A Summer of Discontent

Epilogue

‘That was one of the least pleasant cases I have ever worked on,’ said Michael two days later, as he and Bartholomew sat quietly together near St Etheldreda’s tomb in the cathedral. ‘I felt no sympathy whatsoever for the victims, and a great admiration for the killer.’

‘Even after you discovered he was a murderer?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael nodded. ‘I have known Henry for years, and have always respected and liked him. I am not surprised young men like Welles and Bukton were prepared to do all they could to save him.’

‘They knew he would have hanged, had you caught him.’

‘He would not,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Alan would not have permitted that, especially if you had provided evidence that hemp had damaged his mind. He would have been sent away from Ely, though, and would not have been allowed near an infirmary again. But how did he die? Could you tell, when you examined the body?’

‘The rope broke his neck. He died instantly.’

‘That is a mercy,’ said Michael. He stood, and began to walk out of the cathedral, pausing for a moment to glance at the ruin of the north-west transept. ‘I shall think of him every time I come here. His sudden death means that he did not have time to make a confession, and, according to Roger, he always allowed the men he killed to repent.’

‘That was good of him.’

Michael sighed, turning his flabby white face to the warmth of the sun as they left the cathedral and walked through the cloisters towards the Black Hostry. ‘You knew Henry for only a few days, so I cannot expect you to understand. He was a good man. Welles, Roger and the others are right.’

‘I suppose his pre-stabbing ritual partly accounts for the bruises on the victims’ faces,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I assumed the killer was holding them to cut their necks, but he was also allowing them to make a final confession. I cannot imagine what was going through his mind at that point.’

‘Nor me,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Roger revealed that he and Ynys helped Henry kill Chaloner and Haywarde. Then Henry took the bodies to the river to get rid of them.’

‘They died late at night, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After they left the Lamb. What were two old men and Henry doing out and about at that hour?’

Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Patients come to you at all hours of the day and night, and Henry’s were no different. Also, remember that these were selfish men, who thought nothing of waking a physician just because they happened to feel the need of one. One came to the infirmary with a sore thumb and the other an aching knee, apparently – both ailments that would have kept until a more convenient hour.’

‘And so Henry copied Ralph’s murder of Glovere by putting the bodies in the river? He, like Ralph, hoped to pass the murders off as suicides?’

‘Yes. When Mackerell came to sell Henry fish, Roger asked him how and where to dispose of corpses in the river. This resulted in Mackerell assuming that Roger – not Henry – was the killer.’

‘That explains why Mackerell was afraid,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He probably wanted to tell you what he knew, but suspected that you would not believe that a frail old man like Roger had killed strong and fit men like Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘I would not have done,’ said Michael. ‘And neither did Mackerell, at first. Then he jumped to the conclusion that Roger was possessed by water-spirits, who have the strength to do whatever they like.’

‘I suppose Mackerell thought Roger – and the water-spirits – would be unlikely to hunt for him in the Prior’s prison, and so he asked Henry to lock him in. That was what Mackerell was doing when Symon spotted him in the monastery grounds.’

‘Henry did as Mackerell asked, then murdered him at the same time as he killed Symon. Mackerell called out in terror when he realised that he had gone for help to the one person he should not have done. And that was the end of him.’

‘What will happen to the old men?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Roger and Ynys?’

‘Nothing,’ said Michael heavily. ‘When Alan tried to speak to them, they went back to pretending they were blind, deaf and senile. He has decided to allow them to live out the rest of their lives in the infirmary. Henry did most of the killing, and I do not think they will resume where he has left off.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew, who thought Alan foolish to dismiss the determined old men who had allied themselves so readily to such a cause. They were soldiers, when all was said and done, and had wielded their weapons efficiently enough. However, he supposed that Ynys’s damaged hip would keep him in bed a while at least.

‘Nor am I,’ said Michael. ‘It was Roger who killed Thomas, after all, and who poisoned William, whose only crime was trying to fetch an independent investigator. But Alan thinks that spending their days being cared for by Bukton and Welles is punishment enough. They are good lads, but they will not coddle the inmates as Henry did.’

