‘Thank you, Matthew,’ said William, relieved. ‘But I still mean what I said about Bradwardine. The next time I require your
confidential services, you will be getting Sutton.’
‘Look at this, Matt,’ said Michael, proffering a piece of parchment.
‘It is the list of loans made by Dympna since its origins during the plague,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at it. His eyes strayed
back to the much more tempting words of Bradwardine. ‘I saw it yesterday, when Frith had us trapped in the conclave.’
‘I have been going over it with Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘Ailred made loans totalling almost ten pounds over the last few
weeks. Some money has been repaid, but most has not. Norbert was lent three pounds, eight shillings and fourpence, which was
the amount mentioned on the note we found inside Gosslinge. Meanwhile one pound, thirteen shillings and fourpence, the amount
on the note Quenhyth found in Frith’s belongings, was demanded from him the day he died.’
‘So, you were right about the “missing hour” in Norbert’s last night,’ said William. ‘He left Ovyng and went to St Michael’s
to meet Dympna, who was actually Frith. It was only after that he went to the King’s Head, where he stayed for the rest of
the evening.’
‘He left the tavern at midnight and was stabbed on the way home,’ said Michael. ‘By Frith, I imagine, because he failed to
bring money for Dympna, yet promptly went to a tavern and bought ale and a woman. But Norbert’s is not the only name next
to an amount that is outstanding.’
Michael looked pleased with himself, and the physician knew why. ‘Harysone’s is there.’
Michael was crestfallen. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I noticed it yesterday. You must be happy: you have been looking for an
opportunity like this ever since he arrived.’
‘It is enough for me to expel him from the town if he refuses to pay. I am going to see him now, in the King’s Head. Come
with me.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want to help you victimise a man who has done nothing but borrow money. You had
him marked down as involved in the deaths of Gosslinge, Norbert and Turke at various stages of the investigation, and you
were wrong.’
‘He borrowed two pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence.’ Michael grinned with delight. ‘And that is what he must pay me
today, or he can leave my town. I do not want debtors here: we have enough of our own.’
‘But if you send him away, Dympna will never be repaid.’
Michael sat on the windowsill and folded his arms. ‘You think I am
unreasonable, but I do not trust that man. He has done nothing illegal – at least, nothing that I know about – but it is only
a matter of time before he does. I want him gone. Trust me, Matt. I am not often wrong about these things.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, rising reluctantly and placing his new book on a shelf. He glared at William. ‘Your splint
can come off soon, and then
you
can trail around after the Senior Proctor like a performing bear.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said William. He cast a disparaging look at the Bradwardine. ‘I would rather be evicting pardoners from taverns
than listening to theories about things that push and pull, anyway.’
‘Do not hurry on my account,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew as they started to walk to the High Street, Bartholomew still
fastening the clasp on his cloak. ‘It has been a pleasant relief to be rid of him for a while, although my fines chest is
not what it was. You can let him malinger
a little longer, so he has his money’s worth for the book he gave you. You are as bad as Morice – prepared to sell your soul
for material goods. But speak of the Devil and he will appear.’
Sheriff Morice was riding along the High Street on his handsome grey horse. His saddle gleamed expensively, and his fur-lined
cloak was thick and heavy. His lieutenants flanked him, gaudy, fluttering hens around a strutting peacock. Morice was in the
very centre of the road, where he was least likely to be deluged by the snow that still dropped from roofs. He rode carelessly,
making no attempt to steer around other folk, and anyone who did not move was casually trampled.
‘I have just seen some students in the King’s Head,’ he announced to Michael, reining in and gazing with brazen disdain at
the monk. ‘I ordered them out, but they informed me I had no jurisdiction over them. I want them imprisoned and fined for
insolence.’
‘What are their names?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘I did not bother to find out,’ said Morice nastily. ‘I have better things to
do than engage in conversation with a group of ill-mannered louts who think a Franciscan habit gives them leave to insult
the Sheriff.’
‘I am on my way to the King’s Head now,’ said Michael, patting Morice’s elegantly clad leg patronisingly. ‘Do not worry; I
will show them who is master. But what were you doing in such a disreputable institution? I hear there are some illegal gambling
games scheduled in the King’s Head this week. Were you planning to take part?’
