A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 9

‘The last time we arranged to meet someone after dark in a quiet place, he never appeared, and we have seen neither hide nor hair of him since,’ grumbled Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat together in the priory refectory later that evening. ‘I cannot believe you allowed Tysilia to make the same arrangement with you. Especially on my behalf.’

They had missed the evening meal – Michael because he had been questioning the monks about Thomas’s death, and Bartholomew because he had been in the library and had lost track of time – but Michael had learned that Symon had been inaugurated as temporary hosteller in the absence of William, and had hunted him out to provide him with a list of items he would consider devouring at a privately served meal. Too inexperienced to know how to deal with a demanding glutton like Michael, Symon had obliged to the smallest detail, and the repast that was set out in front of them was intimidating.

‘This is enough to feed King Edward’s entire army,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the spread in dismay. ‘How do you imagine we will ever finish it?’

‘Experience tells me that we shall make a respectable impact,’ said Michael comfortably, tucking a piece of linen under his chin, and rubbing his hands together. He looked like Blanche, so sure she would make a mess that she took precautions before she began. ‘And what we do not finish will be given to the poor, so we are doing them a favour, in a way.’

It seemed a peculiar way of viewing matters, but Bartholomew was in no mood for an argument. His mind was still fixed on Thomas, and how the killer had waited until the sick man had been left alone before slipping unseen into the hospital to do his deadly work. It did not make him feel easy, and a chilling sensation ran down the back of his neck. He glanced behind him, half expecting to see someone with a thin blade in his hand. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw Bishop Northburgh there, with Canon Stretton at his heels.

‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is not wise to sneak up behind men when there is a killer on the loose, my Lord Bishop. You will cause them to have seizures, like Sub-prior Thomas.’

‘I am not the kind of man to have seizures,’ said Northburgh with a vague smile. Bartholomew stared at him. The Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield was persistently fluttery and irritable, and the mere mention of a disease induced him to imagine its symptoms, but now he seemed unnaturally calm. In fact, Bartholomew thought there was something not quite right about the man. He glanced at Stretton, whose heavy features were creased into a curiously beatific grin, and wondered what they had been doing together.

‘How is your investigation coming along?’ Northburgh asked pleasantly of Michael. ‘Discovered anything new?’

‘But you resolved the case the moment you arrived, Northburgh,’ said Stretton fawningly to his companion, his voice rather slurred. ‘De Lisle said he did not kill Glovere.’

‘True, but someone did,’ said Northburgh. ‘And that is why we are here, Brother Michael. We are enjoying our sojourn in Ely, and Henry is working to find a cure for wrinkled skin for me, but I feel we should be doing something more about these charges laid against poor de Lisle.’

‘You should not drive Henry to pursue pointless remedies,’ said Bartholomew, nettled by the man’s insensitivity. ‘He is exhausted from looking after his old men and distressed by the death of Thomas. He needs to rest, not scour the library for literature on your behalf.’

‘I have promised Ely Cathedral a chapel if Henry can oblige me,’ said Northburgh, strangely unperturbed by Bartholomew’s sharp reprimand. ‘Alan will ensure he succeeds.’

‘So, what do you want from us?’ asked Michael warily. ‘I know of no cure for gizzard neck, and Matt is too busy to start experimenting with animal grease and nut juice.’

‘We have decided that we want you to investigate these murders, Brother,’ said Stretton, sounding rather surprised by Michael’s question. ‘Northburgh thinks we should not leave until we have a culprit hanged, and we thought we should allow you to find us one.’

‘Too many men making enquiries could cause problems,’ elaborated Northburgh. ‘So, Stretton and I have elected to let you do it.’

Michael regarded them through narrowed eyes. ‘That is what I have been doing – while you have been pestering Henry or enjoying the ale in the city’s taverns. What has changed?’

‘There is no need to be defensive,’ said Northburgh with a dreamy smile. ‘We are only offering to stand back and give you full rein to do as you please. But I am weary. I think I shall retire to bed.’

He turned and walked away, with Stretton lumbering behind him. He tripped over the doorstep, and Stretton made a clumsy lunge to save him that had them both staggering. Their chuckles echoed across the courtyard as they made their way to the Black Hostry, arm in arm. Michael stared after them in amazement. Bartholomew laughed.

‘Ely’s bona cervisia is powerful stuff indeed, if it can turn that ill-matched pair into friends.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Alan and Blanche were insane to hire either of them. That de Lisle chose me shows him to be a man of impeccable judgement. Unlike you. What were you thinking of by agreeing for me to meet Tysilia at midnight?’

‘I am sorry, Brother, but she was intractable. I do not want to wander the priory in the dead of night with a killer on the loose, either, but she said she would only tell you what she knows.’

‘What she knows!’ snorted Michael in disgust. ‘She knows nothing!’

‘You cannot be sure,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘William may have let something slip about his plans. She will not know she possesses this important information, of course. It will have to be prised from her by someone who is an experienced and gifted investigator.’

‘Perhaps,’ admitted Michael, succumbing to the flattery as he reached for a dish of stewed onions. ‘But I would be happier doing it tomorrow, in daylight. You should have tried harder to dissuade her from insisting on such an hour. How will you feel if someone murders us?’

‘Dead, I imagine,’ replied Bartholomew.

Michael ignored him. ‘We have assumed the killer is a man, but what if it is a woman? It may be Tysilia herself, and here we are meeting her in a remote place at the witching hour!’

‘First, there are two of us, and I am sure we can manage Tysilia. Second, the door to the Outer Hostry is not a remote place. It is relatively public.’

‘Not at that time of night,’ complained Michael. He finished the stew and snatched up a jellied eel and a slice of cheese, eating alternate bites. ‘But what do you think of Tysilia as our killer, Matt? There is plenty of evidence to incriminate her.’

Bartholomew laughed in astonishment. ‘There is not! I suppose you think that her clandestine meetings with William count against her?’

‘They do,’ agreed Michael. ‘William disappeared after curious assignations with this woman. Meanwhile, she claims he is her brother, while we know perfectly well he is not. And you do not steal valuable chalices to give to your sibling, Matt: you steal them to give to your paramour.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘What has she brought you?’

Michael made an irritable sound at the back of his throat. ‘This is no joking matter. We questioned Tysilia’s involvement in a case once before, unless you have forgotten. It is possible she is imbued with a certain animal cunning behind all that empty-headed prattling.’

‘She is certainly imbued with feral emotions, but cunning is not one of them. She is an innocent, Brother, not capable of carrying out complex murders. William spun her some tale about kinship, and she believed it because she longs to escape from people who keep her wild behaviour under control.’

‘Imagine what she would be like if they did not,’ muttered Michael with a shudder.

