A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 12

Time lost all meaning for Bartholomew. It could have been an hour or a good deal longer that he was bound hand and foot, with the sack pulled so tightly over his head that he could scarcely breathe, let alone hear or see. He felt himself bundled through the window, then dumped among the wheat that was being loaded on to the cart in the yard. A couple of sacks were placed on top of him, so that he would be invisible to anyone who happened to notice the procession of gypsies in the night.

They rattled along at a cracking pace, with the sacks lurching from side to side and threatening to topple. Bartholomew wondered whether the clan intended to travel to London with him trussed up like a Yuletide chicken, and was not sure that he would survive the journey. He could not feel his legs, and he was becoming dizzy and disoriented from the lack of air. He had no idea what they planned to do with him, but suspected that the murder of a clansman was regarded as a serious offence, and that they intended to dispense their own justice. He expected to be taken to some remote place deep in the marshes, where they would slit his throat and dump his body in one of the deeper bogs, where it would never be found.

Just when he was beginning to think that they merely intended him to suffocate slowly over a period of several hours, he felt someone fiddle with the knots that held the sack in place. When it was removed, he saw a blaze of firelight. He began to cough, gulping fresh air into his lungs and feeling his eyes burn at the sudden brightness. When he could see properly, he glanced around him. He knew he was somewhere in the Fens: he could smell the marshes, and could hear reeds hissing softly in the gentle night breeze. He was in a small clearing, where the clan had made a camp for themselves. Some people were sleeping, huddled forms in the long grass covered with brightly coloured blankets, while others sat around the fire and talked in low voices. Eulalia was standing over him, her face creased with concern.

‘Are you all right?’

He nodded, biting back an angrier and more truthful response. But he decided there was nothing to be gained from rudeness, and the last thing he wanted was the sack back in its place. ‘Where are we?’

She began sawing at the ropes that bound him. ‘At our camp. Do not worry; you are safe.’

‘I do not feel safe,’ he muttered, rubbing his arms as he glanced over at several burly cousins who seemed to be honing the blades of their knives or oiling the strings on their bows. Blood was beginning to flow back into his limbs, and the sensation was not a pleasant one. He knew he would not be able to run far should they attack. ‘Where is Guido?’

‘Dead,’ said Eulalia, nodding to a large wicker chest on the ground nearby. It was the kind of box that was used to store clothes. Bartholomew supposed that coffins were not items that the clan carried as a matter of course, and that they used whatever came to hand as and when the need arose. The basket did not look long enough to hold Guido, and the physician did not like to imagine how they had prised him into it.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, looking away.

‘He did not die easily, so it was fortunate that his suffering did not last too long.’

‘I could not have saved him, but I might have been able to alleviate some of the pain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should have let me help.’

‘But then you would never have proved your innocence to my people,’ she replied. ‘It was better for you that you did not try.’

‘I do not understand. You asked for my assistance …’

‘At first, yes. But when I saw that Guido was dying, I decided it would be best if you went nowhere near him. The kind of curses he was uttering are taken seriously by my people. The only way I saw to prevent one of them from killing you there and then was to suggest that we deal with you later. I said we should not leave blood and a body in the tavern.’

‘Very practical,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around him uneasily. ‘How long do I have before they claim bloodstains in the Fens do not matter?’

She smiled. ‘I have already told you that you have nothing to fear.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You thought I poisoned him. Why are you helping me?’

She shook her head. ‘You are not the kind of man to commit murder. However, de Lisle paid Guido two groats for pretending to be Blanche.’

‘De Lisle?’ asked Bartholomew, not seeing at all where her logic was taking him. ‘What does he have to do with Guido’s death?’

‘Well, it was Ralph who actually gave Guido the coins, but they came from de Lisle’s coffers.’

‘Are you saying that Ralph killed Guido?’ asked Bartholomew. His head throbbed from tiredness and tension, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate. ‘But how? He was not in the Mermaid tavern, and Guido drank from my wineskin, not one provided by Ralph or de Lisle.’

‘Think,’ said Eulalia. ‘What did Guido put in his mouth, other than wine?’

‘The coins!’ said Bartholomew, understanding at last. ‘He bit the coins de Lisle paid him.’

In an age when forgers and coin-clippers were commonplace, only a fool did not inspect his money carefully before accepting it. Ralph and de Lisle would know that Guido would place any money given to him in his mouth. But a compound of mercuric salts – which Bartholomew thought was what had killed Guido – was an odd poison to employ. Still, Bartholomew supposed that they were unlikely to be spoiled for choice in Ely, and might well use any potion they happened to lay their hands on.

‘But why should de Lisle and Ralph want Guido dead?’

‘So that he would not tell anyone about Goran pretending to be Blanche,’ said Eulalia, as though it were obvious. ‘It would not look good for my brother to reappear in the future and claim that de Lisle had paid him to set fire to his own house.’

‘But surely the whole clan was aware of the plan,’ objected Bartholomew, unconvinced. ‘And, as you say, it was Goran who pretended to be Blanche, but he was not poisoned.’

‘It was Guido with whom Ralph negotiated. He will assume that Guido’s fate will serve to silence the rest of us.’

‘And you are prepared to ride away from Ely, knowing that de Lisle or Ralph took the life of your king?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

Eulalia gave her enigmatic smile. ‘I have not left your side since Guido died, so I have taken no revenge. However, the night is dark, and who knows where Goran may have gone?’

Bartholomew felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. ‘I hope he has not gone after de Lisle!’

‘Personally, I doubt that de Lisle knew anything about the poisoned coins. I think Ralph was using his own initiative.’

‘Then we must stop Goran,’ said Bartholomew, trying to stand. His legs were like rubber, and he collapsed back on to the grain sacks. He gestured urgently to the men sitting around the fire. ‘Send one of them after him. De Lisle will not look the other way while your brother murders his most loyal servant, and Ralph will fight. Ralph might end up killing Goran!’

She rested her hand on his knee, and pointed to where Goran’s burly shape could be seen huddled on the far side of the clearing. ‘It is already too late. Goran returned just before I released you, to tell the clan that the balance has been redressed. Ralph died in his sleep.’

Bartholomew regarded her in horror. ‘You mean Goran climbed into his room and shoved a pillow over his face or some such thing? I thought you told me your people were not killers!’

‘We are not,’ she said indignantly. ‘But we believe in natural justice. Ralph killed Guido, and Guido’s spirit would not rest easy while Ralph lived. You heard the curses my brother screamed with his dying breath. They were strong words, and the clan does not want them travelling with us when we leave. You were lucky that Goran distinctly recalls Guido biting the coins after he had drained your wine, or you would have died to appease our brother’s restless ghost.’

They were silent for a while, looking through the darkness to the trees that surrounded the gypsy camp. Dawn was still some way off, and the Fens were silent and still. A light mist curled out of the marshes, adding an eerie whiteness to the night. An owl hooted, and some creature gave a short, shrill screech. Bartholomew understood why men like Mackerell, and even Michael, thought the Fens different from the civilised world, and why the notion of water-spirits did not seem so far-fetched there.

‘You were right about Guido killing William,’ said Eulalia eventually. ‘He seemed almost proud of the fact.’

‘Thank you for helping me,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the strength finally beginning to return to his legs. He started to stand, but Eulalia rested a hand on his chest.

‘Do not go yet.’ She went to the fire and came back with a steaming bowl.

‘What is it?’ The contents of the dish were mysterious and unidentifiable in the darkness, but Bartholomew detected herbs in it that he had not smelled since he had been in the southernmost parts of France many years before. For a moment, he felt he was there again, walking in the forests that tumbled down to little coves hiding secret beaches. It was a land of oranges and browns and emerald greens, with air that was always fragrant with flowers, earthy shrubs and the sea.

‘Those are herbs I collected and dried myself on our travels,’ she replied with a grin, her teeth white in the gloom. ‘And duck from the priory’s fields. Eat it. It will restore your strength.’

It was delicious, and Bartholomew felt a pang of regret that he would probably never again travel to distant places where the spices and flavours of the foods and wines were so different from those in England.

‘Now we are even, you and I,’ she said, watching him in the darkness. ‘You helped us in the Heyrow, and I have saved you. Neither is in the other’s debt.’

‘I will always be in your debt. You risked a good deal to save me.’

‘I did not! I merely told the truth. But what I said to you in that horrible tavern is right: we have not been made welcome in Ely this year, and it is time to move on to a place where the inhabitants might see us as something other than a band of vagabonds.’

‘Even so, they should watch their ducks,’ said Bartholomew.

