade was scratched, again suggesting it was a favoured, much-used item, and wide – which is consistent with the wound
in Norbert’s back. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, there was blood on it.’
‘Then damn it again!’ snapped Michael. ‘It must be the murder weapon, and you lost it!’
Bartholomew ignored the accusation. ‘I can make a drawing with coloured inks, and we can see if anyone recognises it. Philippa,
for example.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Very well, if you do not mind offending her by suggesting that her recently dead and much-lamented husband
crept around the town at night knifing students in the back. More usefully, though, I can ask Meadowman to show it in the
taverns when he does his rounds tonight.’ He gave the physician a rueful smile. ‘I suppose something may emerge from our incompetence.’
W
HILE BARTHOLOMEW SAT IN HIS ROOM WITH A BLANK
piece of parchment and several pots of coloured ink – borrowed from Deynman, who never wrote in black when blue, yellow,
red or green was available – Michael perched on the physician’s windowsill and complained that the river water had stained
his best riding boots. It was so cold that a rime was starting to form on them, and Michael hastily removed himself to the
kitchens, where there was a fire to thaw them and perhaps even freshly baked oatcakes for the taking. It was true it was not
long since he had eaten, but everyone knew that cold weather increased the appetite.
Agatha was there, presiding in her wicker throne near the fireplace, from which she oversaw the preparations for the evening
meal with critical eyes. Deynman had provided a hundred eggs, and had decreed that no dish should be served that did not have
egg of some form in it. Agatha’s infamous egg-mess was already mixed, and was busily transforming itself into rubbery lumps
near the fire where it was being kept warm. The undercook was struggling with a vat of custard, which was lumpier than the
egg-mess and smelled sulphurous, and the butler was patiently shelling hard-boiled duck eggs, humming as he did so.
‘No meat?’ asked Michael, surveying the preparations with disappointment. He found a stool and three boiled eggs, and carried
them to the hearth, settling himself comfortably with legs splayed in front of him and his habit rucked up around his knees
so that his boots could dry.
‘Hens,’ said Agatha, jerking a powerful thumb to one of the back kitchens, where a number of hapless birds were
being roasted to dryness on spits that would have benefited from the occasional turn. ‘They had eggs in them, did they not?’
Michael laughed. ‘You are a clever woman, Agatha. Yes, they did. It will be interesting to see whether Deynman understands
such a fine point.’
‘I saw you in the King’s Head yesterday,’ said Agatha conversationally. ‘You were watching that Harysone dancing. At least,
I assume that was what he was doing. It looked obscene.’
‘It was obscene,’ agreed Michael, shelling an egg and then sliding it whole into his mouth. He spoke around it with difficulty.
‘Have you seen him in the King’s Head before?’
‘I have not eaten bear liver since I was a child,’ said Agatha, answering whatever question she thought Michael had asked.
‘But we were discussing Harysone. I have seen him in the King’s Head on several occasions, you know.’
‘Doing what?’ enunciated Michael carefully.
‘He likes to show off his dancing “skills”, and he has been hawking his book at reduced prices: three marks, and a bargain,
he claims.’ Her strong face turned angry. ‘He is a pardoner, and he asked if I cared to buy a pardon for the seven deadly
sins, because he had one that would take care of them all in one go.’
‘That was rash of him,’ said Michael, meaning it. The man was lucky to escape with all his limbs, given that Agatha had evidently
considered herself insulted. He peeled another egg, and thought about Harysone’s claim that he had come to Cambridge only
to sell his books. He had not mentioned to the guards that he was also a pardoner. The monk mulled over the possibility that
misleading town officials might be sufficient grounds to expel the fellow.
‘Harysone gambles,’ said Agatha disapprovingly. ‘I saw him dicing with Ulfrid – who should know better. And I saw him gaming
with Norbert the night he died.’
‘Did you now?’ mused Michael, realising he should not have bothered to send his beadles to the King’s Head to
question uncooperative townsfolk when he had a fine source of information under his very own roof. ‘Did you see him win a
fish?’
She nodded. ‘They are two of a kind: sly, lecherous and nasty. Harysone also asked whether I knew a person called Dympna.
I told him that even if I did, I would not tell him!’
‘He asked that?’ said Michael. The third egg rolled from his lap and landed unnoticed on the floor. ‘He asked about a
person
called Dympna? Not a man or woman?’