‘She is gullible and vulnerable, and easy prey for a clever man like William. He doubtless saw that seducing her would be far too simple–’

‘It would not!’ interrupted Michael fervently. ‘He would never manage to seduce her before she had seduced him!’

‘–and so he decided to adopt a different approach. By claiming kinship, he demanded a loyalty that she would never have afforded a mere lover. She spied on Blanche, and she stole for someone she thought was her brother. But that is all. She is not our killer, and if you think so, then you are as addled as she is.’

‘You are the addled one – for agreeing to meet her in the dead of night. It is just an excuse to entice me out alone, so that she can force her attentions on me.’

‘I am sure you can look after yourself,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh at the image of Michael as the besieged virgin.

‘You suggested that William was the killer, and now you make arrangements for us to meet his accomplice in the dark,’ Michael went on, unwilling to let matters lie. ‘How do you know she has not been given the task of luring us out, so that he can kill us both?’

‘It would be hard to kill two people at the same time. We will not lie down obediently while William murders one in front of the other. And it was only a passing suggestion as regards William as the culprit, anyway. I suspect he is already dead.’

‘You have no evidence to support that,’ warned Michael.

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘If I had any sense, I would send you to meet her alone. And then we will see how you feel.’

‘I would not mind,’ said Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘But it would be a waste of time. She wants to speak to you, not me. But I do not think there is anything to fear in meeting her.’

Michael regarded his friend sombrely. ‘I hope you are right, Matt. I really do.’

Bartholomew fell asleep while they waited to go out, and was woken some hours later by Michael shaking his shoulder. Blearily, not quite understanding why he was being pulled from a deep sleep, he reached instinctively for his medicine bag. Michael chuckled.

‘I do not think you will be needing that, although you can bring those birthing forceps if you like. They are a formidable weapon, and we can always knock this woman over the head if she attempts to lay hands on my person.’

Bartholomew slipped the handle of his medicine bag over his shoulder. He did not feel quite dressed without it, and it seemed that he always wanted it if he did not have it with him. He followed Michael out of the refectory, and across the dark grass towards the Outer Hostry. Evidently, Lady Blanche and her household did not like early nights, because lights still blazed in one or two rooms. Laughter drifted across the courtyard, too; it seemed that she and her courtiers were enjoying themselves. It sounded to Bartholomew as though they were playing dice or some other gambling game, and Bartholomew wondered what Alan would say if he knew such activities were being carried out on the sacred grounds of his cathedral priory. On reflection, he supposed that Alan would say very little. Blanche was a generous patron, and Alan would never risk losing funds for his beloved buildings.

The hour candle had burned past midnight when Bartholomew and Michael reached the Outer Hostry. There was no moon and a film of clouds drifted across the sky, making the faint light from the stars patchy and unreliable. The clouds had turned the evening humid and thick; the still air stank of the fetid odour of marshes and carried the distinctive smell of sewage from the river.

Bartholomew led the way to the gate, and pulled Michael into the shadows when he detected a movement out of the corner of his eye. There was a soft murmur of voices, as those monks who had attended the midnight mass made their way to the dormitory. There were not many of them: the majority preferred a good night’s sleep, and Alan did not insist on attendance at the midnight service. The other seven offices were a different matter, and Bartholomew had seen Thomas taking the names of anyone absent from those without a valid excuse.

‘She is not here,’ whispered Michael crossly, peering around him. ‘Damned woman! She is probably tucked up in her bed enjoying her sleep – which is where we should be.’

Bartholomew called Tysilia’s name softly, and was rather surprised when she suddenly materialised out of the darkness. Michael jumped violently and edged away in alarm.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, pressing a fat hand to his pounding heart. ‘It is not nice to loom out of the darkness and startle innocent men.’

‘Are you innocent, Brother?’ breathed Tysilia huskily. ‘Shall we find out?’

‘We shall not!’ said Michael firmly, and Bartholomew heard the distinctive sound of a hand being slapped away. ‘Behave yourself! What would Blanche say if she found you here unescorted with two men in the middle of the night?’

‘I imagine she would be rather jealous when she saw that one of the men was you,’ gushed Tysilia. ‘I think she has taken a liking to you herself. And anyway, she met a lot of young men alone in the dark when she was young. She told me so herself.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael, interested, despite his nervousness.

‘I mean that she had lots of lovers before her marriage,’ explained Tysilia patiently. ‘She told me about a churchman she wooed, because she said she did not want me to fall into the same pit. She said he gave her a child, and that it had almost ruined her life.’

‘And what did you think of that?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘I told her that my lovers had already given me three children, but that the brats either died before I ever saw them, or someone kindly took them off my hands. She seemed rather shocked. I cannot imagine why, when all I did was tell her that we had shared the same experiment.’

‘Experience,’ corrected Bartholomew before he could stop himself. ‘What else did she say?’

‘She gave me lots of meaningful looks and kept holding my hands. I had no idea what she was trying to tell me. I do not know why she did not just come out and say whatever it was.’

‘Did it ever occur to you that your mother might have been a lady like Blanche?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew held his breath. Educating Tysilia about her parentage was not something for discussing at such a time or in such a place, and he was surprised that Michael was prepared to broach such a delicate subject.

‘Of course,’ said Tysilia carelessly. ‘But she must have been a real beauty to produce me, so that takes Blanche out of the running. She looks like a pig.’

‘De Lisle told me that Blanche was extremely pretty when she was young,’ pressed Michael.

‘But he has sworn one of those vows of celery, so he is no judge,’ said Tysilia.

For the first time, it occurred to Bartholomew that in later life Tysilia might come to resemble the woman she claimed to find so ugly. Tysilia would be a lot bigger than the squat, buxom Blanche, and the combination would not be an attractive one. He had always considered Tysilia’s claims of beauty rather exaggerated in any case. He felt a surge of compassion for the bleak future she faced, when her looks would no longer guarantee her the lovers she craved.

‘Anyway,’ Tysilia went on, ‘there is a very good reason why Blanche cannot have mothered me. She is not William’s mother, so she cannot be mine.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in exasperation. Bartholomew heard him clear his throat, then adopt a more reasonable tone. ‘Tell us about William. How did you meet? Was he ever your lover?’

Tysilia sighed heavily. ‘Of course not! I am not a pervert, you know.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘You should tell Michael that decent women do not take their siblings to bed.’

‘I am sure he needs no tuition from me about suitable bed-mates,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why did you take Blanche’s cup?’

‘I took it because William promised to spirit me away from this place,’ said Tysilia. ‘I happen to know that staying in clean taverns and hiring horses is expensive. I have travelled a lot while attending the University of Life.’

‘Did you take the book, too?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the fact that most of the time she was locked up somewhere fairly remote.

‘No. I only removed things that would be easy to sell.’