She laughed, a pleasant, low sound that was a welcome change after all the misery and pain he had witnessed that night. ‘We will take Guido with us and bury him in a secret place among the marshes, where the water-spirits will guard him.’

‘Make sure he does not float,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking that the basket might act like a raft, and bear Guido Moses-like on all manner of journeys. ‘You do not want him sailing into Ely in a year’s time.’

She gazed at him uncomfortably. ‘What do you suggest? We cannot take him with us in this heat. And I do not want him buried in Ely. St Etheldreda might not like him near her after what he has done.’

‘Punch holes in the basket and weigh it down with stones. It will not take long, then you can be sure that he will stay where you leave him.’

‘Will you help me? I do not want my first command as king to be such a ghoulish one. My people are superstitious, and that might be seen as a bad omen.’

‘You are king?’ he asked, surprised.

‘The clan told me that I had been chosen as Guido’s successor when Goran returned from … dealing with Ralph. I thought they would elect him, but they wanted me instead.’

‘Then they are a wise people,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you will be a wise leader.’

‘I know,’ she said simply. ‘But filling my brother’s coffin with stones is a distasteful task that should be completed quickly, before we have time to think about it. We should do it now while it is still dark.’

Stones were not a commodity that was in great supply in the Fens. Any rock that had littered the landscape had long since been gathered by local people for building; the rest had been imported at great expense. There were scraps of flint, but it would take a great many of them to make the coffin sufficiently heavy. They were beginning to think that they might have to fell a tree when Bartholomew’s eyes lit on the sacks of grain that had given him such an uncomfortable journey.

‘No,’ said Eulalia. ‘That wheat is valuable to us.’

‘It looks like the cereal that was paid to the priory in tithes,’ said Bartholomew, patting one of the sacks. It had a hard, dense feel, just like the one he had fallen on in the granary, which had split to reveal that it contained mostly grit. ‘Symon probably arranged for Leycestre to steal it from the barn near the Broad Lane gate.’

‘He did,’ said Eulalia with a grin. ‘Father John said the priory always demands the best grain from its tenants, and so this should be some of the finest in the area.’

‘Unfortunately, you will find it is mostly sand,’ said Bartholomew.

She gazed at him for a moment, then took a knife from her belt and slit one of the sacks. The top third or so contained a beautiful golden wheat, but the rest was full of gravel. She stared at it in dismay, before her eyes crinkled with laughter.

‘We were cheated by a priest!’

‘He is a priest who stole from the priory, and who is not averse to looking the other way while murder is committed. You should not be surprised.’

‘I suppose not. But help me with this. The priory’s gravel shall give Guido a decent grave.’

For the next hour, she and Bartholomew worked together, packing the gravel around Guido’s corpse. Because the basket was too short, Guido’s legs were bent, and he lay on one side, as if curled in sleep. He seemed curiously peaceful, devoid of the scowl that had marred his swarthy features in life. Bartholomew had seen some terrifying grimaces on the faces of poison victims, and was glad Eulalia’s brother had been spared that indignity.

When they had finished, Eulalia sealed the coffin and nodded in satisfaction. Then she rummaged in one of the carts and emerged with a small bottle.

‘Here is your black resin. I said I would keep it for you.’

Bartholomew took it from her and examined it in the faint light of the dying fire. ‘I will think of you when I use it.’

‘Come with us,’ she said suddenly. ‘You have travelled in the past, and I know you want to do so again. I saw your face when you tasted the herbs that were grown under the Mediterranean sun. You longed to go back there. And life as the consort of a gypsy king can be very pleasant.’

‘I am sure it is. But my life is here, with my students and my teaching.’

She smiled sadly and touched his face lightly with her fingers. ‘Pity.’

Much later, when dawn came and the sun cast pale shadows across the dark countryside, they still lay together in the tall grass, talking in low voices about their lives and their dreams. When the clan began to harness the horses and kick out the embers of the fire, Bartholomew slipped away, but did not return to the priory. He watched them pack the last of their belongings and heave Guido’s coffin on to a cart. The last he ever saw of Eulalia was as she took the reins to lead her people out of the Fen glade and towards the road that led north.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael, hurrying to meet him as the physician walked through the Steeple Gate. It was still early, but the sun was up and its rays were already warm, presaging another scorching day. ‘Cynric and I have been looking for you everywhere.’

‘With the gypsies. Guido is dead, and he confessed to William’s murder. He said he did not kill the others, though, and I think he was telling the truth.’

‘He was,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Our killer has been busy again, and last night he claimed yet another victim.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘Where is Cynric?’

Michael gave a hollow smile. ‘You need not worry about him; he is more than capable of looking after himself. The killer took Symon this time.’

‘But he is locked in the Prior’s prison. Or, at least, he was.’

‘Keys and bolts do not deter our man. I am on my way there now, to ask Leycestre and his nephews whether they saw anything useful.’

‘Our list of suspects is becoming smaller all the time,’ observed Bartholomew, falling into step with him. ‘Symon was near the top, as far as I was concerned, but now we know the gypsies are innocent and so was he.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael harshly. ‘It is just a pity we know people are innocent only because they are dead, and not because we deduced it for ourselves. We must resolve this soon, Matt, or people will begin to say that I am waiting for everyone in Ely to die, and will only know the culprit when he is the last man left alive.’

Cynric came running to meet them when they reached the cathedral; he smiled in relief when he saw Bartholomew was safe. ‘Ralph is dead,’ he said conversationally. ‘De Lisle found him at dawn, and is said to be rather peeved about it. The rumour is that Ralph had a fatal seizure when told he had to mind Tysilia for the rest of the summer.’

As they walked towards the prison, which was located near the castle ruins, Bartholomew told them exactly what had happened the night before, including John’s role in the affair. Michael shook his head in disbelief, and said that the priest had been at prime that morning as usual, and had been more vocal in his prayers than ever. His congregation had been enormous, with people coming from every corner of his parish to direct sullen looks and rebellious muttering towards the monks who held their leader captive. Michael had tried to find him later, to ask whether he had seen Bartholomew, but the priest’s house was already empty and his few belongings gone. As soon as the mass was over – and he had ensured his congregation were suitably aggrieved by the priory’s arrest of Leycestre – he had apparently melted away into the Fens to bide his time until the uprising began – if it ever did.

When Bartholomew mentioned that de Lisle had commissioned the gypsies’ services to pretend to be Blanche and set the fire under his house, the monk gave a grin of amusement.

‘Ingenious, but flawed. It would certainly cast doubts on the validity of Blanche’s accusations, and make her appear a few wits short of sane. But great ladies simply do not wander around at night setting fire to houses. People will not believe what they “saw”.’

‘Barbour was sceptical immediately.’

‘I suppose it was worth a try, though,’ said Michael. ‘Poor de Lisle has had this charge hanging over his head for almost two weeks now, and it is crippling him financially. He cannot leave Ely until it is resolved, and his debts are such that he cannot afford to stay in one place for any length of time. He needs to visit people, so that they will feed his retinue and relieve him of the expense.’

‘It was still an underhand thing to do to Blanche.’

Michael shrugged. ‘But at least he did not murder anyone or steal.’

‘He had no need to steal,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘He now owns a sizeable share of the treasure he found in the fallen transept. And how do we know he did not murder? Guido would have something to say about that.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Eulalia said Ralph paid Guido, not de Lisle. She believed it enough to condone Goran killing the man. De Lisle cannot be held responsible for the actions of an over-zealous servant.’

The glorious day belied the uneasiness Bartholomew felt. There was not a cloud in the sky, which was a fathomless pale blue. The sun bathed the countryside in yellow light, making the strips of barley and wheat a more brilliant gold than ever. It lit the cathedral, too, and, as they walked towards the castle and looked back, tendrils of pale mist hugged the base of the cathedral and gave the impression that it was sitting atop a bronze cloud.

The Prior’s prison was an unpleasantly dank building inside the monastery walls. Made of thick, heavy stones from the demolished fortress, it comprised three small dark holes that passed as cells, linked by a narrow corridor. The ceilings were low and barrel vaulted, and the only light was from a tiny slit that was no wider than the length of a finger.

‘I hope your priory does not keep people here for long,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael remove a key from his scrip to open the outer door.

‘They are holding cells for people awaiting trials. No one is here for more than a few days.’

‘There is no proper guard?’ asked Cynric disapprovingly, as they entered a narrow, damp corridor. Water dripped down the walls, which were coated with a layer of green-black slime, and the little points of lime that jutted from the roof attested to the fact that leaks were continual.

‘A lay-brother comes twice a day with food and water,’ replied Michael. ‘This is a secure place, and there is no need for constant vigilance.’

‘But there is,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘The killer came and murdered someone here.’

