‘Helena?’
‘Robin of Grantchester’s pig. Folk saw Norbert slipping into the back of Robin’s house at odd hours to visit her. Poor creature!’
‘How do you know he was not going to meet Robin?’ asked Michael curiously.
Agatha regarded him in horror. ‘That is a disgusting notion, Brother! Call yourself a monk? You should see Master Kenyngham and ask him to say prayers that will cleanse your mind of such vile thoughts. Robin of Grantchester and Norbert!’
‘It is no worse than you accusing him of courting a pig,’ objected Michael indignantly. ‘And I was not suggesting Norbert went to see Robin with “amorous intentions”, as you put it. They may have had business to arrange.’
‘Then why did Norbert not knock at the front door, like Robin’s patients do?’ demanded Agatha. ‘You are wrong, Brother. It was the pig that Norbert went to see.’
‘And this pig is definitely called Helena?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Dympna?’
‘You said Dympna sent Norbert messages,’ said Agatha, giving him a glance that indicated she thought he was short of a few wits. ‘Pigs do not write. Well, Clippesby says they can but choose not to. He said they dislike the sensation of spilled ink on their trotters. Do you think he will remain insane for ever, Brother, or will he become as normal as the rest of us one day?’
‘Lord knows!’ muttered Michael, declining to answer a question that might lead to so many pitfalls. ‘So, what have you heard about Dympna? You referred to this person as “him”.’
‘I do not know whether it is a man or a woman,’ admitted Agatha. ‘But I have only ever heard him associated with good things – never bad. That is why I was surprised to hear the name on the lips of a foul beast like that Harysone. What is that egg doing on the floor?’
Michael retrieved it and began to remove its shell while he pondered what Agatha had told him. Dympna, whoever she – or he – was, now provided a definite link between Harysone and the dead Norbert, along with the tench Norbert had won. Michael decided that as soon as Bartholomew had finished his sketch, he would make it a priority to show it to anyone who knew Harysone. The physician could show it to Philippa and her brother if he liked, but Michael was certain he would be wasting his time.
‘Did you know Harysone has accused Michaelhouse students of stabbing him?’ he asked casually, aware that such information would turn Agatha against the pardoner even more.
‘I heard,’ said Agatha shortly. ‘And so did Sheriff Morice. He visited Harysone just after you did, and tried to force him to make an official complaint. Harysone declined.’
Michael was astonished. ‘Harysone refused to allow the Sheriff to investigate the fact that he was stabbed? Why? I anticipated we would have problems with that – I thought Morice would claim that it was a town crime, committed against a visitor, and that the culprits should be turned over to him for sentencing. And you can imagine what would happen then.’ He ate the egg.
Agatha nodded. ‘The scholars would scream that no member of the University should be tried by a secular authority – especially if the culprit is a friar, as Harysone claims – and there would be a riot. Morice would yield – in return for a certain amount of University money passed directly to his personal coffers – but the ill feeling between scholars and townsfolk would fester anyway.’
‘Exactly,’ said Michael, thinking she had summed up the situation very well. ‘But Harysone declined to allow the Sheriff to look into the matter?’
Agatha pursed her lips. ‘Not because he wanted to avoid riots and mayhem. He said he could not afford a second investigation by Morice, and I am sure he meant it literally. Anyone who deals with Morice can expect any help to cost him a noble or two.’
Michael sucked egg from his teeth as he stared into the fire and considered. So, it was likely that Harysone had paid Morice something when the Sheriff had recovered his stolen gold, and had not received the entire sum back with interest as he had claimed. But if Harysone’s gold had been honestly won, then he would not have needed to give Morice anything. That meant Morice had discovered it was not, and had taken advantage of that fact. Had Harysone stolen the gold from someone else? Or had the Sheriff decided Harysone was overcharging for his book, and threatened to arrest him for fraud? Michael stood, shaking the eggshells from his habit into the fire, where they hissed and popped as they were consumed by the flames.
Michael knew Harysone was unlikely to confess to Norbert’s murder if he just marched up to the man and demanded to know whether he was the owner of the jewelled dagger that was now lost for ever in the river. He decided the best way to gain Harysone’s confidence would be to act as if he was making a serious attempt to find whoever had stabbed him – to present him with a culprit and show that justice would be done. Harysone would be impressed that the University took accusations of assault seriously, and that it, unlike Morice, did not charge for its services. Once he had the pardoner’s trust, Michael would be in a position to talk to the man, in the hope that he could be tricked, flattered or cajoled into saying something incriminating.
The first thing the monk needed to do, therefore, was identify the Michaelhouse friars who had been in the King’s Head when Harysone was demonstrating his dancing skills. It would not be difficult: Father William and his five students were the only Franciscans in the College. William had already ‘broken’ his leg when Harysone was attacked, and everyone knew he had not set foot outside since. That left his students, all of whom might very well have enjoyed an illicit drink in a tavern, although Michael could not see any of them knifing a man in the back.
It was almost dusk, and time for the evening meal, so the monk enjoyed his chicken, egg and custard first, then approached the Franciscans as they were heading to the conclave for an evening of entertainment organised by Deynman.
‘We are growing bored with the Waits,’ grumbled Ulfrid, when the monk asked why the students were reluctant to follow Deynman that evening. ‘Makejoy can dance, and Yna and Jestyn can juggle, but Frith is dire with the pipe and tabor.’ His fellow Franciscans gathered around, pleased by an opportunity that would excuse them from the dull festivities for a little longer.
‘Frith is a poor musician,’ agreed Michael, which was damning indeed coming from a man whose standards were based on the Michaelhouse choir. ‘He cannot hold a beat with his drum, and his piping is noise rather than proper tunes. His “Kalenda Maya” was unrecognisable last night.’
‘We have had nothing but tumbling and juggling for days now,’ Ulfrid continued bitterly. His friends murmured their agreement. ‘We want something else. Christmas is a time for things like closh, kayles and quoits, not sitting around indoors watching Waits.’
‘You cannot bowl on snow, which eliminates kayles,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And you would lose your horseshoes and balls if you were to try quoits or closh. But there is always the camp-ball tomorrow to look forward to. And then there are the First Day of the Year games, where there will be ice-camping, wrestling, tilting and all manner of fun.’
‘I suppose,’ conceded Ulfrid reluctantly. ‘But we should have voted for Gray. He is more imaginative than Deynman.’
‘Deynman said he paid in advance for the Waits, so he wants his money’s worth out of them,’ said another of the novices, a prematurely balding youth with a square jaw who possessed the unlikely name of Zebedee.
‘The Waits are getting their money’s worth out of us,’ muttered Ulfrid bitterly. He turned to Michael. ‘I caught Frith leaving my room this morning, and later I could not find some pennies I’d left there. I cannot say for certain that he took them, but I am suspicious.’
‘Deynman is a fool to retain their services,’ agreed Zebedee. ‘Agatha said things have gone from the kitchen, too – a pewter spoon, a glass dish for salt, a brass skewer. Little, unimportant items that you do not miss until they cannot be found.’