‘A chalice would not have been easy,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Any monk or friar would take it,’ said Tysilia carelessly, and Bartholomew could see the white gleam of her vacant grin, even in the darkness. ‘They spend all their lives in churches, and so we could have sold a chalice to any of them.’

‘Not many would buy one that they thought was stolen,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Rubbish,’ said Tysilia and Michael at the same time. Bartholomew saw Tysilia interpret this as a sign that they were made for each other, and she moved closer to him again. Michael stepped around Bartholomew, and the physician found himself in the middle of an unpleasant grappling contest until he pushed them both firmly away.

‘Do you think one of Blanche’s retinue might have owned this book?’ he asked tiredly. It was very late, and he was growing weary of prising information from Tysilia. He began to acknowledge that Michael was right, and that she knew nothing worth telling after all.

‘None of them can read,’ said Tysilia. ‘A book is no good if you cannot read it, unless it has a lot of pictures. Those are the ones I like.’

‘Tell us about William,’ said Bartholomew, electing not to mention that the book they had found was full of beautiful illustrations. That she seemed not to know was probably proof that she was not the person who had stolen it. He sensed Michael was as exasperated with the interview as he was, and decided it was time to draw it to a close. ‘You said you knew a lot about him earlier. You were afraid that he might be in danger. Are you still afraid?’

‘I had forgotten about that,’ said Tysilia, glancing around her in agitation. ‘You should not have reminded me. Now I feel frightened, and Michael will have to put his arms around me.’

‘Michael will not,’ said the monk firmly. ‘Why did you think William was in danger?’

‘Glovere was dead,’ replied Tysilia. ‘And William said that he and I would be the killer’s next victims.’

‘Why did he say that?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling that they were finally getting somewhere.

‘Because I was speaking too loudly,’ said Tysilia sulkily. ‘He said we would be next because I was shouting, and that people would see us together when we met in the cemetery.’

Michael made an impatient sound. ‘He did not mean that literally. It sounds as though he was just trying to make you understand the need for discretion.’

‘Glovere died because he had enemies,’ Tysilia went on, oblivious to Michael’s frustration. ‘When I was still with Blanche, he told me that someone might try to kill him. He did not appear to take it seriously. But it seems he should have done.’

‘Who was going to kill him?’ demanded Michael immediately.

‘I do not know. Blanche said he was talking about the Bishop, but dear, sweet Uncle would harm no one. And then later, when I met William again, he told me there were dangerous people in Ely. He did not say who, though, before you ask.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. When he spoke again, his voice was more gentle; apparently he had decided he would learn more from her with kindness. ‘We must catch the killer before more lives are lost, Tysilia. Can you think of anything – anything at all – that might help us? Did William give you any clues about the identity of the killer?’

‘No,’ said Tysilia. ‘He talked about the places we would see together when we left Ely, but he said we would always come back here.’

‘Did he indeed?’ said Michael, surprised. ‘I had assumed that his removal of some of the priory’s property would have eliminated the notion of a triumphant return. Where did he say you might go?’

‘Upriver,’ said Tysilia. ‘But only for a short time. He was going to be Prior when Alan died, then Bishop when my uncle dies.’

‘How long have you known William?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tysilia regarded him uncertainly. ‘He is my brother. So I have known him since I was born, although I only met him a few days ago. But why are you asking all these questions when Michael and I could be doing something much more fun?’

‘Did you notice any change in William’s behaviour as time went on?’ asked Bartholomew, refusing to become sidetracked. ‘Has he seemed different to you? Nervous or uneasy?’

‘Of course,’ said Tysilia. ‘There is a killer on the loose. Who in his right mind would not be nervous or uneasy? That is why I am nervous and uneasy. I am in my right mind, you see.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘You have been very helpful.’

‘I know,’ said Tysilia confidently. ‘Everything I say is interesting and useful. But you owe me something for all my time. What do you say to a little–’

‘Matt will see you safely home,’ said Michael briskly, stepping away from her exploring hands once again. ‘I am too tired for anything you have in mind.’

‘But that is not fair!’ cried Tysilia in abject disappointment. Her voice was loud, and Bartholomew heard a lull in the chatter from the Outer Hostry above. ‘I have helped you, and now you must give me what I want.’

‘It is not fair,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I do not want to wander the town in the dark, either. I want to go to bed.’

‘But I do not want you in my bed,’ pouted Tysilia, mistaking his words for an offer. ‘I want Brother Michael.’

‘I am not available,’ proclaimed Michael grandly. ‘Go home, Tysilia, and take a cold bath.’

‘That was a waste of time,’ grumbled Michael when Bartholomew returned from seeing Tysilia safely back through the Bishop’s window a little later. The monk was waiting by the Steeple Gate so that some officious doorkeeper would not lock the physician out. He need not have worried: the lay-brother who guarded the door was sleeping soundly in his small chamber, and Michael was surprised his snores could not be heard by the Prior in his quarters. He recalled that Welles claimed to have slipped past him around the time that Thomas was murdered. ‘We should not have bothered to disturb our rest for that.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So why did you tell her she had been helpful? She was not.’

‘Tactics,’ replied Michael, vaguely. ‘If she is the accomplice of an evil killer, then he will be worried by my claim that she has assisted us. It may make him sufficiently anxious to do something rash, and may serve to flush him out.’

‘Or it may tell the killer that we know more than we do and put our lives in danger. I am not sure that was a wise thing to do.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael carelessly, as he closed the gate. ‘But it is irrelevant anyway: she knows nothing of interest and my cleverness was wasted.’

‘Do you think William is the killer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And that he is watching the city from a safe distance before selecting his next victim?’

‘I have no idea what William is or what his motives were in leaving. How Tysilia could believe that he is her brother is wholly beyond my understanding.’

‘She believes what she wishes were true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor Blanche. It sounds as if she tried hard to communicate with Tysilia, but Tysilia was too stupid to understand what she was being told.’

‘Well, we will find out more tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘We shall go upriver and see whether we can find this spot where the townsmen were murdered. Perhaps we will learn something new then.’

‘I hope so, Brother,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because if not, we have reached a dead end, and I do not know which way to turn next.’

Michael sighed. ‘The annoying thing is that I do not feel like sleeping any more. That Tysilia has unnerved me. I am wide awake, and my mind is teeming with questions.’

‘You will fall asleep once you lie down,’ said Bartholomew, who was suffering from no such complaint and was extremely drowsy.

‘I will not,’ declared Michael with grim determination. ‘I shall lie awake for hours. Then I shall disturb Northburgh and Stretton, who share my bedchamber. I feel like walking, to tire myself.’

‘What, now?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around unenthusiastically at the darkened buildings. ‘It is pitch black, and you said yourself that the killer could well be at large in the priory grounds. Walking alone in the dark is not a sensible thing to do.’