‘This has never happened before,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Prior Alan saw no need to do things any differently last night than he had done before. How could he – or anyone else – have predicted that the killer would strike in a prison?’

‘How many people have access to these keys?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that the Prior’s security and care of his prisoners left a lot to be desired. What happened if one of the captives became ill or needed attention? He supposed that the needs of a prisoner, who was doubtless deemed guilty of the crime with which he was charged by virtue of being in the cells at all, were not a high priority to the monastery, just as they were not to most other law-enforcing bodies.

Cynric answered. He was observant when it came to that sort of thing. ‘The keys to the prison are on hooks in the chapter house – just like the keys to the back gate. Anyone inside the monastery is able to take them.’

‘Usually, it is not an issue, because most monks do not want to converse with criminals,’ said Michael defensively.

‘But last night was different,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A monk was captive here. What was to stop Symon’s friends from coming to let him out?’

‘His personality,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘No one liked him enough to help him evade whatever punishment Alan decides is just. He should have been safe here.’

Three stout wooden doors with heavy iron bars denoted the three cells. Each door had a grille set into it, which allowed anyone in the corridor to watch the captives. Bartholomew recalled Cynric mentioning that he had placed Leycestre and his nephews in one cell and Symon in another, so that they would not harm each other in their fury at being caught. He opened the grille of the first cell, and peered through it to see a trio of bedraggled specimens huddled on the floor.

‘We made a mistake,’ Leycestre said in a low voice. ‘A night in this foul place has given me time to reconsider, and I realise now that we were wrong. The landlords are oppressing the people, and it is unjust that some folk eat themselves fat while others starve, but now I see that attempting to steal from the priory was not the best way to rectify matters.’

‘Tell Alan that,’ said Michael, unmoved by the rebel’s remorse.

‘I would, but I am not likely to run into him here, am I?’ There was a hint of anger in Leycestre’s voice. ‘Tell him for me. Ask him to be lenient with my nephews. They are boys and were only following my orders.’

‘They are grown men, and perfectly able to see the difference between right and wrong,’ said Michael sternly. ‘However, I will petition the Prior on your behalf, but only if you tell me who killed Symon.’

Leycestre sighed. ‘I was afraid you would ask me that, and you can be certain that I would tell you, since you have just agreed to speak to Prior Alan for us. But the truth is that we saw and heard very little. These doors are thick, and the grille can only be opened from outside.’

‘I suppose a little is better than nothing,’ said Michael, his voice conveying his disappointment.

‘In the middle of the night – I cannot tell you when exactly, but it was dark – I heard the grille on our door open. I thought it might be Father John, coming to pretend to hear our confession, so that he could set us free, but then it closed again. Whoever opened it did not speak to us.’

Michael looked at Bartholomew. ‘That means that the killer was looking for Symon specifically. He was not interested in the others.’

‘I leapt to my feet and tried to peer through the bottom of the grille, where the wood is warped,’ Leycestre continued. ‘But all I saw was a figure in a dark cloak. I could not tell whether it was a monk or layman; I could not even tell whether it was a man or a woman.’

‘Tall?’ asked Michael. ‘Short? Fat? Thin?’

‘I could not see. He had a candle, but it threw out shadows, and I could only make out a shape. He unlocked the door of Symon’s cell and I heard prayers. Mass.’

‘We shouted to him,’ added the nephew called Adam Clymme from his place on the floor. ‘But he would not answer. He stayed with Symon for a while, then left, locking all the doors behind him.’

‘Who found Symon?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael.

‘Julian the novice,’ replied Leycestre at once, trying hard to provide as much information as possible to ingratiate himself with Michael. ‘He opened our grille, and shoved bread and three cups of water through it, and then went to do the same for Symon.’

‘What did he do?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he yell out in shock when he saw Symon dead?’

‘Not him,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘I heard the grille being opened. Then, after a moment, he unlocked the cell door, which I thought was an odd thing to do, given that Symon might have rushed him. It was not long before Julian came out again; he was grinning and, as he passed our door, he said “Symon will not be reading any more books”. Then he left.’

Bartholomew gazed at Michael. ‘I wonder if the nocturnal visitor was merely some kindly monk who came to offer Symon words of comfort, but the murderer is actually Julian. We have been suspicious of him from the start.’

Michael agreed. ‘And if Symon was sleeping, then it would have been easy for Julian to slip into his cell and kill him.’

‘Have you seen Symon’s body?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes. There was a grazed ear and cheek, and a small wound in his neck.’

‘Any signs of fighting, like we saw with Robert?’

‘None that I could see. It was as if Symon was taken completely by surprise. If you examine the body now, will you be able to tell whether he was killed in the night by this mysterious visitor, or an hour or two ago by Julian?’

Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. ‘Leycestre is vague about the time this night visitor came, and it might have been only a short while before Julian. Had you called me immediately, I might have been able to tell by the warmth of Symon’s body, but not now.’

‘I would have done, but you happened to be off enjoying yourself with your paramour,’ said Michael accusingly. He addressed Leycestre again. ‘Is there anything else we should know?’

Leycestre swallowed hard. ‘Only one thing. I apologise for knocking you into the crates on Wednesday night at the Quay.’

‘I guessed that was you,’ Michael said, although Bartholomew knew perfectly well that he had not. ‘I suppose you were discussing which house you wanted to burgle?’

Leycestre licked dry lips, and the glance he exchanged with his nephews indicated that Michael had put his finger on the reason for their violent reaction to the interruption that night. ‘But we did you no harm. We used no weapons, even though we all had daggers in our belts.’

‘Most thoughtful of you,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘But Matt said you had been drinking heavily, and were on the verge of a brawl with the gypsies that night. Were you sober enough to break into houses?’

‘The burglaries were becoming more difficult,’ said Clymme ruefully. ‘People were on their guard, you see, and each new house we robbed was harder than the last. We drank because we needed the courage ale brings. Eventually, we even had to pretend that Agnes Fitzpayne was also burgled, so that no one would think to blame us.’ He unravelled himself from the floor and walked towards the door. His loutish face was streaked and dirty, and arrogance had been replaced by a pathetic misery. ‘Will you chase the rats from the last cell before you go?’ he pleaded. ‘They kept me awake all night with their scratching and clawing.’

‘That is not necessary,’ said Leycestre to Michael, shoving his nephew away from the grille and shooting him an angry glance. ‘We only ask one favour: speak to Alan on our behalf. We can put up with the rats, if you will do that.’

Bartholomew took the torch from Michael and went to investigate. Clymme’s request was not difficult to grant, and the prison was grim enough, without having to contend with the sound of rodents scuttling around. The door of the third cell was not locked, so Bartholomew pushed it open, then held up the torch to illuminate the inside. He gasped in astonishment at what he saw.

The missing Mackerell was slumped against the wall, while a large brown rat hovered proprietarily in the background. When Bartholomew stepped forward it scampered away, but did not go far. The physician crouched down to touch the wound in the fish-man’s neck. It had bled a little, and the side of his face was bruised, as if he had been held down hard. The body, however, was fresh, and Bartholomew concluded that Mackerell had been dead for a few hours at the most. He strongly suspected that the killer had dispensed with Mackerell at the same time as he had dealt with Symon.

‘I will fetch a stretcher and arrange for him to be taken to the church,’ said Cynric. He shot an arch expression at Michael. ‘Do not worry about directions – I know where everything is. I am growing quite used to recovering the bodies of murder victims in Ely.’

‘Did you hear this nocturnal visitor unlock just Symon’s door?’ the monk asked Leycestre, ignoring Cynric’s facetiousness. ‘Or could he have opened the third cell, too?’

‘I could not tell,’ said Leycestre. ‘I thought I heard the scrape of a key in the lock once, but we were shouting to gain his attention and we were not listening to what he was doing.’

‘I thought I heard Symon yell,’ added Clymme. ‘It happened just a few moments before the visitor left. It sounded frightened, as if he had suddenly realised that something terrible was about to occur.’

‘I suspect Symon was dead before that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer probably entered the cell and went about his business before Symon could fight him off. The shout you heard was probably Mackerell, when he realised that the Prior’s cells were not so safe after all.’

‘I cannot believe this,’ said Bartholomew, as they left the oppressive dampness of the cells and stepped into the bright sunshine outside. He blinked at the sudden brilliance, and felt his eyes water.

Michael carefully locked the door behind him and shook it vigorously. ‘Leycestre and his nephews should be safe in there. At least I hope so.’

‘They are safe anyway. The killer is not interested in them. They are not nasty enough.’