‘Well, if I break a leg, please do not consign me to the priory’s infirmary,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘Roger or Ynys would have a knife in me the instant I closed my eyes to sleep. I only hope any other monk sent there knows the danger he might be in.’

‘Blanche left this morning,’ said Michael, after a moment of silence. ‘Her “appearance” in the Heyrow a few nights ago with a lighted torch is causing a good deal of speculation. People claim they do not believe that a lady would do such a thing, but there remains a lingering doubt, and that is enough to have driven her away.’

‘Has she dropped her charges against de Lisle?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes. She now believes that Henry killed Glovere, because we proved he killed the others.’

‘You did not tell her that Ralph did it?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I did not. She would have accused de Lisle of ordering Glovere’s death, and we would have been back to where we started.’

‘But de Lisle may well have ordered Ralph to kill Glovere,’ said Bartholomew.

‘If my Bishop had known Ralph was guilty, then he would not have appointed me to investigate.’

‘Not necessarily. He appointed you after Chaloner and Haywarde had died, remember? Perhaps he knew that Ralph killed Glovere, but did not want him blamed for the other two, as well.’

Michael declined to answer. He rubbed his chin, then rummaged in his scrip to produce a thin piece of parchment. ‘When I was going through Henry’s possessions yesterday I found this missive addressed to me, describing his murderous rampage over the last few days. Everything we reasoned is essentially correct. It concludes by admitting that Ralph had given him the idea, when he came to be absolved from Glovere’s murder.’

‘Why did he write this letter?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Was he planning to send it to you in Cambridge?’

‘He had compiled a list of victims,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘When everyone on the list had been “removed”, he was going to leave Ely, to retire to some remote corner of the country. He wrote that his work at Ely would have been completed.’

‘And how far through this list was he?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that composing such an agenda was a rather cold and calculating thing to do.

‘Almost at the end. I suppose that was why the last few victims were killed in such rapid succession – he wanted to finish. The only one left was Father John. I thought Tysilia might be on it, but I am fairly sure her experience in the crumbling transept was just an accident.’

‘Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why would she be on such a list? She is not evil.’

‘De Lisle thought someone had deliberately caused the fall, and with so many deaths it did seem suspicious for there to be a sudden accident. But I think that was all it was.’

‘And why John?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has compassion for the poor, and is not one of those priests who cares only for his personal gain.’

‘Henry believed that John is responsible for men like Leycestre plotting rebellion. He thought no good could come of it, and wanted to remove John before matters grew out of hand. He may have been right, but John has disappeared from Ely anyway. Doubtless he is being hidden by fellow rebels in the Fens.’

‘John had a lucky escape, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not only has he eluded Henry’s sharp knives, but he has evaded justice for stealing the priory’s grain and giving it to the gypsies.’

‘It is ironic,’ mused Michael. ‘But one of the things that made Glovere unpopular in the town was his claim that one of Ely’s citizens was the burglar. In the event, he was right: it was Leycestre.’

‘But Leycestre and his thefts had nothing to do with the murders. They were separate and unrelated events. The burglaries were just that – and no one was killed when they were carried out.’

‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘We now know everything about this case: Ralph killed Glovere; Henry slew Chaloner, Haywarde, Symon the librarian, Almoner Robert – who was every bit as dishonest as his rival William believed – Mackerell the fish-man, and Julian the lout; Roger dispatched Sub-prior Thomas; and William’s death was a combination of Henry’s poison and Guido’s aggression.’

‘And Goran killed Ralph,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Do not forget that.’

‘There is de Lisle,’ said Michael, pointing to the Bishop, who was surrounded by his scurrying retinue, all rushing to pack their belongings on to the impressive herd of horses waiting in the courtyard. ‘He plans to travel with us to Cambridge today, before heading south to give the Archbishop of Canterbury an account of the events that led to a prelate being accused of murder.’

‘I hope he has his excuses all worked out,’ said Bartholomew caustically. ‘He would be wise to avoid the truth, given that it was his own servant who precipitated all this mayhem.’