‘I was not thinking of going alone,’ said Michael. ‘I thought you would come with me. Besides, it is a hot and sticky night. You need to cool down before you head for your own bed.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘You are mad, Brother. But very well. Where do you want to go? Shall we risk breaking our necks on the graves in the cemetery, or shall we settle for a stumble among the roots of the vineyard?’

‘We can keep to the paths,’ said Michael testily. He gazed up at the sky. The clouds had parted, revealing a huge patch of sugar-spangled velvet. The stars seemed more bright than usual in the moonless sky, gleaming and flickering in their thousands. A white smear showed the presence of a belt of stars too small to be seen with the naked eye, although the ancient philosophers assured their readers that they were there.

Since they had met Tysilia, a light breeze had sprung up, rendering the night far more pleasant, despite Michael’s grumbles regarding the heat. It fanned their faces, blowing cool air from the east. In it was the faint tang of salt, reminding Bartholomew that a vast boggy sea lay only a few miles away. The breeze carried other scents, too, which were less pleasant: the sulphurous odour of the rotting vegetation and stagnant water that were the cause of so many summer fevers, and the stench of the city itself. Bartholomew fell into step with Michael, allowing the monk to lead them in a wide circle around the north wall of the cathedral and then towards the almonry.

Bartholomew thought about Robert, who had died while looking for William. The almoner now lay next to Thomas in the cathedral’s Lady Chapel, a great white whale of a corpse next to one that was darker and more swarthy in death than it had been in life. Both were due to be buried the following day, and the pomp and ceremony that was planned reflected the priory’s indignation that two of their number had been mercilessly slain, rather than genuine grief. Only Henry had shown any emotion other than outrage.

The almonry was a two-storeyed building that overlooked Steeple Row, and that had contained Robert’s lodgings as well as a dispensary for alms. Next to it was the sacristy, where the sacristan lived, along with all the sacred vessels and vestments that belonged to the cathedral and the monastery. Then there was a stretch of wall, and then the Bone House, where they had examined Glovere.

Bartholomew gazed at the Bone House with unease, thinking it a sinister place. He had encountered charnel houses aplenty, but these tended to be repositories for bones that were so ancient that they were all but unrecognisable. The Bone House contained rows of grinning skulls, many of them still boasting fragments of hair and patches of dried skin. One had even worn a hat – slipped at a crazy angle across one eye, but a cap, nevertheless.

‘There is a light in the Bone House,’ he said, startled out of his grim reverie. ‘Did you see it?’

‘No,’ said Michael, peering through the darkness. ‘You must have imagined it. No one is likely to be in the Bone House in the middle of the night.’

‘There it is again!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. There was a flicker, just under the shutter of the upper window. ‘You must have seen it!’

Michael frowned. ‘No one should be in there. Only a madman would want to be in the company of all those dead folk in the dark.’

‘Perhaps a madman, like our killer,’ said Bartholomew, gripping Michael’s arm, as a way to solve the murders suddenly opened up to him. ‘We should investigate this.’

‘We should find Cynric and Meadowman,’ said Michael, holding back. ‘This killer is a dangerous man.’

‘You are not afraid, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised by the monk’s reluctance to investigate. ‘He is only one man, Brother; we can tackle him between us.’

‘How do you know he is only one man? We have always assumed it is a single person, but there is nothing to confirm that we are right. It could be a group of men, all armed to the teeth, and with a good deal more experience of fulfilling their murderous intentions than either of us.’

‘I do not think so. Our killer works alone.’

‘And how are you suddenly so certain, pray?’

‘Simple logic, Brother. If there were two or more, working together, then one would hold the victim still while the other did the cutting. The grazing on the face and ear indicates that the victims were held down by means of a foot or a knee on their heads. There would be no reason to use feet and knees while there were hands to spare. Ergo, these murders look like the work of a single man.’

‘And you are prepared to stake your life on this reasoning?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘We have no choice. At the very least we have to investigate. We have been bemoaning the fact that the mystery seems to deepen with every fact we uncover, but here is an opportunity to catch the man himself.’

‘Of course, whatever we uncover in there might have nothing to do with the killer,’ Michael pointed out. ‘It could be someone with an unnatural penchant for bones in the dark.’

‘True,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And in that case, we have nothing to fear.’

‘Nothing much!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I do not want to catch that sort of person red-handed, thank you very much. He would probably try to kill us just to keep his foul obsession a secret.’

Tapping Michael sharply on the shoulder to give him encouragement, the physician began to edge towards the Bone House, taking care to tread carefully and to keep to the shadows. As they moved, he saw the flicker at the upper window a third time, and suspected that someone was walking back and forth, carrying a candle. It could not have provided much light, because the glimmer at the bottom of the window shutter was very slight and would not have been seen by anyone unless he happened to be looking at the Bone House at fairly close quarters. Whoever was inside doubtless imagined himself perfectly safe from discovery.

‘How many doors does this place have?’ whispered Bartholomew.

‘One, of course,’ replied Michael scornfully. ‘It is not somewhere that requires multiple entrances and exits.’

‘And how many windows?’

‘I do not know,’ whispered Michael crossly. ‘Two, I suppose – one on the upper floor, and one on the lower. But you have been in there yourself. Why are you asking me?’

‘It is your priory. You know it better than me.’ Bartholomew stood back to assess the building, piecing together what he could see with what he remembered. ‘Does it comprise a single chamber on the ground floor with a ladder leading to a single loft on the upper floor?’

‘I have only been inside it once and that was with you,’ grumbled Michael. ‘But yes, I think so. The bones are on the ground floor, while the loft is probably empty.’

‘Except for whoever is up there at the moment. I will go in through the door, while you stand at this corner and make sure that no one escapes through either window.’ He unlooped his medical bag from his shoulder and removed his heavy childbirth forceps, holding them in his right hand, as he would a club. Then he stuck one of his surgical knives in his belt.

‘Are you insane?’ demanded Michael, eyeing his preparations in alarm. ‘I was right in the first place: we should not do this alone. If we fail, the consequences do not bear thinking about. We cannot afford to let this man – or these men – escape and continue the bloody work.’

‘But he may be gone by the time we fetch Cynric and Meadowman,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And it would be a terrible thing to let this opportunity pass.’

‘It will be no opportunity at all if we are the next victims!’

‘But there may be no more victims if we can catch him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘We cannot risk him escaping now we have him cornered.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, clearly reluctant. ‘But I am not staying out here alone. Hand me that spade. If I encounter anyone inside, who so much as moves, I shall knock his brains out with it.’

He grasped the stout spade that leaned against the wall of the Bone House, and prepared to follow Bartholomew inside. The physician reached out and silently unlatched the door. As it swung open to reveal the black maw of the charnel house, he began to have second thoughts himself about the wisdom of the plan. Michael was almost certainly right about the killer’s cold ruthlessness, and they should have Cynric and Meadowman with them. He turned to admit as much to the monk, but Michael prodded him in the back, urging him to go ahead before he lost his nerve. Taking a deep breath that was tinged with the musty, wet smell of rotting bone, Bartholomew took a step forward into the house of the dead.

