‘You had no idea about any of this?’ asked Michael of Abigny.
Abigny’s face hardened. ‘I did not. I came on this wretched pilgrimage because I sensed Philippa might need a friend. I had
no idea Turke was being blackmailed by Fiscurtune’s son, nor that Fiscurtune had kin in Cambridge – except Frith, of course.
Seeing him juggling in Michaelhouse gave me a nasty turn, I can tell you!’
‘So, you did know the Waits?’ asked Michael, looking from Philippa to Abigny.
Philippa nodded. ‘I recognised Frith immediately, and I was horrified that they might be in Cambridge to make trouble for
Walter, to tell folk he was a murderer. That was why I told you the reason for the pilgrimage – in case Frith mentioned it
first.’
‘I assumed the same,’ added Abigny. ‘But I did not imagine for a moment they intended to kill Walter. I thought
they were just going to embarrass the man. In case you have not guessed, Walter’s violent past was the reason neither of
us wanted you to look into his death. You knew he murdered Fiscurtune, but not that he had killed Isabella, too. What would
Edith have thought if she had learned about that monstrous act?’
‘Walter recognised the Waits, too,’ said Philippa. ‘And he was aware that when he murdered Fiscurtune he had also destroyed
their friend in high places. That was why he was so keen to accept Edith’s invitation – to escape from their company in the
King’s Head.’
‘You lied about the scars on Turke’s legs,’ said Bartholomew to Philippa. ‘You knew how he came by them.’
Philippa nodded. ‘But it was not my secret to tell. It would not have been fair to mention it when Walter was not here to
tell his own side of the story.’
‘His own side was that he wanted to save himself,’ muttered Abigny, ‘and that he did not care how. I admire you for your loyalty,
Philippa, but even you must see it is grossly misplaced. I know you take your oath of wifely obedience seriously, but I do
not think it should include helping a husband evade justice as a murderer or acting as messenger between him and his blackmailer.’
‘I swore a sacred oath when I married Walter,’ said Philippa tearfully. ‘In a church. How can I ask God to bless me with children
when I break the vows I made in His house?’
‘You met Harysone in the King’s Head, Giles,’ said Michael in the silence that followed. ‘Did you not recognise him as Fiscurtune
the younger?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Abigny bitterly. ‘Or I might have been able to help Philippa sooner. As I told you, I bought the
book for her to present to the Fraternity of Fishmongers in Walter’s memory. Offering tokens to commemorate dead husbands
is a tradition for widows in Chepe. That is what you saw me doing with “Harysone” in the King’s Head – negotiating a price.
I met him three times before a bargain
was struck. He was so sure I did not know who he was that he even danced for me.’
Bartholomew recalled the Waits mentioning someone in a cloak and a hat, who had continued to watch Harysone’s dancing after
the ‘other’ pardoners had left. His old roommate was right: Harysone had been so confident of his disguise that he had been
quite happy to meet all manner of people he knew – even his own kin.
‘So, how did you know we were here, of all places?’ asked Michael, gesturing around the stables.
‘Cynric said Matt had stayed here, searching for clues to your whereabouts. Agatha offered to come with me, because she said
I might need a mighty right arm. When we arrived, we heard you talking, and the rest you know.’
Agatha indicated the still figure on the ground with a jerk of her thumb. ‘I did not hit him that hard. Why does he not stir?
Is it because he has damaged the balance of his humours with all that vulgar jigging and writhing?’ She shuddered in distaste
at the memory of Harysone’s dancing.
‘Your right arm is mightier than you think,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But he will recover.’
‘Pity,’ muttered Michael.
‘I do not want to be here when he does,’ said Philippa, clutching Abigny’s arm. ‘Our bags are packed
and I want to leave this town.’ She watched expressionlessly as Michael retrieved Dympna from the corner and prepared to take
it to Kenyngham.
‘That was well timed,’ said Frith, entering the stable with a smile. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched in horror. ‘We have just
purchased our freedom and have been given until nightfall to leave. Cambridge is an expensive town with Morice in charge,
but at least justice can be bought.’
Jestyn, Makejoy and Yna were behind Frith, and all were armed with crossbows. As in the conclave, Frith’s accomplices were
nervous and unhappy.
‘And how did
you
know we were here?’ Bartholomew asked them in a tired, hoarse voice.
‘We followed Agatha,’ said Frith, giving the laundress a nasty smile. ‘She was bellowing to Abigny, so half the town knows
her plans.’ His fingers flexed, and Bartholomew saw he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the thump she had given him in the
Market Square during the camp-ball. She glowered at him furiously, her eyes glittering with menace. Bartholomew thought Frith
would be wise to dispatch her first if he did not want to risk another beating.