‘A person,’ said Agatha firmly. ‘He did not specify whether it was a man or a woman, and when I asked why he wanted to know,
he became vague. He said it was a matter of money he was owed. Of course, I said nothing more after that. I would not like
to think of some poor soul owing that evil character a debt, and me being responsible for setting him on his trail.’ She shuddered.
‘Do you know Dympna?’ asked Michael, hopeful that she might have answers to questions that had been plaguing him for days.
‘No,’ came the disappointing answer. ‘But I have heard of him.’
‘Him?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘I thought it was a woman. Norbert received messages from Dympna before he died, and Matt
and I made the assumption they were from a lover.’
‘Norbert!’ spat Agatha in disapproval. ‘You should not make any such assumption about him. He did have a lover, although it
was not a woman. There is a certain pig that was the object of his amorous attentions. Doubtless Helena will be relieved now
that he is gone.’
‘Helena?’
‘Robin of Grantchester’s pig. Folk saw Norbert slipping into the back of Robin’s house at odd hours to visit her.
Poor creature!’
‘How do you know he was not going to meet Robin?’ asked Michael curiously.
Agatha regarded him in horror. ‘That is a disgusting
notion, Brother! Call yourself a monk? You should see Master Kenyngham and ask him to say prayers that will cleanse your
mind of such vile thoughts. Robin of Grantchester and Norbert!’
‘It is no worse than you accusing him of courting a pig,’ objected Michael indignantly. ‘And I was not suggesting Norbert
went to see Robin with “amorous intentions”, as you put it. They may have had business to arrange.’
‘Then why did Norbert not knock at the front door, like Robin’s patients do?’ demanded Agatha. ‘You are wrong, Brother. It
was the pig that Norbert went to see.’
‘And this pig is definitely called Helena?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Dympna?’
‘You said Dympna sent Norbert messages,’ said Agatha, giving him a glance that indicated she thought he was short of a few
wits. ‘Pigs do not write. Well, Clippesby says they can but choose not to. He said they dislike the sensation of spilled ink
on their trotters. Do you think he will remain insane for ever, Brother, or will he become as normal as the rest of us one
day?’
‘Lord knows!’ muttered Michael, declining to answer a question that might lead to so many pitfalls. ‘So, what have you heard
about Dympna? You referred to this person as “him”.’
‘I do not know whether it is a man or a woman,’ admitted Agatha. ‘But I have only ever heard him associated with good things
– never bad. That is why I was surprised to hear the name on the lips of a foul beast like that Harysone. What is that egg
doing on the floor?’
Michael retrieved it and began to remove its shell while he pondered what Agatha had told him. Dympna, whoever she – or he
– was, now provided a definite link between Harysone and the dead Norbert, along with the tench Norbert had won. Michael decided
that as soon as Bartholomew had finished his sketch, he would make it a priority to show it to anyone who knew Harysone. The
physician could show it to Philippa and her brother if he liked,
but Michael was certain he would be wasting his time.
‘Did you know Harysone has accused Michaelhouse students of stabbing him?’ he asked casually, aware that such information
would turn Agatha against the pardoner even more.
‘I heard,’ said Agatha shortly. ‘And so did Sheriff Morice. He visited Harysone just after you did, and tried to force him
to make an official complaint. Harysone declined.’
Michael was astonished. ‘Harysone refused to allow the Sheriff to investigate the fact that he was stabbed? Why? I anticipated
we would have problems with that – I thought Morice would claim that it was a town crime, committed against a visitor, and
that the culprits should be turned over to him for sentencing. And you can imagine what would happen then.’ He ate the egg.
Agatha nodded. ‘The scholars would scream that no member of the University should be tried by a secular authority – especially
if the culprit is a friar, as Harysone claims – and there would be a riot. Morice would yield – in return for a certain amount
of University money passed directly to his personal coffers – but the ill feeling between scholars and townsfolk would fester
anyway.’
‘Exactly,’ said Michael, thinking she had summed up the situation very well. ‘But Harysone declined to allow the Sheriff to
look into the matter?’
Agatha pursed her lips. ‘Not because he wanted to avoid riots and mayhem. He said he could not afford a second investigation
by Morice, and I am sure he meant it literally. Anyone who deals with Morice can expect any help to cost him a noble or two.’