‘I do not gamble in taverns,’ snapped Morice, leaving everyone who heard him with the impression that he gambled elsewhere.
‘I was visiting a man named Harysone. Complaints have been filed against him for licentious dancing, so I was obliged to demand
a fine of two shillings.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘I hope he paid, because I am about to order him to leave Cambridge. He has borrowed funds
from a charitable chest, and if he does not
have the money to give me now, he will be escorted to the town gates tomorrow at dawn.’
‘If he goes, he will never repay this charity,’ said Morice, obviously regarding financial considerations first and foremost.
‘But he may have sold enough books to make a respectable profit, so perhaps you will be in luck. Deal with those students,
though, Brother, or I shall be obliged to teach them a lesson myself.’
He spurred his horse into a rapid trot, scattering people and animals as he went. His men cantered after him, following his
cavalier example.
When Bartholomew and Michael reached the King’s Head, a celebration was in progress. People were laughing and singing, and
there was an atmosphere of gaiety. Michael looked around him in astonishment, while Bartholomew entered with a degree of unease,
sensing something had happened that might mean scholars were unwelcome. But they were greeted with pleasure by Isnard the
bargeman, who sang bass in Michael’s choir. He clapped a large, calloused hand across Michael’s shoulders and passed the monk
his goblet. Michael accepted a drink cautiously.
The main room was full, and fires were burning in both hearths. All the shutters were firmly closed, but this was common practice
in the King’s Head, where the patrons did not want their activities observed by Sheriff’s men or beadles peering through the
windows. The air smelled of wood-smoke, spilled ale and unwashed bodies, and was close and humid. Bartholomew felt himself
begin to sweat. A group of pardoners sat near one fire, Harysone among them, while Ovyng’s Franciscans were standing around
the hearth at the opposite end of the room. Godric seemed to be the centre of the general bonhomie.
‘That Godric is a fine lad!’ slurred Isnard, eyeing the friar fondly.
Bartholomew watched with amusement as he saw Godric glance in Michael’s direction, look away, then back again
with an expression of horror. He nudged his companions, who all hastily downed the remains of their ale and headed for the
door, pursued by disappointed cries from their drinking companions.
‘Godric,’ said Michael pleasantly, stopping the young friar in his tracks. ‘A word, please.’
‘It was not my fault,’ said Godric immediately. A chorus of support from his cronies told Michael that was true.
‘Morice complained about you,’ said Michael. ‘He wants you arrested and fined.’
‘Never!’ declared Isnard warmly, removing his arm from Michael and draping it around Godric. ‘This good priest told that leech
where to go, and we will not see him fined for his courage. Will we, lads?’ There were loud shouts of agreement. ‘Morice prances
in here and starts demanding money for all manner of imagined crimes. He ordered me to pay sixpence because my donkey fouled
the Great Bridge, but look what
he
did!’
Bartholomew and Michael followed his accusing finger to a pile of fresh horse dung that sat in splendid isolation in the centre
of the room.
‘Morice rode his horse inside the tavern?’ asked Michael in astonishment.
‘Either that or he should lay off the hay,’ muttered Bartholomew. He had not intended his comment to be overheard, but Isnard
caught it, and repeated it in a braying voice to the delight of the other patrons. More back-slapping followed, and it was
declared that scholars were splendid fellows, and worthy company for honest townsmen.
‘He fined Harysone for dancing – two shillings!’ added Isnard when the levity had died down. ‘Mind you, Harysone’s jigs do
verge on the obscene, so I cannot blame the Sheriff for that. But when Morice tried to fine Godric for being in a tavern the
lad pointed out the law regarding scholars, and sent him away with something to think about.’
‘I was not abusive,’ said Godric quickly. ‘I just pointed out that clerics are under your authority, not his. I will pay
you
the four pennies he demanded. But we will not pay him.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ announced Michael to more cheers. He lowered his voice so the townsmen would not hear. ‘But
this tavern is no place for scholars, lad. Go home, and do not let me find you here again.’ He caught Godric’s arm as he made
to leave. ‘I do not suppose you have heard from your principal?’