Rashly, the Wait turned his back on her. ‘I do not intend to leave empty-handed, so we will have the chest, please. And then
the rest of you can climb into that cellar, where I may light a fire to keep you warm.’
‘Fire?’ asked Abigny in alarm. ‘But there are no windows. We would suffocate!’
‘Quite,’ agreed Frith coolly. ‘But do not be frightened. It is not as unpleasant as death by a crossbow quarrel, which is
the alternative for anyone declining to obey me. Now, move!’ His voice was hard.
‘No,’ said Jestyn uneasily, dropping his weapon. ‘I want no part of this. We have only just escaped with our necks unstretched,
and we will not be so lucky next time, especially now we have no friends to shield us. Morice will not help us again, and
Dunstan and Athelbald, who took care of the various items we accumulated here, are dead.’
Bartholomew gaped at them. ‘It was the
rivermen
who helped you dispose of your stolen goods in Cambridge?’ He suddenly recalled the inkpot that the dead Athelbald had clutched
in his frozen fingers, and realised he should have questioned at the time why an illiterate man possessed an item usually
owned by scholars and clerks.
Jestyn nodded. ‘Father Ailred arranged it all. He said the money the old men earned from working for us would help them survive
the winter. They were very good, too, because they knew so many people. It is a pity they both died so suddenly. Father Ailred
was very upset.’
‘Enough chatter,’ said Frith sharply. ‘We need to take the chest, set the fire and be gone.’ He advanced on Agatha,
but changed his mind when he saw her fists clench, and turned on Bartholomew instead. The physician felt a sharp jab as the
tip of quarrel went through his clothes. ‘What will it be, Michaelhouse man? Stabbing or choking?’
‘Frith? Is that you?’ Harysone’s muffled voice came from the floor, and Bartholomew saw him ease himself up. Agatha’s blow
had knocked the false teeth from his mouth, and he had already pulled off his beard. He looked very different without his
disguise – older, fatter-faced and more sinister.
Frith gasped in surprise when he recognised his cousin, and Bartholomew considered making a grab for the Wait’s weapon while
his attention was distracted, but Frith recovered himself quickly and moved out of reach.
‘John? What are you doing here?’
‘Turke,’ said Harysone, clinging to his cousin as he clambered to his feet, wincing and holding
his head. ‘I was going to kill him myself, but you were there first.’
‘Liar!’ cried Philippa. ‘You were—’
‘Thrust these meddling souls into the cellar,’ interrupted Harysone before she could reveal
that killing Turke had played no part in his plans. ‘Then set the fire and let us be gone. Hurry, Jestyn.’
‘No,’ said Jestyn again, exchanging a glance with the two women. ‘We will lock no one in the cellar, and we want none of that
tainted gold. We are leaving – alone.’
Frith’s face was a mask of fury. ‘You will do as we say, or you will join this motley crowd choking in the ground.’
Harysone ignored the quarrelling Waits and calmly reached for the chest. Then, before anyone could stop him, he had snatched
it up and darted away. Frith abandoned his squabble with Jestyn and followed with a bellow of rage, leaving the others gazing
after them in astonishment.
‘I thought he was dazed,’ said Makejoy stupidly. ‘He could barely stand.’
‘That is what he wanted you to think,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘After him!’
The Waits had brought four horses when they had stopped at the friary stables, and Frith and Harysone were already mounted
on two of them. They pushed and pulled at each other, as Frith tried to grab the chest from his cousin and Harysone fought
to keep possession of it. They galloped across the main road, then down a lane that ran along the side of Peterhouse and towards
the river. It was not the direction Bartholomew would have chosen to make a successful getaway, and he saw their attention
was wholly focused on each other and Dympna. The people they had been threatening to kill were entirely forgotten.
Bartholomew raced after them, but had no idea what he would do if he caught them. Both were armed and dangerous, and he did
not have so much as a surgical blade with him. But he ran, nevertheless, hearing the others pounding after him – the lighter
footsteps of Abigny and Philippa, and the heavier ones of Agatha and Michael. The remaining Waits did not follow. They took
the opportunity to escape, Jestyn on one pony and the two women on the other.
Bartholomew reached the river, and saw the two men still fighting and shoving each other as they fought to gain possession
of the box. Their jerky movements were frightening the horses, which pranced and lurched, uncertain which direction they were
supposed to take. In the end, Harysone’s turned right, and started cantering towards the Small Bridges and the Mill Pool.