Inside the Bone House, the darkness was absolute after the starlight. Bartholomew and Michael waited for a few moments until their eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The skulls still sat in their eerie rows on shelves, and the dark mass of the pile of long bones could be seen on one side. To the other was the barrel that contained fragments of fingers, toes and crania.

Bartholomew peered around him, ignoring the dead inhabitants of the room and looking for its living occupant. He exchanged a glance with Michael, and then nodded to the ladder that ascended into the darkness of the upper floor. Michael shook his head vehemently, indicating that they should wait until whoever it was came down. Bartholomew hesitated, then nodded agreement. It would be difficult to climb a creaking ladder undetected, and the killer would merely strike at his head as soon as he was high enough. Michael was right: if they waited, then they would have the advantage. Treading silently, he eased into the darkest shadows with Michael next to him.

It seemed that whoever was upstairs had not detected their presence. They could hear his feet on the boards of the floor as he moved. Bartholomew shivered, suddenly chilled in the dankness. The walls were of wood, but they were thick, to keep their contents from the unwelcome attentions of dogs. The bones had been dug from damp earth, so there was a musty wetness in the atmosphere that was oppressive. Something dripped on his shoulder, and he imagined that while the walls were strong, the thatched roof was in a poor condition. Since the purpose of the Bone House was to deter animals that might make off with the bones, no one would be overly concerned about a leaking roof.

He and Michael waited in the shadows for what seemed like an age. The physician’s legs and back began to grow stiff from standing, and the drowsiness he had experienced earlier returned. If he had been sitting down, he would have fallen asleep. Next to him, Michael shifted uncomfortably, and Bartholomew wondered whether he should send the monk to fetch Cynric and Meadowman after all. When he whispered the suggestion into Michael’s ear, the monk shook his head vehemently. Although he sensed that they were making a mistake, Bartholomew was grateful for the reassuring presence of Michael at his side. A second drip of water from the roof above was loud in the silence.

Humans, living and dead, were not the only species that inhabited the Bone House. Tiny claws skittered across the floor and rustled in and out of the bones. While the thick walls kept out larger scavengers, rats had found gaps in the planking and had insinuated themselves inside. Bartholomew closed his eyes and listened, certain he could hear small teeth crunching.

After an eternity, there was increased activity from the floor above. The footsteps moved clear across the floor, and then someone began to descend the ladder. He carried a candle, and was moving cautiously, as if wary of falling. Bartholomew made out a pair of feet, then a swinging cloak that hid the clothes that were worn beneath. He strained his eyes, trying to determine whether he knew the person, and whether a monastic habit or secular clothes were being worn. But it was too dark, even with the candle, and Bartholomew could only make out the vaguest of shapes. When the person was halfway down the stairs, Bartholomew jumped in alarm as Michael issued a shriek of victory and dashed from his hiding place to make a grab for the mysterious figure.

If Bartholomew jumped in alarm, his reaction was mild to that of the man on the steps. He jolted violently, lost his grip and fell. The candle cartwheeled downwards and landed on the dirty blanket that had recently been used to cover Glovere’s body. The cover began to smoulder, releasing an unsteady, flickering light into the gloomy room.

Michael had anticipated hauling the man down by force, and was not ready for the sudden release of weight. He tumbled to the floor with the man on top of him. Recovering from his fright, Bartholomew sprang to the monk’s aid. The fellow on the ground struggled furiously, lashing out with his fists. Bartholomew heard the sharp crack of knuckles contacting nastily with bone, followed by a yelp of pain from Michael. He seized the man by a handful of his cloak and wrenched him away from the monk, who was on his knees with one hand fastened firmly to his nose.

The man stumbled over the pile of long bones, and when he straightened up again he held a femur. Bartholomew, his forceps at the ready, parried the first blow with ease, hearing the bone split as it met the metal. The man struck a second time, and the leg broke, so that the ball joint went cartwheeling away into the darkness. Using the same motion, the man struck upwards, attempting to use the jagged end of the shaft like a knife and catching Bartholomew a bruising blow under the ribs. The physician backed away but tripped over Michael, who was still crawling about on all fours.

Meanwhile, the flames had taken hold of Glovere’s blanket and were burning furiously. They crackled and hissed as they consumed the filthy wool, sending sparks snapping across the wooden floor. Some sawdust caught light and started to burn. The Bone House began to fill with white, choking smoke.

The man grabbed a skull and lobbed it towards them. It hit Michael on the shoulder with a hollow crack, then bounced away across the floor. The next one was aimed at the physician’s head, and he raised one hand to deflect it, dropping the forceps as he did so. He lunged forward again, aiming to grab the man and then hold him until Michael could help, but the man side-stepped quickly, and Bartholomew found himself with a grip that was inadequate. The force of his lunge caused him to lose his balance, and he fell.

With a dull roar, the fire took hold of something unidentifiable in a corner. As he tumbled, Bartholomew saw that flames were licking towards the pile of old coffins, too, and knew that the ancient wood would make excellent kindling.

He should not have allowed his attention to stray from his assailant. He felt a sudden pressure on his head. He struggled, but the man leaned his whole weight downward, and the physician found he was unable to move. And then he felt the prick of cold metal at the base of his skull.

Just when Bartholomew was certain it was all over, and that he would end his life on a filthy floor in a bone house with Michael soon to follow, the pressure was released. He heard a grunt and another crash, and flinched away as flames came too near his face. He saw Michael hovering above him. The man had gone, and the door was swinging open on its hinges.

‘My God, Matt …’ began the monk unsteadily.

‘Where did he go?’ demanded Bartholomew, scrambling to his feet.

‘He ran through the door. I saw him with that knife at your neck, and I thought–’

‘Which way?’ Bartholomew made for the entrance. ‘Did you see who it was?’

‘No, I–’

‘You mean he escaped?’ shouted Bartholomew aghast, looking this way and that across the dark priory grounds. There was no movement anywhere, in any direction. Their quarry had bested them both and had slipped away into the night. ‘But we had him in our clutches!’

‘The fire!’ shouted Michael. ‘Quick! Help me before it takes hold.’

He flapped ineffectually at the flames that licked at the old coffins, making them burn more vigorously than ever. Bartholomew leaned hard against the barrel of bone fragments until it toppled, sending its damp, mouldering contents skittering across the floor. He threw handfuls of them at the sparks until they had been smothered. Shaking and breathless, he walked outside, where he took several breaths of clean night air. He wiped a hand across his face and looked at Michael, then swore softly, startling the monk with a sudden string of obscenities.