Michael gazed at him, and then nodded slowly. ‘I had forgotten that our killer only removes people who are unpleasant. All three townsmen were fellows whom the town was glad to be rid of; Robert was a thief who forced pilgrims to pay for the privilege of speaking to St Etheldreda; Thomas was a glutton who bullied the novices; and Symon was an indolent fraud who did harm to our priceless books.’

‘And Mackerell had a reputation for stealing and lying,’ said Bartholomew, looking away across the undulating ruins of the castle and the vineyards beyond. ‘But this is beginning to make sense, and I can see at least some answers – such as the identity of the killer.’

Michael took his arm and they went to sit together on an ancient stone that had once acted as a lintel over the door of one of the fortress’s finest chambers. It was now a moss-covered relic, half buried in grass and split down the middle, too heavy and damaged to be of use for building. A small oak tree offered welcome shade. Bartholomew gazed down at the moving patterns of leaves and sunlight that played and danced around his feet.

‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Who? Prior Alan, because he has completed a beautiful cathedral and does not want it sullied by the presence of evil men? My Bishop, so that no one will think he killed Glovere? Blanche, because she is a lady and no one believes that a lady could set fire to a house, let alone commit murder? Henry, because he has been corrupted by that horrible Julian? Tysilia, because she does not like nasty people?’

‘Julian,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Because he does not like people with the capacity to be nastier than him.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘We have witnesses to confirm that he was alone with Thomas in the hospital, and now with Symon in the prison. He therefore had the opportunity to commit those two crimes. And then there is his penchant for sharp implements. We almost arrested him yesterday. I wish to God we had – then Symon would still be alive. But Henry will be distressed to learn that all his goodness has failed to save the boy from himself.’

Bartholomew stared at him, and the scraps of information and disconnected facts that swirled around in his mind started to snap into place. ‘No!’ he exclaimed vigorously. ‘We are quite wrong. That is what we are supposed to think.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael impatiently. ‘We have suspected Julian from the start. Why is he not guilty all of a sudden?’

‘The killer is a clever man,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts racing ahead of him. ‘Julian is cunning and inventive, but he does not possess a brilliant mind – not like our murderer.’

‘You think it is Alan, then?’ asked Michael. ‘People say he has one of the most brilliant minds the priory has ever known. And he, like Julian, had time alone in the infirmary when Thomas was killed. Also he has his own copy of every key in the monastery – prison, back gate and so on.’

‘Not Alan, either.’

Michael’s eyes gleamed as he mulled over the remaining possibilities. ‘There is one person left whom we have virtually ignored in our reckoning, but he also had the opportunity to kill all the victims. He is lowly and unimportant enough for us to have overlooked him completely.’

Bartholomew stared at him, thinking this description did not match his prime suspect at all. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

‘Welles,’ said Michael with satisfaction. ‘The boy with the masonry nail. You said yourself that it was a long, thin blade that killed those men – such as a nail used by builders and left lying around the cathedral. I have seen him with one several times – and he was present when that paring knife went missing, then reappeared. Everyone blamed Julian, but perhaps we were all wrong.’

‘I was not thinking about Welles. I was thinking of Henry.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Henry? But he is a physician, dedicated to healing people.’

‘Physicians are as capable of murder as anyone else.’

‘Henry is a good man,’ objected Michael firmly. ‘I have told you this before. Think about the patience and understanding he has shown Julian. The man is a saint: if Henry was the killer, Julian would have been dead a long time ago. Henry is also an intensely moral man. This killer has no morals at all.’

‘He does,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘At least, morals as he sees them. He thinks he is doing good, and does not see himself as wicked or criminal. That is what makes him so dangerous. He is probably one of those people who thinks God is telling him what to do. They are the worst, because they cannot be made to see that they are wrong.’

‘Henry is not a fanatic,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He is just a physician dedicated to healing the sick. You should appreciate that, Matt. It is what you do.’

‘Clues have been staring us in the face all along, but we have ignored them,’ Bartholomew went on, increasingly convinced by his own argument. ‘First, we agreed when we inspected Glovere’s body that the killer had a certain knowledge of anatomy. Henry is a physician.’

‘That is not evidence,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is coincidence.’

‘Then consider the death of Guido. He was poisoned, probably with mercurial salts. At first Eulalia blamed me, because he drank the wine from my medicine bag, but then she thought the poison was smeared on the coins de Lisle gave him.’

‘We know Ralph did that,’ objected Michael. ‘And he has been executed for it.’

‘But, on reflection, I think Ralph did no such thing. He was not stupid. He knew that Guido would tell the rest of the clan what de Lisle wanted him to do, so killing him would be futile. And they planned to disappear anyway, so de Lisle had nothing to worry about. Eulalia was right the first time: the poison came from my wineskin.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Are you now accusing yourself?’

‘I gave Henry my own wine to make Ynys a tonic. And yesterday he refilled the wineskin for me. He dosed it with poison, because I mentioned to him that you were in the habit of drinking it. It was not Guido he wanted to kill: it was you.’

‘Me?’ asked Michael, startled and rather offended. ‘What have I done wrong? I am not unpleasant and disliked by everyone.’

‘But you are on his trail and likely to expose him as a murderer. And you are a large man who is used to sudden ambushes. Henry is quick and strong, but he could not hope to kill you in the way he has dispatched the others. He would never be able to wrest you to the ground and kneel on your head while he cut the back of your neck.’

‘But what about you?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. ‘If he killed me, then you would take up the investigation in my stead.’

‘Henry knows he can kill me in the same way as he has killed the others. He almost succeeded in the Bone House, remember? However, that did not stop him from considering alternative methods, too.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘He gave me his hemp tonic and watched its effects very carefully. It was at the same time that he refilled my wineskin. When I turned from putting it in my bag, he was holding a knife – to chop garlic.’

‘So? That sounds innocent enough to me.’

‘No physician ever chops garlic for remedies: we crush it with a pestle. I think he was seriously considering whether to kill me then, when I was sluggish from the hemp.’

‘And he offered you more hemp later,’ mused Michael. ‘I declined it on your behalf.’

‘He has also been dosing Northburgh and Stretton,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Hemp produces a feeling of well-being, so Henry provided them with as much as they wanted, so that they would not bother to investigate the murders he committed. He claimed Northburgh was already addicted to hemp, but Northburgh did not seem affected by it when he first arrived in Ely.’

‘Then why did Henry not give me hemp, too?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows in rank scepticism. ‘I was also investigating.’

‘Because he knew I would have noticed any hemp-induced changes in your behaviour and would have looked into it. He might have managed to slip you a dose or two, but not enough to achieve the desired result.’

Michael was silent for a moment. ‘There is a flaw in your logic, Matt. You say Henry gave you poisoned wine to kill me, but then you claim that he considered killing you with a knife instead of chopping his garlic. The wine would not reach me if you were dead.’

‘I imagine that was what stayed his hand.’

‘If he poisoned the wine, I suppose you think he poisoned Thomas, too,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Bukton claimed that Thomas had been poisoned when he first fell ill.’

‘No, Thomas really did have a seizure. He had been on the verge of confessing something dreadful when he was stricken. But worse, as far as Henry was concerned, Thomas had been stealing the food from the old men. That is what sealed his fate.’

‘But Henry was very distressed when Thomas died,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And do not forget he was asleep when that particular murder took place. We proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt – with drool, if you recall.’

Bartholomew saw his argument take a serious knock. ‘Perhaps we were mistaken about that,’ he said lamely. ‘But, if I am right, then Henry’s grief, bad dreams and pallor over the following days were not because he had let a killer make an end of Thomas – they were signs of a guilty conscience.’

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael, determined that his friend was wrong. ‘Thomas was murdered in the infirmary the morning after Henry had spent a good portion of the night alone with him. Why would Henry kill the man during the day, when it would have been far safer and easier to do so during the night? Also, old Roger saw him sleeping when the cloaked intruder was prowling around.’

It was a valid point, and Bartholomew considered it for a moment. ‘Whoever killed Thomas left the weapon behind – which had not happened before. I said at the time that someone might have been mimicking the killer’s methods, and that may still be true. Perhaps Henry did not kill Thomas, but I am fairly sure he killed the others.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘And what would his motive be, pray?’

‘The other victims were evil men who caused innocent people distress. As you have said many times, Henry is a man imbued with great compassion, and he looked around him and saw that wicked people were doing whatever they liked while God and His saints slept. He said as much when we caught Symon and his associates stealing the priory’s treasure. Remember? He talked about the evil in the world, and how he was disgusted by it all. He decided to redress the balance.’