Frith followed hard on its heels, and Bartholomew ran after them, doggedly trying to catch up.
The cousins reached the larger of the Small Bridges, where Frith managed to spur his mount ahead, so he and Harysone were
riding neck and neck as they thundered forward. Fortunately, no one else was using the bridge at that point, or he would have
been trampled.
Frith finally managed to secure a grip on Dympna, and ripped it from Harysone’s hands. With a scream of fury, Harysone lunged
after it, both hands reaching for the box.
His flying leap knocked Frith from his saddle, and both men went tumbling over the side of the bridge. There was a thump,
followed by a series of cracking and popping sounds.
Bartholomew reached the bridge, gasping for breath, and peered over the edge just in time to see the two men sprawled on the
ice, still struggling over the box. Then the ice opened into a great black hole, and men and chest disappeared from view.
The water frothed for a moment, then became calm, until all that was left was a dark, jagged hole, a short distance from the
one that had claimed Ailred. Bartholomew saw a hand break the surface, before slowly sinking out of sight amid a circle of
gentle ripples.
T
HREE DAYS LATER, BARTHOLOMEW AND MICHAEL SAT SIDE
by side on the trunk of an old apple tree that had fallen in the orchard. The day was unseasonably mild,
and the blizzards of the previous weeks seemed a distant memory. The sun shone, albeit weakly, and Bartholomew could feel
its gentle warmth through his winter cloak. Most of the snow had gone, although several of the larger and deeper drifts remained,
like the vast mound outside Bene’t College on the High Street.
A gentle breeze blew, rustling the dry grass and bringing the smell of the marshes that lay to the north. Bartholomew felt
as though his life was finally returning to normal. The Lord of Misrule had been replaced with Master Langelee, Quenhyth’s
‘stolen’ scrip had been found behind his bed, lectures were under way, and there were disputations to arrange and patients
to see. He was sad that Dunstan and Athelbald were not among them, despite learning about their hitherto unknown penchant
for peddling stolen goods for itinerant jugglers.
‘Two bodies were found in the river near Chesterton village today,’ said Michael, turning his flabby face to catch some of
the sun’s rays. ‘I rode out to view them and they belonged to Frith and Harysone, as I expected. We found Ailred’s corpse
in much the same place the day before.’
‘There was no sign of the chest?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael shook his head. ‘I imagine that sank where it fell. The bottom
of the Mill Pool is the best place for it. It is safe there.’
‘Until the weather grows warmer. Then people will start to dive for it.’
‘They will not find it,’ said Michael. ‘The pond is lined with deep mud, and the only way to retrieve the coins will be to
drain the whole thing. That may happen one day, but I doubt it will happen in our lifetime.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Kenyngham was right: Dympna may have been set up to do good, but it corrupted people.
Thick and inaccessible mud will stop it from doing so again.’
‘Speaking of corruption, Morice resigned today. People are angry that he never arranged another game of camp-ball, and claim
he delayed just to keep the prize money for himself.’
‘He did,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that anyone should need to voice the obvious.
‘Dick Tulyet has agreed to stand in until someone else can be appointed. I hope it takes a long time for a suitable replacement
to be found. We cannot have a better man than Dick.’
They were silent for a while, watching the sun playing through the winter branches of the fruit trees and listening to the
distant sounds of the town. A dog yapped in the High Street, and a cart lumbered slowly along the rutted mud of St Michael’s
Lane, which lay just over the wall. A man shouted something about a horse, and the gentle grunt of pigs could just be heard
as they were driven towards the Market Square.
‘Turke was a nasty man,’ said Bartholomew at last. ‘His failure to help Isabella escape from the frozen River Thames started
all this. Fiscurtune and Ailred allowed him to buy their silence when they should have denounced him, and the hatred Turke
felt towards the men who could damage him eventually led him to stab Fiscurtune in a brawl.’
‘Do not forget Fiscurtune was not exactly an angel, either. He developed his salting method, but it did not work – as we saw
with Norbert’s tench – and Turke was probably right to prevent him from inflicting it on his customers. Also, Fiscurtune was
quite happy to be paid for his silence over
Isabella, and so was Ailred. The records I examined with Godric yesterday indicate that Turke’s money has kept Ovyng afloat
for years.’
‘I still do not understand why Turke was willing to dispense with his saintly finger,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why did he not keep
it for himself? He was a man who liked material wealth.’