‘It was not my fault,’ began Michael defensively. ‘When he fell on me, he knocked me all but witless for a few moments. When I came to my senses, I saw him kneeling on top of you with that nasty little blade gleaming in the firelight, and I thought I was already too late. I hit him with the spade as hard as I could, then came to see if you were still alive.’

‘You let him go,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘You should have given chase.’

‘I shall, next time,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You must excuse me, Matt: I was sentimental enough to place concern for a friend over catching a criminal.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, relenting when he saw the monk’s face was white, and that there was an unhealthy sheen of sweat on it. His nose was bleeding, too.

‘I am sorry,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I am sorry I listened to you in the first place. I told you we should have fetched Cynric and Meadowman, and that we would not be able to manage this man by ourselves. I was right and you were wrong.’

‘We were careless. We should not have allowed him to defeat us.’

‘We should not,’ agreed Michael vehemently. ‘But next time, we will do what I think is right. And I will concentrate all my efforts on catching him and you can fend for yourself.’

‘Your nose is bleeding,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his medicine bag and handing the monk a clean piece of linen. ‘Sit down and tilt your head back.’

‘Not out here, thank you very much,’ said Michael stiffly, snatching the linen ungraciously. ‘For all I know, that murderer is still close by, watching our every move. I will not sit down and present my throat to him like a lamb for the slaughter.’

‘He has long gone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He knew he was nearly caught, and will not be lurking around to see what will happen next. I suppose it was the killer, was it?’

‘Of course it was!’ exploded Michael furiously. ‘How can you even ask such a thing, when you lay there with his knee on your head and felt the steel of his blade against your neck? My God, Matt! It is a sight that will haunt my dreams for years to come. I feel sick just thinking about it, and it makes the blood drum in my ears.’

Bartholomew took his arm and led him inside the Bone House. The smoke was dissipating, and the stink of burning was losing its battle against the more powerful odour of rotting bone. He indicated that Michael should perch on the overturned barrel for a few moments, to recover himself. The monk sat heavily, forcing Bartholomew to make a grab for it when it threatened to roll. On the shelf under the window was a small dish and a candle stub, apparently used by workmen when they brought their finds for storage. The physician struck a tinder, and filled the room with an unsteady, flickering light. Michael glanced up at him, and then gasped in horror.

‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew, looking around him in alarm.

‘Blood!’ muttered Michael, rubbing a shaking hand across his eyes. ‘Lots of it.’

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, snatching up the candle. Then he saw what Michael meant. The floor was stained dark with congealing blood, much of it scuffed and spread by their feet during the skirmish that had taken place. ‘Oh.’

‘Not on the floor,’ whispered Michael, raising fearful eyes to Bartholomew. ‘On you. He must have stabbed you after all. I am having a conversation with a ghost!’

Bartholomew twisted, and saw that the shoulder and arm of his shirt were stained a bright red. Horrified, he felt the back of his neck, but there was no wound that he could find, and certainly no tenderness. He knew very well that some men were stabbed or shot and did not know pain until later, but he was certain he would be able to feel something. And then he remembered the drops of moisture that had dripped as he waited for the killer to descend the ladder. It was not his own blood that stained his shirt. His instincts told him to rush up the ladder immediately, to see if he could help, but the rational part of his mind informed him that there would be little he could do for anyone relieved of as much blood as lay pooled on the floor of the Bone House. His first duty was to the living, to Michael, who gazed at him with eyes that were wide with shock.

‘Drink this,’ he said, reaching into his bag and producing a phial. It was stronger than the brew he usually used for shocks, but Henry still had his other one. ‘And then we will go upstairs and see what has happened.’

‘What is it?’ asked Michael, regarding the phial suspiciously. ‘I do not like drinking medicine handed to me in the dark. You may make a mistake and hand me a purge.’

‘Just strong wine.’

‘Wine,’ said Michael, taking it from him eagerly. ‘That is more like it. I had forgotten you have taken to carrying a little something around with you these days.’

‘It is not for me, and not for casual drinking,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is for emergencies.’

‘This is an emergency,’ said Michael, putting his lips to the neck of the flask and all but emptying it in a single swallow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘That is better. Wine is indeed a good remedy for unsteady nerves.’

‘Are you feeling better, then?’ asked Bartholomew, holding the candle closer to Michael’s face. He was relieved to see that some of the colour was creeping back into the monk’s cheeks, and his eyes were losing their haunted expression.

‘I do not know which was worse: having a killer land on me, or seeing him prepared to make an end of you. I thought my lunge with the spade was too late.’

‘You hit him?’

‘As hard as I could. However, it was not as hard as I would have liked – this is a small room, and there was no opportunity to swing the thing properly. I imagine it brought tears to his eyes, though.’

‘Where did you hit him?’

‘I was afraid he might duck if I aimed for his head, and then I would be off balance and he might succeed in stabbing us both. I aimed for his shoulders, but actually caught him on the back. Why do you ask?’

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘If you had injured his face, we might have been able to identify him tomorrow. But it will be difficult to see whether anyone has a bruised back.’

‘I should have thought of that,’ said Michael caustically. ‘I seem to be slipping tonight. First, I let a killer go because I was more interested in trying to save your life, and then I hit him in a place where you will not be able to see the wound.’

‘I did not mean to sound ungracious,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘I am just frustrated that we had the damned man in our clutches, but he still managed to escape.’

‘It is too late to worry about that now. We did our best. It is not our fault we are not experts at wrestling in the dark with murderers, although we have done it often enough. Our performance tonight was not our finest hour. I am not a man for superstition, as you know, but I cannot help but think there was something diabolical about his strength.’

‘There was not. We stumbled around like old ladies, and he merely took advantage of our ineptitude. He was not as diabolical as our performance.’

Michael smiled wanly.

‘We should look upstairs,’ said Bartholomew unenthusiastically. ‘Something horrible is up there, and I think we should probably see what it is.’

‘You go,’ suggested Michael. ‘I have seen enough vile things for one night. And anyway, I still feel unsteady around the legs.’

‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. ‘Perhaps I should escort you back to your room, so that you can lie down and rest a while. I can always come back later.’

‘We should get it over with,’ said Michael, climbing stiffly to his feet. He drained the last of the wine, and handed the empty flask back to Bartholomew. ‘That is a decent brew, Matt. I shall have to remember where you keep it.’

Bartholomew walked to the ladder and raised the candle to illuminate the darkness. He could see nothing, except that the rungs of the ladder were stained with red. Some had aged to a dark brown, but the most recent coat was a bright crimson.

‘I do not recall seeing these marks when we examined Glovere,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But I did not look. This is not a pleasant place, and I remember wanting to finish and be out as soon as possible.’

‘The ladder may have been discoloured before, but blood was not dripping through the ceiling. I would have noticed that.’ Bartholomew raised the candle again, and inspected the floor.