Michael remained dubious. ‘In the past, you have often concocted unlikely solutions to various crimes, and I invariably dismiss them and later look foolish when it transpires that you were right. So, I do not want to abandon your theory completely. However, I must say that Henry is not only a good man, he is my friend. I have never known him do a selfish or an unkind thing, and this accusation of murder is so implausible that it is ludicrous.’

Bartholomew was well aware that the evidence he had presented was circumstantial, at best, but he was certain he was right. He pressed on with his argument. ‘Then think about Symon’s death. The librarian would not have been in a deep sleep – he had just been arrested, and no one sees time in prison as an opportunity for a good night’s rest. He would have been frightened and wakeful. Clymme said he heard mass being said; that involves things being eaten and drunk.’

‘You think Henry poisoned Symon with mercurial salts before kneeling on his head and cutting his neck?’ asked Michael incredulously.

‘He would not have used mercurial salts; they take some time to work, and death is painful and often noisy. I think he used a strong dose of hemp, which would have made Symon drowsy and relaxed. Then it would have been easy to take him by surprise, and cut his neck before he could do anything to prevent it. Bear in mind that the keys to the prison are in a place where any monk can take them – including Henry.’

‘That proves nothing,’ said Michael impatiently.

‘Then consider what we know about Mackerell. Do you remember Symon claiming he had seen Mackerell near the castle the morning after we were supposed to meet him? He was right.’

‘We discounted Symon’s claim, because he said he was not certain,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Mackerell wanted to be in the Prior’s prison, because he thought he would be safe there. The morning after he failed to meet us, he must have asked Henry to lock him in, and he has been hiding there ever since.’

‘But that makes no sense at all,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why would Mackerell ask Henry to lock in him the cells? And why was he safe only until last night?’

‘Because Henry had just killed Symon. Mackerell probably saw it happen.’

‘I am not convinced by this at all,’ warned Michael. ‘You cannot even prove that they knew each other.’

‘I can. Robert told us that Henry bought fish from Mackerell to make medicines. Henry is liked by everyone and universally trusted. I would have asked for his help, had I been Mackerell.’

‘I am still not convinced,’ said Michael, growing testy. ‘What other “evidence” do you have that will see dear, gentle Henry accused of these vile crimes?’

‘He owns a key to the back gate – he told us so himself – so could easily have slipped out at night to kill the townsfolk.’

‘Then how do you think he managed to kill Robert?’ asked Michael, his voice triumphant as he spotted another flaw in Bartholomew’s logic. ‘He was reading in the library when that happened. We saw him – and heard him – go there ourselves. Or, at least, I did.’

‘Think about the order of events that day: Henry was exhausted, and I suggested he rest. He declined, and instead went to the library to read about treatments for seizures. He went there with Symon, and we heard them talking together. Then we heard their footsteps on the wooden floor, and then it was silent.’

‘That was because Henry was sitting at a desk, reading. And Symon was with him, anyway.’

‘Symon was not. He told us himself that he was not in the library for long, because he looked out of the window and saw Robert slinking off to the vineyard. He said he left fairly promptly to go in search of him, if you recall. Henry probably also saw Robert, and so knew exactly where his next murder would take place.’

‘And how did he deal with the fact that Symon was also heading in that direction?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘Ask him to dally for a few moments, so that he could complete his grisly business undisturbed?’

Bartholomew sighed crossly, becoming irritated with Michael’s refusal to see the facts. ‘Think about what Symon told us, Brother. He did not go straight to the vineyard, did he? He went to the kitchens and spent some time chatting with the brewer and his assistant, probably telling them all that had happened in the refectory that morning. Doubtless he also mentioned to Henry that he was thirsty, and that he planned to visit the brewer before pursuing Robert.’

‘But I heard Henry in the library at the time of Robert’s death,’ insisted Michael. ‘He did not leave to go a-murdering in the vineyards.’

‘That is what he wanted us to think. He made sure we heard him, then, as soon as Symon left, he tiptoed out of the library and went to the vineyard. Robert had no need to be afraid and Henry was able to get close to him. Then Henry must have lunged, at which point Robert knew he was fighting for his life. But it was too late: Robert’s struggle was futile.’

‘It was a while before Symon came to announce that Robert was dead,’ acknowledged Michael grudgingly. ‘I suppose there was time for someone to kill Robert and dispose of his body.’

‘And plenty of time for Henry to return to the library, so that he could clatter noisily down the stairs and pretend to be horrified when Symon came with the news of Robert’s death. Henry is a fit man – caring for his patients sees to that – but he could not keep up with Alan and me when we ran to the Quay; he lagged behind with you. That was because he was tired from having made the journey once already.’

‘But if Henry is the killer, it means that he is the man with whom we struggled in the Bone House,’ said Michael, as if he thought such a fact exonerated the priory’s physician. ‘Why would he tinker with pots of blood and buckets of soil in the depths of the night?’

Bartholomew sighed as the answer to that became clear, too. ‘Because Alan has put Henry under considerable pressure to find a remedy for Northburgh’s wrinkled skin. Every physician knows that no known herb or plant will work such a miracle, and so Henry was experimenting with other ingredients – blood – which is the essence of life; and earth – the substance from which all life springs.’

‘But why the Bone House, when he has a perfectly good workshop for that kind of thing?’

‘He would not bring pig’s legs and buckets of blood into the infirmary, where their presence might distress his beloved old men. He would also not risk dabbling with those kinds of ingredients publicly, because all physicians are cautious of encouraging accusations of witchcraft. So, he chose a place where he thought he would not be disturbed.’

‘It was unfortunate we happened to intrude, then,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Most monks are in bed at midnight, not wandering the grounds near the Bone House, but I could not sleep and felt the need for a stroll.’

‘By his own admission Henry was up and about that night, too,’ said Bartholomew, as he recalled fragments of conversations with the infirmarian. ‘He told me he was in the cathedral, praying for Thomas, and that he saw the gypsies there. They were meeting de Lisle and Ralph, who were to give them the final details regarding this silly business with the house burning. And then there is the fact that Henry also has a bad back. I have seen him rubbing it at least twice.’

‘Half the town seems to be doing that,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Henry knew we would be looking for someone with an aching back after our encounter in the Bone House. That was why he raised the subject when I saw him the next day. By telling me that de Lisle and Symon had complained of similar problems, he was able to deflect suspicion from himself. And then there is William.’

‘Guido killed William,’ said Michael immediately. ‘You heard him confess, remember? You cannot blame that on poor Henry.’

‘But Guido said two things that should have made me realise Henry’s role in this. First, William said to Guido that he had told a friend he was going to fetch another investigator; and second, Guido said William had some kind of stomach cramps.’

‘I do not see how either of those incriminates Henry.’

‘I think William told Henry that he was going to fetch another investigator. As we have said on numerous occasions, people like Henry and trust him. William may well have turned to the gentle infirmarian, to tell him what he intended to do. And then Henry poisoned him, which accounted for the cramps Guido noticed. Guido may well have knocked William over the head, but William was a dead man anyway.’

‘You are quite wrong, Matt. Henry is the best monk in the priory, and he is also a dear friend. However, I have known you long enough to be aware that unless we prove Henry’s innocence to your satisfaction, you will take matters into your own hands and set about investigating on your own. I do not want you to do that – not in my priory. So, we will go together and settle this matter once and for all.’ He stood and put both hands to his back as he stretched. He realised what he was doing and gave Bartholomew a rueful smile. ‘Now even I am doing it!’

They made their way up the hill in silence, thinking about what they were about to do. Bartholomew dragged his heels, as though by walking more slowly he could avoid a confrontation that he knew would be distressing. Michael was less reticent, since he was certain there was no truth in the allegations anyway. Even so, the prospect of asking his mentor to prove his innocence was not a pleasant one.

They reached the infirmary and gazed up at its carved windows and creamy yellow stones, bright in the sun. It was silent, and, for the first time, Bartholomew felt its peace was more sinister than serene. They entered through the Dark Cloister and walked along the rows of beds in the hall. Julian lay on one, fast asleep, while old Roger sat bolt upright in another, his hands clasped in prayer. The other old men slumbered, some quietly, others fitfully.

‘You have no proof of anything,’ said Roger. ‘You will not convict him.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew. Roger had guessed exactly why they were there. ‘And what do you know about it?’

‘Enough,’ said Roger. ‘I can see what has been happening, and I have ears.’

‘Not ones that work, though,’ muttered Michael.

Roger turned bright eyes on him. ‘My hearing is not as dull as I would have you believe. It just suits an old man’s pleasure to feign deafness. And it has served me well; I have been able to help Henry a good deal in his dispensing of justice.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. His jaw dropped. ‘You mean you have been eavesdropping on secret conversations and passing information to Henry? Everyone believes you are deaf, and so no one minds what they say when you are near?’

