‘That is partly because they did not anticipate meeting you here,’ said Philippa. ‘Poor Ailred!’
‘Ailred did not recognise you when he arranged the loan from Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Your disguise must have been excellent.’
‘It is excellent,’ said Philippa. ‘Even Giles, who is very observant and has purchased one of John’s books, has not guessed his true identity.’
‘Uncle Ailred was a fool to loan me that money,’ said Harysone, gloatingly. ‘I had no intention of repaying it – not the original amount and certainly not the interest. That will teach him to destroy my hopes of a glittering future.’
‘Frith and his friends will probably hang for Norbert’s murder,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Your testimony could save them but I am sure you have no intention of helping.’
‘Frith has the funds to buy his freedom,’ said Harysone carelessly. ‘And I should know, for I am well acquainted with his financial situation.’
‘You are the man to whom they passed their stolen goods?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Certainly not,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘My father was – but only in Chepe, obviously. They use other people when they travel. My father kept careful records, which I unearthed when I went through his possessions after his death. Perhaps I can blackmail Frith instead – threaten to tell the Chepe merchants about his activities. A percentage of his ill-gotten gains, along with Dympna, will suffice to compensate me for this horrible adventure and its unfortunate conclusions.’
‘You cannot have Dympna,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kenyngham has hidden it.’
‘You are right,’ said Harysone. ‘He left it in that cellar you were so keen to explore. But I have retrieved it, as you can see.’ He nodded to a corner, where Bartholomew could see the outline of the walnut-wood chest among the shadows.
‘Kenyngham told you where he hid it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, hoping Harysone had not harmed the old friar.
‘Frith had the right idea when he said he would fire Michaelhouse unless the chest was handed over. I merely used the same tactic and offered to fire the Gilbertine Friary. Kenyngham claimed he was sick of the money and the evil it brought, and relinquished it almost willingly.’ He nodded towards the trapdoor. ‘He is down there, waiting until we leave. Join him, and see for yourself.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, knowing Harysone had no intention of allowing him to climb into the cellar or anywhere else. Harysone wanted him dead.
The ‘pardoner’ was becoming impatient and fingered his pitchfork. ‘You have two choices, physician. We can dodge around like this and I will reduce you to small pieces slowly, or you can stand still and allow me to finish you in a single stroke. It will probably not even hurt – much as the knife did not hurt me when I was first stabbed in the back.’
‘No!’ cried Philippa, dismayed. ‘Put up your weapons. Both of you!’
‘Go to Hell, Harysone,’ said Bartholomew between gritted teeth. ‘It is a pity Philippa did not aim better, because then you and I would not be in this ridiculous situation.’
‘Philippa?’ asked Harysone, glancing at the agitated widow with an amused expression on his face. ‘She would not harm me. She is too afraid I will tell the truth about Turke as I die.’
‘Perhaps. But the knife with the broken point is in her possession, nevertheless. I can see the missing tip from here – I noticed it when she wore it in Edith’s solar earlier today.’
Harysone looked at Philippa again, but this time he was not smiling. ‘Tell me he is lying.’
Philippa did not reply, and Harysone’s expression became murderous. He turned on Bartholomew and began to advance. He moved quickly, and the hoe was smashed in two in Bartholomew’s hands. The physician saw that the man had done with playing and meant business. It was only a matter of time before one of the swiping tines hit its mark, the injury would weaken him and make him vulnerable to the next blow, and then it would be over.
‘No!’ Bravely, Philippa moved to stand between them. ‘I will give you anything you want, John. You can have the house Walter left me. Just do not harm Matthew.’
‘It is too late,’ hissed Harysone furiously. ‘He knows enough to hang me, and I do not want to settle into my new home only to be arrested for theft and blackmail.’
‘You cannot kill him,’ said Philippa, shoving the tines of the pitchfork down when Harysone raised them again. ‘I will not let you.’
‘What about Michael?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the opportunity to dodge away from the deranged fishmonger’s son and trying to drag Philippa with him. ‘Where is he?’
‘Locked in the cellar with Kenyngham,’ said Harysone. ‘Philippa can join them there, and I will send a message from London telling Stanmore where to find them.’
‘But that might be days,’ objected Bartholomew, knowing such a message would never be sent – just like the one that was supposed to have warned Ailred about his nephew’s plan to blackmail Turke. If Philippa entered the cellar, she would die there.
‘There is plenty of water, and a few days without food will do no one any harm,’ said Harysone harshly. ‘Move, Philippa or I will kill you, too.’
‘Let Matthew go,’ pleaded Philippa. ‘And then we will talk. Do not forget that I cannot give you Walter’s house if I am locked in a cellar.’
Without warning, Harysone lunged towards Philippa with the pitchfork. She ducked, and Bartholomew darted forward to seize it, trying to wrench it from Harysone’s grasp. They were locked solid, each straining to tear the implement from the other’s hands. Harysone kicked out, but lost his balance and fell, dragging Bartholomew on top of him. He rolled, twisting the handle savagely so that it tore from Bartholomew’s grip. The tines rose, then started to fall.
Bartholomew twisted hard to one side, thinking that the last thing he would ever see was Philippa’s stricken face. He was startled when there was a loud thud and a sudden weight landed on his chest. Harysone was lying on top of him. He struggled furiously, not sure what was happening. Then he saw the unmistakable shape of Agatha holding the copy of Harysone’s book that Deynman had bought for Michaelhouse. Bartholomew pushed the limp fishmonger away from him, and saw that Agatha had dealt him a serious blow to the head. Harysone was insensible.
Behind Agatha stood Abigny. He held out his arms to his sister, and she rushed towards them, then buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. He held her gently, rubbing her hair as he whispered words of comfort.
‘I hope he is dead,’ he said, glancing up from his ministrations and meeting Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘I never liked Fiscurtune the younger – or Harysone, as he called himself here. It is a pity circumstances led you to deal with men like him and Turke, Philippa. You deserve better.’
‘Matthew is decent,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I should never have chosen wealth over love.’
Agatha disagreed. ‘Take the wealth,’ she advised in a booming voice. ‘You can always get love from other quarters. If you come to see me tonight, I shall tell you how it is done.’
‘Someone should release Michael,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling next to the unconscious Harysone to see how badly he had been hurt. He saw he would recover. ‘And Kenyngham.’
Agatha hauled open the trapdoor and Michael clambered inelegantly from the chilly hole, complaining bitterly about the rough treatment he had suffered. However, it transpired that the worst part was hearing the meal bells in Peterhouse and the Gilbertine Friary while his stomached growled with hunger. Bartholomew saw that no serious harm had been done. Kenyngham emerged more quietly, and slipped away to the Gilbertine chapel to give thanks for his deliverance.
Meanwhile, Abigny explained how he and Agatha had come to the rescue. ‘I met Cynric, who said Michael was missing and last seen following Philippa. I knew immediately something was amiss. I noticed earlier she was wearing heavy boots that were not hers, and she had refused to answer my questions about them.’