‘Are you ready to leave Ely?’ Michael asked him, wisely ignoring the comment, since de Lisle was probably close enough to hear any response he might make. ‘Tonight, you will sleep in your own room at Michaelhouse, and can rest assured that you are not in the same building as a killer.’

Bartholomew had lived in Cambridge long enough not to be so sanguine, but followed Michael to where the Bishop’s household was packed and ready to go. Cynric and Meadowman also had ponies loaded with the few possessions the scholars had brought, and were mounted and waiting.

‘Did you finish your reading in the library?’ asked Cynric as Bartholomew scrambled inelegantly on to his mount. ‘You did not spend much time there.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘I have decided I would rather work at home. Prior Alan has given me two particularly valuable medical books as a donation to Michaelhouse, and I shall have to be content with what I learn in those.’

‘And you have Henry’s notes,’ said Michael, pointing to a saddlebag that bulged with parchment.

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether he could bring himself to use them. It crossed his mind that, in addition to the cures the infirmarian had developed over the years, he might discover a list of good ways to kill people.

‘Are you ready to go?’ asked de Lisle, trotting up to them. His horse was a splendid black beast that had been groomed until its coat shone. Nearby, Tysilia slouched on a pony, a sullen expression on her face.

‘What is wrong with her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She looks furious.’

‘She is going back to the nuns at St Radegund’s Convent,’ said de Lisle. ‘I cannot have her with me when I visit the Archbishop later this month; I do not think they would see eye to eye. And anyway, I do not have time to give her the constant attention she needs now that Ralph is gone.’

‘I am sorry you lost such a faithful retainer,’ said Michael insincerely.

‘So am I. Tysilia let the gypsy into my house, thinking that she was being helpful. When Goran told her he had come to kill Ralph, she thought he was speaking metaphorically.’

‘I doubt it,’ mumbled Bartholomew. ‘She would have taken Goran quite literally, and seen Ralph’s death as an opportunity to escape from his protection for a night.’

De Lisle did not hear him, or gave no sign that he did. He continued. ‘She found herself with hours to do as she pleased. She visited a number of taverns, and made various sorties to the stables, but I found her in the north-west transept the following morning.’

‘I imagined her experiences with a certain gargoyle would have put her off that particular place,’ said Bartholomew, surprised.

‘She has already forgotten about that. I caught her tampering with the scaffolding. I have no idea what she did exactly, but I cannot help but wonder whether it might have been more stable before she got to it.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘What are you saying? That Henry may have died because that woman fiddled around with things she did not understand?’

De Lisle nodded slowly. ‘I cannot be certain, but I know she had undone some knots and retied others wrongly. She told me it was like embroidery with large threads.’

‘Are you sure she should be set loose on the nuns?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘She is a danger to have around – as I have told you before. Look what she did to the lepers.’

‘The nuns need the money,’ said de Lisle, as if that was all that mattered. ‘They will take her. But we should go, or we will be travelling after dark.’ He grimaced. ‘Damn! I was about to call for Ralph. I shall miss that man. He obeyed my orders without question, and I doubt I will ever find another servant like him.’

‘Henry’s letter said that Ralph was blackmailing him because he had guessed that Henry was the killer,’ said Michael. ‘So Ralph was not a good man for you to employ. You are better without him.’

Bartholomew was aware that de Lisle was looking at Michael strangely. ‘Ralph was blackmailing Henry?’ he asked. ‘Not the other way around?’

‘Why should Henry blackmail Ralph?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

‘For his silence, after Ralph was foolish enough to confess,’ said de Lisle. ‘At least, that is what Ralph told me. Clever old Ralph! He took money from me – which he said he was going to give Henry – and now I learn that he also took money from Henry. Both for the same thing. It just goes to show that you never know people as well as you think.’ He gave them an absent smile, and spurred his horse away, down the road that led to Cambridge.

‘He knew!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, regarding the proud prelate in horror. ‘He knew Ralph killed Glovere! He was even paying Ralph to ensure that Henry kept silent.’

‘You are right,’ whispered Michael, staring at the elegant figure of the Bishop astride his black horse as he rode away from Ely. ‘De Lisle was guilty all along!’