“help” of Morice and his men.’
Bartholomew turned to Michael, horrified. ‘You have bribed Morice before? You should be careful, Brother! Corrupting a King’s
official is a criminal offence, and you may find that Morice is the kind of man to accept money, then make a complaint about
you.’
‘Believe me, I know,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But the man is impossible to reason with, so we may have to resort to desperate
measures if no answer to this crime is forthcoming. He is making no serious effort to investigate himself, but is concentrating
on thwarting me. He does not care about avenging Norbert, only about seeing whether he can turn the situation to his advantage.
We have not had a corrupt Sheriff for so long that I barely recall how to deal with them.’
They were silent for a while, each thinking his own thoughts. Michael and William considered the problem of an awkward Sheriff
and a difficult murder, while Bartholomew found his mind returning to Philippa’s pretty face, flowing golden curls and slender
figure. He was disconcerted to find he could not remember certain details – what her hands looked like, for example – although
other things were etched deeply in his memory. He knew how shelaughed, that there was a freckle on the lobe of her left ear, that she liked cats but not dogs, and that she hated the smell
of lavender.
The hour candle dipped lower. A little less than three hours remained before Angel Mass marked the beginning of Christmas
Day, and there was an air of expectation and excitement in the College. Bartholomew opened a shutter and gazed through the
window. Lights burned in almost every room, as scholars elected to remain awake, rather than rise early. Snow was in the air
again, and came down in spiteful little flurries that did not settle. It had snowed when the Death had come, too, he recalled,
and the bitter weather had added to the miseries of both patients and the physicians who tended them. Philippa had disliked
the cold. She preferred summer, when the crops grew golden and the land baked slowly under a silver-white sun.
‘Did you discover the identity of the man we found dead among the albs?’ he asked of William, pulling his mind away from his
reverie.
‘No one knows him. Not even Bosel the beggar, who works on the High Street.’
‘You have spoken to Bosel?’ Michael was disappointed. ‘Damn! He was my best hope.’
‘I even asked the Dominicans whether they had killed him,’ William went on airily.
Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘But there was nothing on the body to suggest he was murdered. I told you I thought
he had died of the cold.’
‘How did the Dominicans respond to this subtle probing?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Did they confess?’
William grimaced. ‘They did not. However, unlikely though it may seem, I believe they were telling the truth.’
‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael, amused.
‘Because most have not been outside their friary since this sudden cold spell began,’ replied William. ‘Dominicans are soft
and weak, and need to crouch in their lairs with roaring fires and plenty of wine.’ He took a deep draughtof his claret and stretched his feet closer to the flames with a sigh of contentment.
‘I can cross the Dominicans off my list of suspects, then,’ said Michael wryly. His expression hardened. ‘However, there is
one man I cannot dismiss: Harysone.’
‘Not this again,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘There is no reason to think that Harysone had anything to do with this death, either.’
‘Only the fact that we saw him go into the church, and then moments later we discover a corpse in it. What more do you want?’
‘We did
not
see him go into the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We saw him fiddle with the lock, but then we went to see Norbert’s
body and we do not know if he entered or not. The latch sticks, and Harysone would not be the first would-be visitor to
Bartholomew turned to Michael, horrified. ‘You have bribed Morice before? You should be careful, Brother! Corrupting a King’s
official is a criminal offence, and you may find that Morice is the kind of man to accept money, then make a complaint about
you.’
‘Believe me, I know,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But the man is impossible to reason with, so we may have to resort to desperate
measures if no answer to this crime is forthcoming. He is making no serious effort to investigate himself, but is concentrating
on thwarting me. He does not care about avenging Norbert, only about seeing whether he can turn the situation to his advantage.
We have not had a corrupt Sheriff for so long that I barely recall how to deal with them.’
They were silent for a while, each thinking his own thoughts. Michael and William considered the problem of an awkward Sheriff
and a difficult murder, while Bartholomew found his mind returning to Philippa’s pretty face, flowing golden curls and slender
figure. He was disconcerted to find he could not remember certain details – what her hands looked like, for example – although
other things were etched deeply in his memory. He knew how shelaughed, that there was a freckle on the lobe of her left ear, that she liked cats but not dogs, and that she hated the smell
of lavender.
The hour candle dipped lower. A little less than three hours remained before Angel Mass marked the beginning of Christmas
Day, and there was an air of expectation and excitement in the College. Bartholomew opened a shutter and gazed through the
window. Lights burned in almost every room, as scholars elected to remain awake, rather than rise early. Snow was in the air
again, and came down in spiteful little flurries that did not settle. It had snowed when the Death had come, too, he recalled,
and the bitter weather had added to the miseries of both patients and the physicians who tended them. Philippa had disliked
the cold. She preferred summer, when the crops grew golden and the land baked slowly under a silver-white sun.
‘Did you discover the identity of the man we found dead among the albs?’ he asked of William, pulling his mind away from his
reverie.
‘No one knows him. Not even Bosel the beggar, who works on the High Street.’
‘You have spoken to Bosel?’ Michael was disappointed. ‘Damn! He was my best hope.’
‘I even asked the Dominicans whether they had killed him,’ William went on airily.
Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘But there was nothing on the body to suggest he was murdered. I told you I thought
he had died of the cold.’
‘How did the Dominicans respond to this subtle probing?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Did they confess?’
William grimaced. ‘They did not. However, unlikely though it may seem, I believe they were telling the truth.’
‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael, amused.
‘Because most have not been outside their friary since this sudden cold spell began,’ replied William. ‘Dominicans are soft
and weak, and need to crouch in their lairs with roaring fires and plenty of wine.’ He took a deep draughtof his claret and stretched his feet closer to the flames with a sigh of contentment.
‘I can cross the Dominicans off my list of suspects, then,’ said Michael wryly. His expression hardened. ‘However, there is
one man I cannot dismiss: Harysone.’
‘Not this again,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘There is no reason to think that Harysone had anything to do with this death, either.’
‘Only the fact that we saw him go into the church, and then moments later we discover a corpse in it. What more do you want?’
‘We did
not
see him go into the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We saw him fiddle with the lock, but then we went to see Norbert’s
body and we do not know if he entered or not. The latch sticks, and Harysone would not be the first would-be visitor to
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