‘Are you going up, or shall we just stand here and stare at this mess all night?’ demanded Michael peevishly.

‘All right,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘I am going. Do not rush me.’ He placed the candle holder between his teeth and prepared to climb.

With the candle wavering in front of his eyes, he climbed slowly up the ladder, trying to ignore the unpleasant stickiness under his fingers. He wondered who the killer had dispatched in the chill gloom of the Bone House. Was it Mackerell or William? Or was it Mackerell or William with whom they had wrestled downstairs? It had been impossible to tell much in the dark. Or was the killer someone totally different – one of the gypsies, perhaps, or de Lisle, or a monk or one of the townsfolk?

He swallowed hard as he reached the top of the steps, to fortify himself for the unpleasant sight he was sure he would see. With his head and shoulders poking into the upper floor, he took the candle-holder from between his teeth and looked around.

‘What can you see?’ whispered Michael urgently. ‘Is it William or Mackerell’s exsanguinated corpse up there?’

‘Neither,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘No one is here.’

‘What?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘That blood belongs to someone.’

‘Obviously. But its owner is not here.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. Bartholomew felt the ladder bend under his feet as the monk began to climb. ‘Let me see.’

Bartholomew clambered into the attic room, and waited for Michael to heave his bulk up the ladder. Then both men looked around them.

The attic was essentially bare, with a few shelves nailed to one wall, as if the original builders had anticipated that they would recover more skulls than the ones stored downstairs. Bartholomew suspected that the Bone House was not a popular place to visit, and that the workmen tended to dump their finds in the lower room, then leave as quickly as possible. None were keen to take the additional few steps to carry their finds to the upper floor, and so while the downstairs was crammed to the gills, the upper room was empty. And now, because the foundations for the parish church and the Lady Chapel were completed, and the finds were becoming infrequent, it was unlikely that the upper floor would receive any bony remains at all.

However, someone had found a use for it. A crate had been carried up the steps and placed upside down, so that it could be used as a seat, while two of the shelves had been pulled from the wall and balanced between the windowsill and a roof post, forming a kind of workbench. On it were pots and bottles, and a large vat of a red substance that Bartholomew knew was blood. He gazed down at the floor, revolted to see that it was deeply impregnated with the stuff, and that it felt sticky under his feet. It stank, too, the earthy sweetness of fresh blood overlying the bad odour of something rotten.

‘What is that awful smell?’ asked Michael, repelled. ‘And what was the fellow doing here?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. He began to pick up bottles at random, sniffing at their contents and tipping them this way and that so that he could examine them in the candlelight.

‘It looks like a workshop,’ said Michael, peering into the farthest corners. ‘Perhaps that is why you saw so little bleeding on the victims: perhaps he drained their blood when they died to use here.’

‘It would not be easy to exsanguinate someone from a small puncture wound in the back of the neck. If you wanted to kill for blood, you would have to slit a major vessel, and keep the person alive as long as possible, so that it all drains out.’

‘Like butchers with pigs,’ said Michael distastefully. ‘I have never liked blood pudding for exactly that reason. But is that what happened here – the killer wanted his victims’ blood?’

‘I cannot begin to imagine what he was doing, but there are pots of what appear to be different kinds of soil: here is peat, and this looks like the clay we have near Cambridge, while this small one seems to be powdered gold.’

Michael went to prod about under the eaves. He was silent for a moment, then gave a shrill shriek before leaping backward.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew unsteadily, afraid the monk had finally found something truly repellent.

‘There,’ whispered Michael, pointing.

Bartholomew peered into the darkness and saw what had so alarmed the monk. In a piece of sacking, untidily wrapped, protruded the bloody end of a recently chopped bone.

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, speaking in a voice that betrayed his relief as he studied the grisly object. ‘It is only part of a pig.’

‘A pig?’ echoed Michael, his face pale in the candlelight. ‘Are you sure?’

‘You can tell by the shape. It is fairly fresh, and leads me to believe that the bucket of blood on the bench may belong to the same animal. There is nothing here to suggest it is human.’

‘There is not a great deal to suggest it is not,’ countered Michael, gazing around him with a shudder. ‘I do not like being here, Matt. We have assumed the killer has gone, but he is not like other criminals we have encountered, and he does not do what we expect.’

Bartholomew followed him down the ladder, and then into the comparative warmth of the night air outside, grateful to be away from the Bone House and its sinister contents. He walked with the monk towards the Black Hostry, taking deep breaths of air to clear the cloying odour of death from his lungs. He felt a certain unsteadiness in his own knees, and wished he had not allowed the monk to drink all his wine; a sip or two would be just the thing to calm his battered nerves.

‘There is the call for lauds,’ said Michael, as a small bell began to chime. ‘It is almost morning, and we have been chasing shadows all night.’

‘But we have learned little of interest,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘We know that the killer collects phials of soil and pig blood, but we have no idea why. And we know he is an able fighter who bested us with ease.’

‘Tysilia told us nothing of use, and we are still missing William and Mackerell. It would not surprise me at all to learn that they are both dead.’

‘We will rest for an hour or two, and then walk up the river, to see what we can find. And while we are out, we can visit Mackerell’s house. Perhaps he is in it, hiding.’

‘We can try, I suppose,’ said Michael without enthusiasm. ‘But I have searched it twice already and found nothing to help us. Do you think he is the man who likes making blood pies in the Bone House?’

‘Symon did say he thought he saw him in the priory grounds the other day,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘But William is more my idea of a killer than Mackerell.’

‘Mackerell is foul tempered, abusive and dishonest. And William is cunning and sly. Both possess qualities that may make them murderers.’

‘Perhaps we will learn which one is our culprit tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew tiredly.

‘I do not believe that traipsing all over the countryside will achieve anything. Still, it is better than sitting here and dwelling on our failure. We will sleep until the breakfast bell rings, eat a little something, and then do as you suggest and wander upriver. If we leave early, it will not be too hot.’

Bartholomew went straight to his bed, then slept like the dead for three hours. He woke feeling sluggish and tired. He ate breakfast alone in the infirmary, while Henry fussed over his old men, and Julian and Welles were nowhere to be seen. Breakfast comprised more of the priory’s delicious bread, a plate of smoked eels and a dish of apples. He considered visiting Ely more often, where he fared far better in the culinary department than at Michaelhouse. It was good to experience a change from watery oatmeal and cloudy breakfast ale, even if such luxuries did come attached to wrestling with killers in bone houses in the middle of the night.

When he had finished eating, he went to talk to Henry. The infirmarian seemed listless, and Bartholomew suspected he had spent much of the night in prayer, asking forgiveness for the neglect that had brought about the sub-prior’s death. He gave Bartholomew a wan smile, and leaned back in his chair, putting down the pen with which he had been writing.