Michael sucked egg from his teeth as he stared into the fire and considered. So, it was likely that Harysone
had
paid Morice something when the Sheriff had recovered his stolen gold, and had not received the entire sum back with interest
as he had claimed. But if Harysone’s gold had been honestly won, then he would not have needed to give Morice anything. That
meant Morice had discovered it was not, and
had taken advantage of that fact. Had Harysone stolen the gold from someone else? Or had the Sheriff decided Harysone was
overcharging for his book, and threatened to arrest him for fraud? Michael stood, shaking the eggshells from his habit into
the fire, where they hissed and popped as they were consumed by the flames.
Michael knew Harysone was unlikely to confess to Norbert’s murder if he just marched up to the man and demanded to know whether
he was the owner of the jewelled dagger that was now lost for ever in the river. He decided the best way to gain Harysone’s
confidence would be to act as if he was making a serious attempt to find whoever had stabbed him – to present him with a culprit
and show that justice would be done. Harysone would be impressed that the University took accusations of assault seriously,
and that it, unlike Morice, did not charge for its services. Once he had the pardoner’s trust. Michael would be in a position
to talk to the man, in the hope that he could be tricked, flattered or cajoled into saying something incriminating.
The first thing the monk needed to do, therefore, was identify the Michaelhouse friars who had been in the King’s Head when
Harysone was demonstrating his dancing skills. It would not be difficult: Father William and his five students were the only
Franciscans in the College. William had already ‘broken’ his leg when Harysone was attacked, and everyone knew he had not
set foot outside since. That left his students, all of whom might very well have enjoyed an illicit drink in a tavern, although
Michael could not see any of them knifing a man in the back.
It was almost dusk, and time for the evening meal, so the monk enjoyed his chicken, egg and custard first, then approached
the Franciscans as they were heading to the conclave for an evening of entertainment organised by Deynman.
‘We are growing bored with the Waits,’ grumbled Ulfrid, when the monk asked why the students were reluctant to
follow Deynman that evening. ‘Makejoy can dance, and Yna and Jestyn can juggle, but Frith is dire with the pipe and tabor.’
His fellow Franciscans gathered around, pleased by an opportunity that would excuse them from the dull festivities for a little
longer.
‘Frith is a poor musician,’ agreed Michael, which was damning indeed coming from a man whose standards were based on the Michaelhouse
choir. ‘He cannot hold a beat with his drum, and his piping is noise rather than proper tunes. His “Kalenda Maya” was unrecognisable
last night.’
‘We have had nothing but tumbling and juggling for days now,’ Ulfrid continued bitterly. His friends murmured their agreement.
‘We want something else. Christmas is a time for things like closh, kayles and quoits, not sitting around indoors watching
Waits.’
‘You cannot bowl on snow, which eliminates kayles,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And you would lose your horseshoes and balls if
you were to try quoits or closh. But there is always the camp-ball tomorrow to look forward to. And then there are the First
Day of the Year games, where there will be ice-camping, wrestling, tilting and all manner of fun.’
‘I suppose,’ conceded Ulfrid reluctantly. ‘But we should have voted for Gray. He is more imaginative than Deynman.’
‘Deynman said he paid in advance for the Waits, so he wants his money’s worth out of them,’ said another of the novices, a
prematurely balding youth with a square jaw who possessed the unlikely name of Zebedee.
‘The Waits are getting their money’s worth out of us,’ muttered Ulfrid bitterly. He turned to Michael. ‘I caught Frith leaving
my room this morning, and later I could not find some pennies I’d left there. I cannot say for certain that he took them,
but I am suspicious.’
‘Deynman is a fool to retain their services,’ agreed Zebedee. ‘Agatha said things have gone from the kitchen, too – a pewter
spoon, a glass dish for salt, a brass skewer. Little, unimportant items that you do not miss until they cannot be found.’
Ulfrid frowned in puzzlement. ‘But, conversely, Cynric accidentally left the College silver out after the Christmas Day feast,
and it sat unmolested for a whole day before it was returned to the chest in Langelee’s room. Frith could have had that easily,
yet he did not touch it.’
‘And William has three gold nobles that he always leaves in full view on his windowsill,’ added Zebedee. ‘They are worth six
shillings and eightpence each, and it would be a simple matter for someone to reach in and grab them. I know Frith has seen
them, and there have been plenty of opportunities when they could have been his. But he ignores them.’
‘Then perhaps we are misjudging him,’ suggested Michael. ‘It is easy to think the worst of people we do not know, and the
fact that he is able to resist gold nobles and silver plates tells me he is probably not interested in pennies and salt dishes.
But there is another matter I would like you to help me with. It involves the King’s Head.’