A Killer in Winter (29 page)

Ulfrid was suddenly the recipient of a lot of stares that were far from friendly, and he squirmed uncomfortably. ‘You did
not have to come,’ he blurted defensively, glaring back at his colleagues. ‘You could have stayed in the Swan.’

‘We could not let you go on your own,’ said Zebedee. ‘What if Godric and the others had not turned up? You would have been
alone in an apprentice-filled tavern.’

‘Godric from Ovyng?’ asked Michael. ‘You went to the King’s Head to meet him?’

‘Now look what you have done.’ Ulfrid rounded on his friend. ‘You have dragged Godric into trouble, too, and he has enough
to worry about, what with the Tulyets not giving his hostel any more money, and Ailred fretting over this Norbert business.’

Michael crossed his arms and listened. Questions he would have asked were answered by the bickering students without any intervention
on his part. He learned that the Michaelhouse Franciscans preferred to drink their illicit ale in the Swan, which was quieter
and more peaceful than most
of the town’s inns, while the Ovyng Franciscans favoured the noisy, lively atmosphere of the King’s Head. The students of
most Colleges and hostels tended not to mix, but the building Ovyng used was owned by Michaelhouse, and the Franciscans were
on friendly terms with each other, occasionally meeting for a companionable drink.

Early on the night Norbert had been killed it had been Godric’s turn to buy the ale, and he had suggested the King’s Head
as the venue. The Michaelhouse lads had demurred, nervous of patronising such a disreputable place at a busy time like Christmas,
but Ulfrid had later decided to go anyway, if only to tell Godric not to expect them. Reluctantly, the others had gone with
him, but it had been their first and last visit. Ulfrid had won some dice in a bet with the boastful Harysone, and they had
all witnessed the pardoner’s individual dancing style. However, although they had passed an enjoyable evening with their Ovyng
friends, they knew that the King’s Head was more likely to be raided by beadles than other taverns, and had declined to go
a second time. All the student Franciscans had left the inn before compline, and had returned to their respective homes fairly
sober and long before the gates and doors had been secured for the night.

‘Did you see Norbert in the tavern that evening?’ asked Michael.

The friars nodded. ‘But we were in a small chamber at the back, and he was in the public room at the front,’ replied Ulfrid.

‘We saw him gambling with Harysone,’ offered Zebedee helpfully.

‘This is interesting,’ said Michael. ‘Your Ovyng friends have not mentioned this.’

‘That is because they were not there at that point,’ said Ulfrid, sounding surprised that Michael did not know. ‘We arrived
first, to make sure of grabbing seats in the back room. Godric and the others are not so fussy about where they sit, and they
were late that night, because they were at some
public lecture that went on for longer than they expected.’

‘After Norbert won the fish, he took his winnings and a woman, and retired upstairs,’ continued Zebedee. ‘Godric and the others
arrived a few moments after that. Norbert was still up there when we all left, so none of the Ovyng students could have seen
him. They did not even know he was there. None of us mentioned the fellow, because talking about him would have spoiled their
evening. So, I think we can safely say that none of them had anything to do with the murder.’

‘I see,’ said Michael noncommittally, thinking that it was not impossible for an Ovyng student to have slipped out of his
hostel later and killed Norbert. He turned the subject back to Harysone and his stabbing, and learned that the Michaelhouse
students’ only visit to the King’s Head had been several days before Harysone was attacked.

‘I expect Harysone remembered that Ulfrid was from Michaelhouse,’ said Zebedee. ‘He would recall Ulfrid, because he lost his
dice to him. He then made the erroneous assumption that all Franciscans are from the same College. But we know nothing about
any stabbing, Brother. How is it that Harysone did not see his assailant, anyway? I would remember a man who had knifed
me
!’

‘Whoever assaulted him made the mistake of aiming for the hard bones at the base of the spine, instead of the soft bits higher
up. Or perhaps Harysone moved suddenly, and the would-be killer’s dagger found itself embedded lower than was intended. Can
I see your knives?’

The students obliged, and Michael was presented with a mixture of implements. Most were tiny, intended only for cutting up
food at the table, although Zebedee’s was larger, and Ulfrid’s was more ornate than it should have been.