Michael sat heavily on a bench, and Bartholomew saw the colour drain from his face. He had expected Henry to provide alternative interpretations of the evidence Bartholomew had presented, which would lead them to pursue other suspects. The fact that Roger admitted to helping Henry was a bitter blow.

Roger smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘The young are always dismissive of the old. But we are wiser than you, and more clever. You might never have resolved this case, if it were not for Henry’s imprudent use of that poison.’

‘What poison?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The one that killed William, or the one intended for Michael.’

‘The latter. I told Henry that using such a method to dispense with Michael was unwise, when stabbing had worked so well on the others.’

‘Why would he want to harm me?’ asked Michael, hurt. ‘I have done nothing to him.’

‘But your investigation was leading you ever closer,’ explained Roger patiently. ‘I told him he had to stop you before you learned too much. He was only spreading a little goodness in the world; I do not see why he should be punished for that.’

‘Murdering people is not spreading good,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Roger rounded on him. ‘Who says? Visit Mistress Haywarde, and tell me that her husband’s death was not a good thing for her and her family. Speak to the novices, and ask them whether they preferred life with or without Thomas and Robert.’

Bartholomew walked across to Julian, and rested his hand on the young man’s cooling forehead. His face was peaceful, as though he had experienced in death what he had never known in life, and the wound in his neck had bled little, which suggested a quick end.

‘I absolved him before Henry killed him,’ said Roger with satisfaction. ‘He repented his sins, and so perhaps will not spend as long in Purgatory as he might otherwise have done.’

‘But Julian was young,’ protested Bartholomew, covering the assistant’s face with a blanket. He glanced quickly around at the other patients, but Henry loved them and clearly intended them no harm. ‘He might have changed.’

‘Not him,’ said Roger firmly. ‘We gave him plenty of time to try, but he was irredeemable. Even you said as much. Julian was too firmly entrenched in his own wickedness to change.’

‘Was that the criterion Henry used to select his victims?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That they were people he did not like?’

‘People who were selfish and rotten,’ corrected Roger. ‘People without whom the world is a better place. Just look around you. Pilgrims are thronging joyfully to pray to St Etheldreda now that Robert is not here to make them pay; my old friends in this hall are sleeping with full bellies, because Thomas has not stolen their food; and no one will deny that the library will fare better without Symon. The same goes for those townsmen – Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘We should find Henry before he does any more harm,’ said Michael heavily, standing up. It was not a task he anticipated with relish. ‘Where is he?’

‘I will not tell you,’ said Roger, folding his arms and eyeing them defiantly. ‘If you find him, you will have him hanged or imprisoned for the rest of his life. He does not deserve that, after bringing so much happiness to the world.’

‘He did not bring much happiness to Guido,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘Cynric told me that Guido was poisoned,’ said Roger. ‘Henry and I guessed it was with the wine that was intended for Michael. But it does not matter. It will not take the clan long to realise that they are better without him, too. He was a killer himself.’

‘Guido did strike William a fatal blow,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘William was on his way to fetch another investigator, although I doubt he would have survived the journey. According to Guido’s testimony, it sounds as though the poison was already working.’

‘Why did William suddenly decide to fetch another investigator?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he discover something that made him realise that the case was more than I could handle?’

‘William came here to tell Henry that he trusted none of the three official investigators to uncover the truth,’ replied Roger. ‘He wanted someone to know where he was going, you see, should he be missed. I slipped something from Henry’s workshop into the wine he drank before he left.’

‘You poisoned him?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I thought Henry had done it.’

‘Henry prefers more compassionate methods of execution,’ said Roger matter-of-factly. ‘Poisons can be nasty.’

‘A knife in the neck might be painful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would render the victim immobile, but he would know exactly what was happening to him. Henry’s victims died in terror.’

‘Thomas did not,’ said Roger. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Do not tell me that was you, too?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified.

‘It was,’ said Roger with pride. ‘I knew from Henry how it was done, and it was not difficult when the man was just lying there, so still and so silent. I did it while Henry slept so deeply that he drooled on his table – a small detail that did not escape Alan’s attention, I remember.’

‘So, there was no cloaked intruder wandering through the infirmary and praying as he went?’ asked Michael.

Roger gave a wicked grin. ‘You see how willing you were to believe a tale that made me look like some feeble halfwit? It never once occurred to you that if a killer really had entered my home, I would recall every detail about him.’

‘That is because I did not think you would lie to me,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You are offended now, because you think I imagine you to be some drooling ancient who can barely see. But you would have been even more offended if I had claimed I believed nothing you said.’

‘So, Henry’s shock at discovering that Thomas was murdered was quite genuine,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He was right: Thomas probably would not have died if Henry had not slept.’

‘Henry was distressed,’ agreed Roger carelessly. ‘He had hopes that Thomas’s illness might make him repent of his wicked ways and render him a more pleasant person. Personally, I thought Thomas beyond that kind of salvation, and so I decided to remove him from this world while the opportunity was there.’

Michael shot Bartholomew a triumphant glance. ‘You see? I told you Henry would not have killed a patient.’

‘But he killed everyone else,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It is no more than they deserved,’ said Roger, unmoved.

‘And he intended to have me die from poison,’ said Michael bitterly.

‘True,’ admitted Roger. ‘But that was because the vigour of your investigation was unsettling him. He could not dose you with hemp like Northburgh and Stretton, because Bartholomew would have noticed. Poor Henry was at a loss to know what to do about you.’

‘You admit Henry drugged the official investigators?’ asked Michael, disapprovingly.

Roger shrugged. ‘It has done them no harm. Indeed, it has made that miserable Northburgh much more amiable company.’

‘William stole ten marks from the priory,’ said Michael, abruptly changing the subject. It was disconcerting to hear his death discussed in such dispassionate terms, especially since Henry was involved. ‘We found it in the granary. What do you know about that?’

‘William did not steal that money. Robert lied to him, saying he did not have enough alms for the poor, so William drew on the hosteller’s fund to help him. Robert, however, merely hid the coins away for himself.’

‘That does not sound like William,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘Why should he give his own funds to help the almoner – especially when that almoner was a man he despised?’

‘Because William was not wholly wicked, like Robert,’ said Roger impatiently. ‘He was cunning and sly, but he did not allow the poor to go hungry. He genuinely believed that Robert really had run out of funds, but became suspicious later. That was why he watched Robert so closely all the time.’

‘We found him searching the almonry once,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that the hosteller had hidden behind a tapestry in Robert’s domain so that he could search it for evidence that the almoner had been lining his own pockets.

‘Henry caught Robert in the vineyards,’ Roger went on, eyes gleaming, as though he was proud of what had happened. ‘The man was not going to look for William, as Alan had ordered him to do, but was taking the opportunity to gloat over the hoard he had secreted in the granary. Henry said you found it and returned it to the priory coffers, so that ended well.’

‘But why did Henry kill Robert?’ asked Michael, rather plaintively. ‘Or rather, since we already know why, why then? Why not later? Why did Henry take the considerable risk of slaying Robert in broad daylight and dumping his corpse in a very public place?’

‘Because Robert was asking too many questions, and Henry had the impression that he was forming his own suspicions as regards the identity of the killer. It was simply not worth the risk. I told Henry to dispatch him as soon as the opportunity arose. And it did – when that reprobate went to the granary to pore over his ill-gotten gains.’

‘So, Robert was killed for his greed,’ mused Bartholomew softly. ‘If he had not gone to a remote place to count his gold, then Henry could not have killed him. Well, not then at least.’

‘What underhand business was Thomas involved in?’ demanded Michael of Roger. ‘We saw him in the vineyards and a package changed hands. What was that about?’

Roger smiled. ‘You are right. Thomas was involved in underhand business. That lovely book of hours belongs to our library, as I would have told you, had you bothered to ask an old man. It is one of our most valuable possessions. Robert stole it, and that incompetent Symon did not notice it was missing. Robert gave it to Thomas in return for turning a blind eye to inconsistencies in the almonry accounts, which, as sub-prior, Thomas was obliged to check.’

‘So it was Robert who met Thomas in the vineyard?’ asked Michael.

Roger nodded. ‘One thief paying another with stolen property. No wonder they met in such an isolated venue.’

‘And Thomas was not about to reveal anything about the murders when he had his seizure in the refectory,’ surmised Michael. ‘He was about to confess his nasty little plot with Robert. He knew nothing that would have helped me track down the murderer.’

‘No,’ said Roger. ‘Not a thing. He was too completely immersed in himself and his own world to have deduced anything about the murders. But Henry put an end to such wickedness. We will now have a good and honest sub-prior and an almoner who feels compassion for the poor.’