‘It was stolen property,’ said Michael. ‘I asked the Dominicans to investigate it, and they learned that St Zeno’s finger
was taken from a Carmelite chapel in London some years ago. A likely thief was caught and relieved of a thumb, but the relic
itself was never recovered.’
‘Gosslinge took it?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment.
‘So it would seem. I imagine he stole it on Turke’s instructions,
and the resulting punishment put Turke under a certain obligation to him. But the net was closing, and the Carmelites were
already on the relic’s trail. By handing it to Michaelhouse, Turke paid Gosslinge’s expenses with something he was going to
lose anyway. I suppose if anyone had demanded to know how it came to be in his possession, he would have said it belonged
to Gosslinge, and that he knew nothing about its origins.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘Godric found it among some reeds when he was looking for Ailred’s body. The Carmelites paid him a
princely sum for its safe return and Ovyng Hostel now has fuel and food aplenty.’
‘I did not think for a moment it was a real relic. I always thought it was Gosslinge’s thumb.’
Michael shuddered. ‘That would have been perverted, Matt! Men do not adorn themselves with the severed digits of their servants.
Even fishmongers from Chepe.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘Speaking of perversions, Agatha claimed Norbert visited Robin’s pig,
to bestow affections on it. But, of course, Norbert was not visiting the pig at all. He was slipping into Robin’s house by
the back door, hoping to persuade him to extend the loan Dympna had made.’
‘But Norbert could not have known Robin was a member of Dympna,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know Robin was the man who dispensed
agreed funds – and so was the person the successful applicants met – but Norbert had been turned down by the official Dympna.
By the time Norbert had his loan, Ailred was being helped by Frith.’
‘No. Ailred was making illegal loans before Frith arrived. Frith only became involved when Kenyngham discovered what had been
happening, and set his ultimatum for Ailred to retrieve what had been lost.’
‘So, Ailred used Robin to dispense the illicit loans?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And Robin was blithely unaware of the fact that
these were made without the consent of Dick and Kenyngham? I suppose that makes sense from the things they all told us.’
‘Robin should have mentioned Norbert’s visits,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘He has been apologetic ever since, but we would
have solved his murder sooner had everyone been honest.’
‘William persuaded his Prior to declare Harysone’s book heretical,’ said Bartholomew, after a pause. ‘Anyone owning a copy
is obliged to take it to the Franciscan Friary, where it will be burned. I do not approve of incinerating books, even ones
like Harysone’s.’
‘I would normally concur, but Harysone’s was worse than heretical: it was full of errors and insulting to its readers. The
world will not suffer from the loss of that particular tome. Indeed, I imagine it will be a good deal better off: someone
like Deynman might have read it and thought it was true. It would not do for him to live the rest of his life imagining God
as a gigantic pike.’
Bartholomew laughed, then became serious. ‘Harysone said he sent a message to Ailred, telling him he was coming to Cambridge.
I think if Ailred had received that missive, the case would have ended very differently – especially for him. He and Frith
would not have murdered Turke, but would have gone along with Harysone’s plan to continue
blackmailing him. Ailred would have used his share of the money to repay the bad loans he had made, and Kenyngham would have
forgotten the whole mess.’
‘Harysone
claimed
he sent a note,’ said Michael. ‘But there is nothing to say he was telling the truth. He was probably lying, as he lied about
everything else.’
‘You were right about him. He did come here intending mischief.’
‘I knew it as soon as I clapped eyes on the fellow,’ declared Michael. ‘I have dealt with too many murderers and malcontents
not to be able to identify a criminal when I see one. I should have told Sergeant Orwelle to deny him permission to enter
the town. Then matters would have turned out differently.’
‘But not much. Ailred and Frith would still have killed Turke, and Gosslinge would still have choked on vellum.’
‘We were correct to be suspicious about the deaths of Turke and Gosslinge. I thought Turke’s demise was odd, and you thought
it strange that Turke and his servant should die in such quick succession. We were both right. You were also correct in believing
Norbert’s death was linked to Turke’s: if Turke had not gone looking for the murder weapon, he might never have provided Frith
and Ailred with a chance to force him on to thin ice.’
‘And we were right to think fish was a strand that tied the whole thing together,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Norbert’s tench, won
from Harysone in a bet, was badly salted; bad salting was what initiated the final quarrel between Turke and Fiscurtune; and
Harysone was a fishmonger, but his business – and his inheritance – were lost to Turke’s Fraternity of Fishmongers’ machinations.