‘I lost mine,’ admitted Ulfrid. ‘So William lent me his spare one. It is a little fancy, but it will suffice until I have
the money to buy another.’

Michael nodded his thanks and walked away. Had Ulfrid really lost his original knife, or had he thrown it away when
he realised the tip had been left in his victim? The monk shook his head impatiently. The novices had just told him they
had only visited the King’s Head once, and that had been before the attack on Harysone. Or was Ulfrid lying? Had he returned
alone at a later date, thinking he might win something more interesting than a pair of dice? And had he been disappointed
in his hopes and had then taken revenge on Harysone?

And was Ulfrid the owner of the knife that had killed Norbert? The friars of Michaelhouse and Ovyng were friends, so was it
possible that Ulfrid disliked Norbert for bringing Ovyng into disrepute and had decided to solve the problem for his comrades
once and for all? Or was the merry-faced Ulfrid innocent of both crimes, and had just lost his knife, as he claimed? People
mislaid items like knives, pens and inkwells all the time.

His instincts told him that the Michaelhouse lads were honest in their denials about Norbert’s murder, although he was less
certain about their Ovyng colleagues. Perhaps they
had
seen Norbert in the King’s Head, and had merely declined to enter the tavern as long as the man was flaunting himself in
the main chamber. It was also possible that one had doubled back and had lain in wait for him, stabbing him by the Mill Pool.
And perhaps it had been another of them who had finished what the first had started, using a stone when Norbert had finally
crawled to where he thought he would be safe. Michael’s sense of unease intensified, and he saw he would have no peace until
he had Norbert’s killer under lock and key – whoever he transpired to be.

Bartholomew presented his finished illustration to Michael with a flourish. The monk was impressed. The drawing was very precise,
even down to the way the blood had crusted where the hilt met the blade, and he realised the physician had quite a talent
for sketching. The monk studied the diagram carefully. The dagger’s handle was depicted as
relatively plain, but there was green and yellow glass that would make the thing very distinctive.

‘You saw all this before you dropped it?’ he asked, hoping that his friend had not added the beads to the picture to make
it more attractive.

Bartholomew shot him a withering glance. ‘I have included nothing I did not see. Will it do?’

‘It will do very nicely,’ said Michael, nodding his satisfaction. ‘And the first people we shall try it on are the Franciscan
friars of Ovyng, who may know more than they are telling about this peculiar business. I have just learned they were in the
King’s Head the night Norbert died, although Ulfrid believes the friars and Norbert did not see each other. However, I shall
reserve judgement on that.’

‘I think you will achieve more success when you show it to Philippa and Giles. You know what I think Turke was doing when
he fell through the ice.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘You cannot be more wrong. In order to kill someone you need a motive, and Turke had no reason
to murder Norbert. However, now Agatha has revealed that Harysone was asking after Dympna, we can conclude
he
had a connection with Norbert – more than just two men dicing for fish together. I shall show your picture to him, too.’

‘Agatha’s information must have pleased you. You have had Harysone marked down for a criminal act ever since he arrived.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael happily. ‘And it is good to know my instincts have not misled me. But we should hurry, or the Ovyng
lads will be in their beds. These Franciscans retire early in the winter, and it is almost six o’clock already.’

They walked briskly to Ovyng. The temperature had fallen dramatically with the approach of night, and the air almost cracked
with cold. The ground underfoot was as hard as stone, and any moisture had long since frozen like iron. Few people were out,
and those that were huddled deep inside their cloaks.

‘Another beggar froze to death last night,’ said Michael as they struggled through the snow. ‘I am going to ask Langelee to
keep St Michael’s open. Beggars are useful sources of information for us proctors, and I do not want to lose them all this
winter.’

Bartholomew smiled, knowing Michael was hiding his compassion for the poor by pretending their welfare was in his own interest.
‘We should visit Dunstan before we go home,’ he said, thinking it might take more than Robin’s provisions to keep the old
man alive that night. ‘I want to make sure Yolande has banked the fire.’