‘And a librarian who will know how to look after books?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is incompetence on Henry’s list of sins, too? Is that why he killed Symon?’

‘Symon was more than merely incompetent,’ said Roger, unperturbed by their patent disgust. ‘He was responsible for suppressing learning and education among the monks. And he plotted with Leycestre to strip our monastery of all its treasure. Henry heard him confess. I urged him to deal with the man last night, lest the soft-hearted Alan set him free.’

‘And Mackerell?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Was he another man you consider steeped in sin?’

‘He was not what you would call pleasant company,’ said Roger. ‘But he died because he saw Henry standing over Symon’s corpse. Henry had said mass with Symon, then killed him quickly when he drowsed from the hemp in the wine. He had forgotten that Mackerell was hiding there, thinking himself safe from water-spirits. It was unfortunate, but some sacrifices have to be made.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But we need to find Henry, before he does any more mischief.’

‘No,’ said Roger. He rose from his bed on unsteady legs. From the next bed Ynys rose, too. Both held swords that had been hidden under the bedclothes.

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, backing away in alarm. ‘Are all of you involved?’

‘Roger and I are men who want to see justice done in our dying years,’ said Ynys, clutching the bed for support. ‘And we have no grudge against you, so sit down and behave and no one will come to harm. We were soldiers once, so you had better take us seriously.’

‘But this is madness,’ protested Bartholomew, moving away from Roger, whose grip on his sword was dangerous in its unsteadiness. ‘Henry is not a dispenser of justice! It has gone beyond that. He is now a ruthless killer, and you must see that is not right or just.’

‘Sit!’ snapped Roger angrily. ‘We will wait here until Henry comes, and then we will decide what is to be done. Perhaps he will agree to let you go. But then again, perhaps he will not.’

‘The battle of Bannockburn,’ said Michael harshly to Ynys. ‘Were you really there, or are those memories as false as your act of senility?’

Ynys’s eyes flashed. ‘I was there, boy. And I am not senile, either. At least, not unless it suits me to be thought so, just as Roger’s deafness serves him.’ He gestured to his friends, lying restless and confused in their beds. ‘I only wish I could say the same for these poor fellows.’ His expression hardened when his glance returned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Now sit down.’

Bartholomew prepared to argue, but the door opened, and Henry himself entered. The infirmarian surveyed the scene in front of him with open-mouthed horror, and the dish of fruit he was carrying as a treat for the old men clattered to the floor.

‘We have been hearing all about how you have been removing some of the town’s more unpleasant residents for the good of mankind,’ said Michael coolly.

Henry sat heavily on Roger’s bed. ‘I did what I thought was right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There is too much evil in the world, caused by men who have no thought for others and who are concerned only with their own well-being. They do cruel and unjust things, then go about their lives quite happily.’

‘Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord,’ quoted Michael pompously.

Henry rounded on him. ‘But it is not, is it? Evil people do evil deeds, then live to a ripe old age to enjoy the fruits of their wrongdoing. There is no justice in the world. Surely, you know people whom we would all be better without?’

‘Who does not?’ said Michael. ‘But that does not mean I have the right to decide who should die and who should not.’

‘But someone must,’ argued Henry. ‘Unless we take action to destroy wickedness, then the Death will return. And I, for one, do not want to live through that again.’

‘The plague will not return,’ said Michael with a conviction Bartholomew certainly did not feel. ‘And I am becoming tired of people using it as an excuse to do whatever they like. I am hurt that you are the culprit, Henry. I loved you like a father!’

Henry shot Roger an agonised glance. ‘I told you we should have stopped after you killed Thomas! There was no need to take steps against Michael. My life is not worth his!’

Roger disagreed. ‘He will expose you as a killer. He has to die. We need you – we do not want another infirmarian to care for us as we approach our final days. Michael may love you like a father, but we are like fathers to you. You owe us our last little happiness.’

Henry looked from Roger to Michael in an agony of despair. It was clear he did not know what to think. Then, before they could stop him, he had leapt to his feet and darted towards the infirmary chapel.

‘After him!’ howled Michael to Bartholomew, starting to run.

‘No!’ yelled Roger, lunging with his weapon. It missed Michael by the merest fraction of an inch. The monk was still gaping at the gouge it had left in the wooden bed when Roger struck again. Michael ducked backward and snatched up a mop with a long handle to defend himself.

Meanwhile, Ynys advanced on Bartholomew, wielding a short fighting sword in a skilled manner that left the physician in no doubt of his expertise. The knives that were in his medicine bag were useless against such a weapon, and there was little he could do but back away and keep out of the range of the swinging blade. Henry was in the chapel, and they could hear his voice raised in pleading supplication.

‘We cannot let you go,’ said Roger to Michael apologetically. ‘Despite Henry’s affection for you. You would tell Alan what has happened, and he will send Henry away. And then what would happen to us?’

‘Henry’s motive may have been honourable, but you are only interested in your own welfare,’ hissed Michael furiously, ducking away as the old man advanced. ‘You have driven the poor man to despair, and he does not know which way to turn.’

‘You saw his distress when you killed Thomas,’ said Bartholomew, also moving backward. He knew he was in no real danger from Ynys as long as he kept out of range of the sword, which was not difficult given that the old man moved so slowly. ‘You have confused him so much that he may do himself some harm. Put down your weapon and let me go to him.’

Ynys faltered, but Roger remained unconvinced. ‘You are lying. Henry would never leave us.’

‘You have pushed him too far,’ said Michael. ‘He is a good man, but you have corrupted him to the point where he does not know what to believe.’

‘It is all Ralph’s fault,’ said Ynys, his sword shaking dangerously close to Bartholomew’s chest. ‘It was Ralph who came up with the idea – when he killed Glovere.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael, stepping quickly around a chest at the bottom of the bed as Roger edged closer. ‘Ralph killed Glovere?’

‘De Lisle wanted rid of Glovere,’ explained Ynys. ‘So Ralph obliged. Then Roger here saw the good that stemmed from Glovere’s demise – no more malicious gossip in taverns, poor young Alice avenged and her grieving family relieved of a heavy burden …’

‘Roger saw the good in Glovere’s death?’ echoed Michael, bewildered.

‘I did,’ said Roger in satisfaction. ‘I heard what people told me, and I saw I could spend my last summer helping people who deserved it. Then Ralph came to Henry to confess.’

‘Henry is loved by all,’ said Ynys fondly. ‘Many townsfolk use him as their confessor. He is kinder and more lenient than the parish priests.’

‘Ralph told Henry how he murdered Glovere with a small knife in the back of the neck. He made his confession here, in the infirmary, thinking that we were too deaf or weak-witted to understand.’ Roger looked pleased with himself. ‘But we did understand and it gave us an idea.’

‘Henry was reluctant at first,’ added Ynys. ‘But when he saw the relief afforded to the townsfolk by Glovere’s death, he killed Chaloner and Haywarde, too – two men who caused more misery to their fellow men than was their right.’

‘So that explains why Ralph was so gloatingly smug when he came to demand cordial,’ said Michael, as understanding dawned. ‘He knew that Henry had copied his method of execution. He understood that the culprit had to be Henry, because murder is not something one brays around all one’s acquaintances – only to one’s confessor. Henry was the only other man who knew how Glovere was killed, so Ralph reasoned that Henry killed Chaloner and the others.’

‘Did de Lisle know what Ralph had done?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘No,’ said Roger. ‘And Ralph was delighted when de Lisle summoned Michael to investigate. He knew Michael’s reputation as an investigator, and suspected that he would discover that Henry had killed Chaloner and Haywarde. He imagined that Glovere’s death would be attributed to Henry, too. That would let him off the hook.’

‘Henry,’ called Michael, addressing the chapel. He tried to move forward, but Roger lunged with his sword and he was obliged to duck back again. ‘Ralph is dead. He was murdered by the gypsies, because their king drank the poisoned wine you gave Matt.’

‘No!’ Henry’s voice was anguished.

‘So what?’ demanded the more practical Roger. ‘Ralph was a killer anyway – he murdered Glovere.’

Henry emerged from the chapel on unsteady legs. His eyes were wild and his face was bloodless. Tears flooded down his cheeks and his hands shook. Bartholomew was concerned.

‘Hemp,’ he said. ‘Take some hemp.’

‘He does not have any more,’ said Roger. ‘He gave the last of it to Northburgh yesterday.’