Godric gave a rueful smile. ‘Do you think we would be here if he was back? Anyway, I have already promised we will send you
word if he returns. Ailred needs more help than we can give him, so you can rely on us to contact you.’
‘But we do not believe him to be guilty,’ added one of the students. ‘We talked about it all last night. He may have made
mistakes with this charity – Dympna – but we do not think he killed Norbert.’
‘He is a desperate man,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And desperate men are often driven to do things they would never normally
contemplate.’
‘He may have been desperate, but he was not wicked,’ insisted Godric loyally. ‘I went through the hostel’s finances last night,
and do you know why we have been shivering in front of mean fires and eating bad fish all week? It is because Ailred gathered
together all the funds he could find, and bought food and firewood to make Dunstan’s last few days comfortable.’
‘That was from Dympna,’ said Michael. ‘Robin of Grantchester organised its delivery, as he did with its other loans and gifts.’
Godric shook his head vehemently. ‘I have the receipts for every item of food and every scrap of fuel that Dunstan received.
They match outgoing sums from our own accounts – along with money Ailred had from selling a silver locket that belonged to
a brother called John.’
Fiscurtune’s locket, thought Bartholomew immediately. Since it was evident Ailred had loved his brother, selling something
that had belonged to him would not have been easy.
‘You said you did not know whether Ailred had any male kin,’ he said to Godric.
‘I did not,’ replied Godric. He gestured to one of his colleagues. ‘But he mentioned a brother called John to Nathan here.
It was Nathan who sold the locket on Ailred’s behalf the day Athelbald died.’
‘He was fond of that trinket,’ added Nathan. ‘But he parted with it to help Dunstan. He is not a wicked man.’
Michael released Godric’s arm, and watched the Franciscans troop out of the tavern, accepting the congratulations of delighted
townsfolk as they went. They were a serious, sober group, and Bartholomew wondered why they did not prefer the quieter atmosphere
of a tavern like the Brazen George or the Swan. He supposed it was because the King’s Head was outside the town gates, so
they were less likely to be caught there by other members of their Order.
Michael strolled nonchalantly towards Harysone, and Bartholomew was amused to see the pardoner’s companions hastily slip away,
reluctant to be with the man while he had yet another brush with town officials. The monk plumped himself down in a recently
vacated chair and beamed alarmingly. Bartholomew sat next to him, while Isnard and the others went back to their ale.
‘You owe Dympna a lot of money,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘When can you pay?’
‘Never mind that,’ said Harysone indignantly. ‘I was stabbed in the back by the Franciscan friars you just spoke to. Why did
you not arrest them?’
‘There is no evidence those particular clerics harmed you,’ said Michael. ‘And I am far more interested in the fact that you
owe Dympna three pounds. I repeat: when can you pay?’
‘It was two pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence,’ said Harysone immediately. He did not seem surprised by Michael’s demand,
and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been anticipating it. ‘I will pay you next week, since I will have sold enough books
by then. However, I did not
expect a request for repayment quite so soon. Loans are usually made for longer periods.’
‘Your particular transaction was illegal,’ said Michael. ‘Father Ailred is ill, and made some poor decisions. When exactly
did he make this loan to you?’
‘He gave me the money last Wednesday evening,’ replied Harysone. ‘I was surprised by the speed at which he obliged me. It
is the only good thing I have to say about your town: your moneylenders make rapid decisions. The interest was a little high,
but I suppose haste costs.’
‘Interest?’ asked Michael. ‘Dympna does not charge interest. That is its appeal.’
‘Well, it charged me,’ said Harysone firmly. ‘I borrowed two pounds, but agreed to pay two pounds, thirteen shillings and
fourpence by the end of next month. By loaning me six marks, Ailred was going to gain another two.’
‘And you paid Langelee for the relic two days later, on the Friday,’ said Bartholomew to Harysone, who nodded. The physician
leaned close to Michael and spoke in a low voice. ‘Ailred must have been trying to recoup his losses by charging interest.
But although Harysone’s tale answers one question, it raises another. It explains why Ailred lied about his whereabouts the
night the intruders entered St Michael’s: he was busy making an illegal loan. However, by last week, Kenyngham had already
reclaimed Dympna and had stored it in Michaelhouse, so where did this two pounds come from?’