They knocked on Ovyng’s door, and were admitted by Godric, who had a smear of ink on his face and held a sheaf of parchment.
He wore thick hose and outdoor boots against the cold, and his woollen habit looked bulky, as though he had pulled on as many
clothes as he could underneath it. Even so, his fingers had a bluish tinge at their tips, and he was shivering as he stepped
aside to let Bartholomew and Michael in.

A small fire was burning in the hearth of the main hall, but it was wholly inadequate to warm a large, stone-built room that
had gaps in its window shutters and a wide chimney, both of which allowed the wind to blast through them. All the student
friars and Ailred were present, sitting around a table that had been placed as close to the fire as possible, and looking
as chilled and miserable as did Godric. Ailred had a pile of sad-looking fish in front of him, which he was patiently gutting.
He was leading a debate on the sermons of Thomas Aquinas at the same time.

Some of the fish were cooking over the meagre flames, and the distinctive aroma of food that was past its best pervaded the
hostel. Two loaves of bread were being warmed in an attempt to disguise the fact that their outsides were blue with mould,
and a bucket of cloudy ale stood behind the hearth, so that some of the chill might be driven from it. Godric kept glancing
towards the fire. Bartholomew had the feeling he was hungry, and the visit from the Senior
Proctor meant that his meal was being delayed.

‘Finances,’ he said in a subdued voice, seeing the Michaelhouse men absorbing the details of their frigid room and paltry
meal. ‘I know we friars are supposed to seek ways to deny ourselves bodily comforts, but freezing solid and eating food unfit
even for animals is not generally recommended by our Order. Norbert’s death has been a bitter blow for Ovyng.’ He scowled
at Ailred.

‘Tulyet has stopped paying for Norbert’s education,’ said Bartholomew in understanding, thinking the dead man’s family must
have been charged some very princely fees if their cessation resulted in such sudden and abject poverty at Ovyng. ‘But you
must have anticipated their loss when he died, so you cannot be surprised.’

‘We are not surprised,’ said Ailred, a little testily. ‘But we did not expect the weather to turn quite so bitter before we
could think of ways to manage the shortfall. We have food, but little fuel.’

‘Food of sorts,’ muttered Godric under his breath. ‘Stinking fish that even the cat would not touch, and blue bread.’

‘You should mention your plight to Robin of Grantchester,’ said Bartholomew to Ailred. ‘He conjured peat faggots and wood
from thin air when Dunstan the riverman was in need.’

‘That is different,’ said Ailred stiffly. ‘Dunstan’s is a case of genuine hardship, whereas we are merely uncomfortable. We
will not die from the cold.’

‘We might,’ muttered Godric resentfully, and Bartholomew concluded that their reduced circumstances were something about which
the two men did not agree. Some of the students nodded, and the physician saw that they definitely sided with Godric.

‘We shall have to get out our begging bowls,’ said one, while the others muttered rebelliously. ‘We will not survive the winter
if we do not do something to help ourselves.’

‘We shall manage,’ said Ailred sharply. ‘You must remember that however cold and hungry you feel there is always
someone worse off than you. Do not complain unnecessarily, and give the saints cause to increase your hardship.’

‘I have come to ask you about Master Harysone the pardoner,’ said Michael conversationally in the silence that followed. ‘He
speared himself while dancing in the King’s Head, and has accused a Franciscan of holding the knife. Does anyone have anything
he would like to tell me?’

Ailred looked horrified. ‘I can assure you that no one here would set foot in a house of sin like the King’s Head.’

‘Which houses of sin do you set foot in, then?’ asked Michael, aware that the students were not so quick to deny the accusation.
They were exchanging guilty, anxious glances, and clearly wondering whether their Michaelhouse colleagues had betrayed them.

‘None!’ protested Ailred, appalled at the notion. ‘Such behaviour would break University rules. I do not need to tell you
that, Brother.’

‘What about you, Godric?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We are not interested in whether you imbibe in the King’s Head regularly, just
whether you were there on St Stephen’s Day, when this particular incident occurred.’

‘I do recall a brief sojourn in a tavern around that time,’ replied Godric ingenuously, making it sound as though it was of
so little importance that it had all but slipped his mind. ‘And I do recall a pardoner doing strange things with his body.
It was why we left, actually.’