For the first time, Bartholomew regarded Henry with the eyes of a physician, and was angry with himself for not being more observant sooner. Henry had been an amiable and placid fellow, seldom roused to anger, even when he had lads like Julian in his care. But now he was distraught and unstable. Henry had lied when he said his use of hemp was rare: Bartholomew recognised now that Henry was an habitual user, and that the sudden depletion of his supply was largely responsible for the emotionally ravaged figure who stood in front of them now. He saw that Henry might well injure himself in his current state. He stepped towards him, but Ynys was ready with his sword and barred the way.

‘I am doomed!’ cried Henry. ‘I have committed grave sins.’

‘Wait!’ called Michael, as the infirmarian turned and darted out of the hall.

‘Leave him,’ ordered Roger, brandishing his weapon as Michael started to follow.

‘He needs help,’ shouted Bartholomew, trying to dodge past Ynys. Ynys, however, had not forgotten his military training, and came towards the physician with a series of hacking blows. The old man’s face was strangely elated, and Bartholomew imagined that he saw himself young again, about to fell one of the King’s enemies in Scotland or France.

Just when Bartholomew thought he might be struck, Ynys faltered, grabbing at his hip, and his ecstatic expression changed to one of agony. He groaned, then slumped to the ground, where he began to whimper feebly. Bartholomew kicked away the sword, and was about to go to the old man’s assistance when he heard a yell from Michael. Roger had him pinned against a wall and looked determined to make an end of him. Bartholomew leapt towards them, grabbed Roger’s arm and spun him around so that the weapon clattered from his ancient hand. Then he hesitated. He was a physician, and had never struck an elderly patient before. Michael had no such qualms, however. He gave Roger a shove that sent him stumbling on to the bed, then raced after Henry, dragging Bartholomew with him.

Outside, Henry was moving unsteadily in the direction of the cathedral. Bartholomew and Michael followed, with Michael wheezing and growing more breathless at every step. A group of young monks scattered as Henry barrelled through the middle of them. One of them was Welles, and another was Bukton.

‘Stop him!’ yelled Michael to Henry’s assistant as he drew closer. His bulk was already slowing him down, and he was red-faced and gasping. ‘Henry murdered your almoner.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Welles indignantly. ‘Henry is no killer.’

‘He is,’ shouted Michael. ‘Why else would he be running from me?’

Bukton snatched at Michael’s sleeve as he ran past, pulling the monk off balance. ‘Henry is not your culprit,’ he cried. ‘Leave him alone.’

‘We have all the evidence we need,’ said Michael, trying to extricate himself. ‘Let me go! You are interfering with the course of justice.’

‘I do not care,’ said Bukton, maintaining his grip. ‘Henry is a good man, and I will not let you hang him.’

‘Nor I,’ determined Welles.

Bartholomew edged around the group, eluding Welles’s eager hands, and ran on. Welles detached himself from his friends and chased after him, leaving Bukton to wrestle with the outraged Michael.

‘Where is Henry going?’ Bartholomew yelled over his shoulder to Michael.

‘The cathedral,’ gasped Michael, trying to push Bukton away. Normally, he would have used fists, but it was hard to strike a lad who was trying to protect a man like Henry. Bukton was permitted to take liberties that Michael would never have permitted in Cambridge. ‘For sanctuary at the High Altar. Once he is there, we will not be able to touch him.’

Henry was making good time, and was heading for the cloister door. Bartholomew forced himself to run harder, determined to catch the kindly killer before he could reach it. Welles, however, was a good sprinter, and was gaining on Bartholomew. The physician felt a sharp tug as the young monk grabbed his shirt. He stumbled, losing valuable moments.

Welles leapt on him, trying to restrain him. Bartholomew struggled free and dashed on, leaving Welles gasping for breath on the grass, but by now Henry had disappeared inside the cathedral. Bartholomew dashed to the door and hauled it open, listening for footsteps that would tell him which way Henry had gone. He heard them in the south aisle – away from the High Altar, not towards it – and glanced behind to see Welles sprinting quickly towards him. In the distance he saw Michael ploughing forward, dragging Bukton along, as he made his more stately pursuit.

Bartholomew slammed the door hard, and looked for something to block it. The bolt was wholly inadequate, and was ridiculously delicate, obviously intended only to keep the gate from blowing in the wind and not to prevent access to people from the priory side of the cathedral. Bartholomew shot it closed, wishing there was a bar he could use to barricade it further. But there was nothing to hand in the vast emptiness of the cathedral. He heard a crash when Welles reached the door and thumped into it with his shoulder. The metal bolt bowed dangerously, and Bartholomew saw it would only be a few moments before Welles broke it and came in.

The physician started to trot down the south aisle, looking for Henry among the shadows. There was nothing. He stopped running and listened, but could only hear the crashes and thumps Welles made as he pounded on the door. Bartholomew jogged on, not understanding why Henry should choose the opposite direction from the place where he would be safe from pursuit. He ran harder then there was a booming sound and the door flew open against the wall. Welles uttered a yell of victory when he spotted the physician.

Bartholomew reached the end of the nave and skidded to a halt, gazing wildly around him. Then he heard a sharp crack and a patter, as some loose masonry fell to the ground in the crumbling north-west transept. Henry was climbing the scaffolding.

‘No!’ he cried, suddenly realising why Henry had not aimed straight for the sanctuary. ‘Henry! There is no need for this!’

He darted forward. Voices echoing loudly in the aisle indicated that Michael and Bukton had arrived, too, and were coming towards him. Bartholomew rushed to the transept and looked up. A figure on the scaffolding was making its way higher and higher, aiming for the roof. Bartholomew started to climb after him, intending to bring Henry down. But with a triumphant cry, Welles reached him and grabbed one leg. Bartholomew found himself unable to move up or down.

‘Henry!’ he shouted, trying to kick free of the determined novice. ‘You do not need to do this. Come down and talk to Michael.’

He could feel vibrations of movement through the scaffolding as Henry continued to ascend, and struggled to free himself. But with a monumental display of desperate strength, Welles swung all his weight on Bartholomew’s foot and the physician lost his grip. He slipped to the floor, where Welles pinned him down. Bartholomew gazed up at the roof, disconcerted by the towering framework above him, which seemed to be swaying.

‘It is going to fall!’ he heard Michael yell. ‘Matt, get out of there!’

Welles decided Michael was right. He released Bartholomew and scrambled away, and Bartholomew saw the entire structure begin to topple. He leapt to his feet, and ran with his head down, aware of falling spars, plaster and pieces of timber clattering all around him. He had only just cleared the transept when there was a tremendous crash, and the scaffolding came tumbling to the ground in a mess of broken planks, crushed stones and coils of rope. Dust billowed, making it difficult to see.

Michael surged forward, peering into the mess. ‘Henry!’ he shouted. ‘Henry!’

But there was no reply.

Michael rounded on Welles, who was visibly shaken. ‘Look what you have done! If you had not tried to stop us, we would have been able to catch him, and this would not have happened!’

‘You would have hanged him,’ said Welles, his eyes filling with tears when he realised that Henry was unlikely to have survived the fall. ‘And he is a decent, kind man. I do not care what you say you have discovered.’

‘He murdered people,’ said Michael, trying to make them see reason. ‘And then your interference allowed him to kill himself. I thought he came here for sanctuary, but the kind of sanctuary he had in mind was his own death.’

‘If he did all that, then he only harmed wicked people,’ said Welles loyally, white faced as a tear coursed its way down his dusty cheek. ‘He loved the rest of us. He was patient with our faults, and he was gentle. He was the only man in the priory who tried to help that horrible Julian.’

‘Julian is dead in the infirmary,’ said Michael harshly.

‘Then not before time,’ said Bukton, defiant but shaken. ‘If Julian had had no Henry to care for him, he would have been dead a lot sooner. I do not care what you say, you will never persuade me that Henry was not a saint.’

‘I liked him myself,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘It is not pleasant to know that a man I have known and admired for years could do such terrible things.’

‘He did not do terrible things,’ wept Welles. ‘He did things that made the priory better and made the town better.’

‘All right,’ conceded Michael. ‘But he broke the law.’

‘Then the law is wrong,’ declared Bukton uncompromisingly. ‘The townsfolk have a point when they claim the laws of the land are unjust. The law would have hanged Henry.’

‘Henry has hanged himself,’ said Bartholomew quietly. He pointed to the wreckage of smashed scaffolding, where the body of a monk swung slowly from side to side. A rope had caught around Henry’s neck, suspending him in midair a long way from the ground. His hands hung limply at his sides, and the awkward angle of his head indicated that his neck was broken. Henry was dead, and there was nothing Bartholomew, Michael or the novices could do about it.

‘Henry has hanged himself,’ Bartholomew repeated softly.