‘It looks as though you slept badly again,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically.

‘I was in the cathedral until well after midnight, and then exhaustion overtook me. But, when I came to my bed, I found that every time I closed my eyes, the spectre of Thomas arose before me.’

‘Spectre?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. Somehow, he could not envisage the obese sub-prior in ghostly form. It would be more amusing than disturbing.

‘Yes,’ said Henry, pointing a finger in accusation. ‘I think his spirit blames me for where it is.’

‘Purgatory?’

Henry shook his head. ‘Hell! A man like Thomas will not be in Purgatory: he was too selfish and greedy. But did you learn anything from your meeting with that woman? You told me you were going to meet the Bishop’s niece, although how a good man like that can be related to such a wanton soul is wholly beyond me.’

‘De Lisle is fond of her,’ said Bartholomew carefully, not wanting the kindly infirmarian to know that the relationship was a good deal closer than everyone was led to believe.

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Henry. ‘He is complex: arrogant and condescending one moment, but capable of great acts of kindness and compassion the next. Did you know that during the Death he was tireless in his care of the sick? He visited the houses of the poor to grant them absolution before they died without a thought for his own safety. How many bishops did that?’

‘Not many,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And his care of Tysilia shows him in a good light. He has taken her to all sorts of places in an attempt to find somewhere she might be happy. She even spent a short spell in a leper hospital.’

‘Why there?’ asked Henry, bewildered. ‘That does not sound very safe.’

‘Brother Urban is good with diseases of the mind, and de Lisle wanted him to observe Tysilia, to see whether anything could be done for her.’

‘Nothing can,’ said Henry confidently. ‘The disease is permanent and incurable. She is a lunatic, and that is all there is to it. She is probably harmless, but she will never find a place in normal society.’

Bartholomew’s own experiences with Tysilia led him to concur with Henry’s diagnosis. ‘She told us little of use last night. Everything she said was hearsay, and she knows nothing that can help us. But you say you left the cathedral after midnight. Did you see anything unusual?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Michael and I met the killer last night. He was doing something horrible with pots of dirt and what appeared to be the parts of a dead pig. We disturbed him at his work and wrestled with him, but he escaped.’

‘You encountered him?’ breathed Henry in horror. ‘You had this man in your grasp and you let him go?’

‘We did not do it intentionally,’ said Bartholomew, slightly testily. ‘But it happened just after midnight, so did you see anything?’

Henry shook his head slowly. ‘Nothing that could be relevant. The gypsies were at St Etheldreda’s shrine for a long time.’

‘When, exactly?’ Bartholomew pounced. ‘And why?’

‘They were kneeling at the altar. But they have as much right to be there as anyone else. Just because they are strangers, with a way of life that is different from ours, does not mean that we should persecute them.’

‘Is that all they were doing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Praying?’

‘I said they were kneeling,’ corrected Henry. ‘I might have taken some action if they were making a noise or looking suspicious, but they were not. They were kneeling very quietly and respectfully. I saw no reason to speak to them or to ask them what they were doing.’

‘And it was about midnight?’ pressed Bartholomew, wanting to be certain.

‘I think so,’ said Henry. ‘I find it hard to judge time in the dark. I suppose it was an unusual hour for them to be in a church, but our doors are always open to those who need comfort.’

‘The gypsies have prayed at the shrine before,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about one of the times he had met Eulalia.

‘Perhaps they had been working all evening. At this time of year, there is a lot to be done for the harvest and it is not unusual for people to labour until midnight.’

‘We will find out,’ said Bartholomew. He sincerely hoped Eulalia and her brothers were not the ones responsible for the strange happenings in the Bone House. He forced himself to think rationally, trying not to allow his fondness for the woman to colour his thoughts.

However, all the victims had been killed in an unusual way, and the gypsies could have heard of such a method of execution during their travels. It also required someone with a degree of strength – which Guido, Goran and Rosel possessed in abundance. And although he had insisted to Michael that there was only a single killer, Bartholomew saw that it was possible that one did the grisly work while the others kept watch to ensure the killer was not disturbed. However, he reasoned, there had only been one of them last night in the Bone House.

He wondered whether the fact that the killer had been inside the priory precincts was evidence that would exonerate the gypsies and put the blame instead on someone at the monastery – like the missing William, or Blanche and her retinue. But the gatekeeper had been sleeping, and Bartholomew himself had passed in and out with no questions asked. Someone from the town could easily have gained access. The Bone House was not a place to which most people willingly ventured, so someone could even have slipped into it during the day and hidden there until dark.

So, what did all this tell him? He rubbed a hand through his hair in exasperation when he realised that it told him nothing at all, and that his list of suspects was just as long as ever. The only people who were definitely innocent were the men who had already died. And there was nothing to say whether Eulalia and her clan were innocent or guilty, although Bartholomew thought it odd that they should choose midnight to pray to St Etheldreda.

‘Was there anything else?’ he asked.

‘The Bishop was there, too, saying a mass for Thomas,’ said Henry after a moment.

‘At midnight?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Is that not an odd time for masses?’

Henry shrugged noncommittally. ‘I am sure Thomas is grateful for all the masses he can get – regardless of the time they are said.’ Bartholomew imagined that was true. ‘But let us talk of medical matters. What do you prescribe for backache?’

‘Backache?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling Michael’s blow with the spade the night before. He gazed at the physician. But Henry could not be the killer! He had been eliminated as a suspect because he drooled when he slept.

‘I have had two cases already this morning, would you believe,’ Henry continued with a smile. ‘It is not unusual to see such ailments: those who labour in their fields often have aching bones at the end of the day, while poring over scripts in the chapter house or the library sometimes gives rise to discomfort.’

‘Who came to see you today?’ demanded Bartholomew eagerly.

Henry was surprised at his interest. ‘One was Bishop de Lisle, although I cannot imagine that he was harvesting crops or meditating on sacred scripts. And the other was Symon, who said he had been working in the library all yesterday.’

‘He was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was there in the afternoon, and I was alone.’

‘He is rather given to exaggeration.’

‘That is a polite way of putting it. He is a liar.’

Henry would not be drawn into agreeing outright. ‘He is cautious with the truth. Perhaps he imagines that if he uses it too often, he will run out.’

‘I think he has run out already,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But we should have a word with him. Maybe this mess will not be so difficult to resolve after all.’

‘What has Symon’s backache to do with finding your killer?’

‘Michael struck the murderer hard as he was about to make an end of me. The man will now be nursing a bruised spine.’

At that moment the door opened, and Julian arrived to begin his daily duties. He nodded a greeting to Bartholomew and Henry, before placing both hands over the small of his back.

‘Lord!’ he muttered. ‘Drying herbs is better than being assigned to mucking out the pigs or digging turnips, but leaning over them makes my back horribly sore!’