However, Quenhyth being the son of a fishmonger was merely coincidence.’
‘Harysone wrote that dreadful treatise about fish, and the very name “Fiscurtune” should have alerted us to the connection
much sooner. Also, we should have noticed that both Frith and Ailred professed to hail from the vicinity of Lincoln.’
‘Lincoln is a large city, Brother. It might have been a spurious link. But, although we may have been right about many things,
we made mistakes, too.’
‘You mean like you telling me Gosslinge had died from the cold, when he had in fact choked to death? Or you assuming Turke’s
death was an accident when he had actually been murdered?’
Bartholomew winced. ‘Actually, I was thinking about Harysone. You were convinced he played a role in Gosslinge’s death, but
he did not. Your feral belief was wrong.’
‘Only in the details,’ retorted Michael. ‘I was wrong about which particular crime Harysone committed, but I was right in
my assumption that he was guilty of something.’
‘We made a mistake with Giles as well. We thought he was involved in something sinister, but he was not. The few times he
did venture out on his painful feet were to buy a book on Philippa’s behalf, to indulge an idle and harmless curiosity about
Dympna, or to arrange for Turke’s embalming. And when he was so clearly relieved to hear us say we would not investigate Turke’s
odd death, it was not because he had a hand in it, but because he did not want his sister distressed. He was being kind.’
‘He was being a fool,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘He allowed Philippa to borrow his cloak and that silly feathered hat without
asking why. All this relates to your observation about distinguishing features – you said a really prominent characteristic
will mask all else, and Philippa used Giles’s hat to do just that. Harysone knew about distinguishing features, too, and adopted
those teeth. His disguise fooled his kinsmen, as well as Giles. It was a pity Philippa was not more skilled in the use of
her dagger. If she had stabbed Harysone properly, then he would not have dragged his cousin to a watery grave or locked me
in a damp cellar for so many hours.’
‘Matilde was right and wrong, too. She knew there was something sad about Philippa, which was correct, but it had nothing
to do with love, as she surmised.’
‘And we were definitely wrong about Dunstan and Athelbald,’ said Michael, chuckling fondly. ‘I still cannot believe they were
so deeply involved in the case. The old devils! Still, it is good they had the last laugh. I shall miss them.’
‘So shall I,’ said Bartholomew quietly.
Michael nudged him in the ribs, wanting to dispel the sudden pall of gloom that had descended on them. ‘There is another thing:
I know the identity of the rogue who fashioned that wicked but very clever model of William out of marchpane.’
‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Oh, yes. There is only one man in the College who has a talent for drawing and other
artistry, and a pair of skilled hands.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘However, I did not know the thing was disguised under all those veils purporting to be
the Virgin, nor that the marchpane was made from salt, so do not blame me for either of those.’
‘You must have known about the salt,’ said Michael in disbelief. ‘Do not tell me you did not take a bite when you were labouring
over those details!’
‘I am not you, Brother. Gorging myself on the marchpane Gray provided for his prank did not cross my mind. Supposing there
was not enough to finish it properly?’
Both scholars looked up when the latch on the orchard gate clanked, heralding the arrival of someone else. It was Philippa,
leaning on her brother’s arm and escorted by Cynric. Unfortunately, the sudden thaw had confounded the embalmer’s calculations,
and the resulting problems with Turke’s body had kept her and Abigny in Cambridge longer than they had intended.
‘We have come to say our farewells at last,’ said Abigny, leaning against the wall. He was smiling, and Bartholomew saw again
the carefree young man with whom he had once shared a room. A great weight had been lifted from Abigny. ‘We are going to Walsingham,
to complete our pilgrimage.
Personally, I would be just as happy to go home, but northward we shall venture.’
‘What about Turke?’ asked Michael baldly. ‘Will you leave him here while he rots?’
Philippa winced. ‘I wanted to take him with us. It was his pilgrimage, after all, and I think he needs to complete it. But
the embalmer says he will not last, so we have compromised.’ She held a small box in her hands, which she passed to Bartholomew.
‘What is it?’ It was heavily sealed, so he could not open it.
‘Walter’s heart. We will carry it to Walsingham and leave it there. Meanwhile, young Quenhyth is going home to make peace
with his father over the misunderstanding with the Waits and the chalice he accused them of stealing. He has offered to accompany
the rest of Walter to Chepe. It is very kind of him.’
‘Very,’ said Bartholomew, shoving the box back at her with some distaste. ‘Quenhyth will take good care of Walter. The lad
has his faults, but unreliability and carelessness are not among them.’