of days.’
Michael grimaced. ‘That is an unpleasant notion, Matt. I do not like the thought of saying my prayers while corpses peer at
me from decaying albs.’
‘I imagine there are few who would. But all I can tell you is that this man was poor and that he probably suffered miserably
from the weather. There is no injury that I can detect, so I doubt that your friend Harysone had anything to do with his demise.’
‘What about poison?’ suggested Michael hopefully.
‘There are no lesions or bleeding in the mouth. He didnot scratch or claw at his throat. I suppose he might have been given something soporific, but I really do not see why anyone
would kill a beggar using potions that are usually expensive.’
‘And there is nothing on his body to tell us who he is?’
‘As you see,’ said Bartholomew, indicating the sad remains that lay in front of them. ‘He owned no purse – or none that is
with him now.’
‘I will ask my beadles to make some enquiries,’ said Michael. He cocked his head. ‘But the bells are ringing to announce the
midday meal. Meadowman can deal with this poor fellow’s remains, and this afternoon I shall set about trying to discover what
happened to Norbert.’
‘And what about Harysone?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Has he been granted a reprieve now that you have Norbert’s murder and
identifying the beggar to take up your time?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘Master Harysone has not heard the last of me yet.’
After the midday meal, Bartholomew went to prepare the lecture he was to give that afternoon, while Michael delegated a student
to read part of Duns Scotus’s
Ordinatio
to his small group of sombre, erudite Benedictines. The monk rubbed his chin as he left Michaelhouse, wondering whether to
concentrate his attention on the violent murder of Norbert or on discovering the identity of the beggar who had died in the
church. Duty told him he should go to Ovyng and speak to Norbert’s classmates, but the unsettled, albeit irrational, feeling
he had experienced ever since he had first set eyes on Harysone made him more inclined to look into the death of the beggar,
since a nagging suspicion told him that Harysone was involved.
Michael was not normally a man given to wild and unfounded prejudices against people he barely knew, but he liked to think
he had developed an ability to single out at least some folk whose intentions were not entirely honourable. And all his instincts
screamed at him thatHarysone’s presence in the town was one he could do without. Bartholomew might have been unable to prove that the beggar
had come to harm at Harysone’s hands, but Michael knew there were ways to kill that defied detection, and some deep, feral
instinct convinced him that Harysone had not been tussling with the sticky door merely to admire St Michael’s dented pewter.
He pondered for a moment more before turning left and striding up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. Norbert’s murder
would be difficult to solve, given that the fellow had so many enemies in the town, and the investigation did not appeal to
Michael in the slightest. He decided to leave Norbert until the following day and interview Harysone instead: Norbert was
dead and nothing could change that, but Harysone represented crimes to be committed in the future – and they might be prevented.
Harysone, however, was not at his lodgings in the King’s Head, nor was he browsing among the stalls in the Market Square.
Michael scratched his head thoughtfully, then began a systematic trawl of the town’s taverns, becoming more determined to
find the man with each unsuccessful enquiry. When he met Meadowman near the Brazen George, the beadle informed him that Harysone
had been in the Hall of Valence Marie, selling copies of his manuscript.
‘He is doing what?’ spluttered Michael, outraged. ‘Peddling his inferior scholarship to some of the
Michael grimaced. ‘That is an unpleasant notion, Matt. I do not like the thought of saying my prayers while corpses peer at
me from decaying albs.’
‘I imagine there are few who would. But all I can tell you is that this man was poor and that he probably suffered miserably
from the weather. There is no injury that I can detect, so I doubt that your friend Harysone had anything to do with his demise.’
‘What about poison?’ suggested Michael hopefully.
‘There are no lesions or bleeding in the mouth. He didnot scratch or claw at his throat. I suppose he might have been given something soporific, but I really do not see why anyone
would kill a beggar using potions that are usually expensive.’
‘And there is nothing on his body to tell us who he is?’
‘As you see,’ said Bartholomew, indicating the sad remains that lay in front of them. ‘He owned no purse – or none that is
with him now.’
‘I will ask my beadles to make some enquiries,’ said Michael. He cocked his head. ‘But the bells are ringing to announce the
midday meal. Meadowman can deal with this poor fellow’s remains, and this afternoon I shall set about trying to discover what
happened to Norbert.’
‘And what about Harysone?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Has he been granted a reprieve now that you have Norbert’s murder and
identifying the beggar to take up your time?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘Master Harysone has not heard the last of me yet.’
After the midday meal, Bartholomew went to prepare the lecture he was to give that afternoon, while Michael delegated a student
to read part of Duns Scotus’s
Ordinatio
to his small group of sombre, erudite Benedictines. The monk rubbed his chin as he left Michaelhouse, wondering whether to
concentrate his attention on the violent murder of Norbert or on discovering the identity of the beggar who had died in the
church. Duty told him he should go to Ovyng and speak to Norbert’s classmates, but the unsettled, albeit irrational, feeling
he had experienced ever since he had first set eyes on Harysone made him more inclined to look into the death of the beggar,
since a nagging suspicion told him that Harysone was involved.
Michael was not normally a man given to wild and unfounded prejudices against people he barely knew, but he liked to think
he had developed an ability to single out at least some folk whose intentions were not entirely honourable. And all his instincts
screamed at him thatHarysone’s presence in the town was one he could do without. Bartholomew might have been unable to prove that the beggar
had come to harm at Harysone’s hands, but Michael knew there were ways to kill that defied detection, and some deep, feral
instinct convinced him that Harysone had not been tussling with the sticky door merely to admire St Michael’s dented pewter.
He pondered for a moment more before turning left and striding up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. Norbert’s murder
would be difficult to solve, given that the fellow had so many enemies in the town, and the investigation did not appeal to
Michael in the slightest. He decided to leave Norbert until the following day and interview Harysone instead: Norbert was
dead and nothing could change that, but Harysone represented crimes to be committed in the future – and they might be prevented.
Harysone, however, was not at his lodgings in the King’s Head, nor was he browsing among the stalls in the Market Square.
Michael scratched his head thoughtfully, then began a systematic trawl of the town’s taverns, becoming more determined to
find the man with each unsuccessful enquiry. When he met Meadowman near the Brazen George, the beadle informed him that Harysone
had been in the Hall of Valence Marie, selling copies of his manuscript.
‘He is doing what?’ spluttered Michael, outraged. ‘Peddling his inferior scholarship to some of the
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