A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 3

The following day was clear and bright, and the sun had burned away the odorous mist even before the office of prime started at six. Bartholomew stood in the nave, listening to the chanting of the Benedictines in the chancel, closing his eyes to appreciate the singing as it washed and echoed along the vaulted roof. The first rays of sunlight caught the bright glass in the windows, and made dappled patterns in red, yellow and blue on the smooth cream paving stones of the floor.

While the monks completed their devotions in the privacy of the chancel, which was separated from the nave by an intricately carved stone pulpitum, Bartholomew wandered through the rest of the church, admiring the soaring vaulting above the vast emptiness of the nave, so high that he could barely make out details of the ribs in the dusty gloom above the clerestory. Although every available scrap of wall space was covered in brilliantly hued paintings, and every niche boasted a statue of a saint or a cleric, the flagstones were bare and, apart from a rather cheap-looking altar that stood at the east end of the nave, there was not another piece of furniture in sight. Walking alone, with his footsteps echoing, Bartholomew began to feel oppressed by the great emptiness. Of Lady Blanche and her retinue there was no sign, and Bartholomew assumed they were not in the habit of rising early.

At the heart of the cathedral was the shrine to St Etheldreda. It was a box-shaped structure with a wooden coffin in the middle, covered with a dazzling mass of precious stones, so that it glittered and gleamed with its own light. A number of pilgrims lined up nearby, each ready to present three pennies to a hulking lay-brother with hairy knuckles, who had evidently been selected for his ability to intimidate. One barefoot, ragged woman was sobbing bitterly, and Bartholomew supposed she did not have the necessary funds to buy access to the shrine. Bartholomew felt a surge of anger towards Almoner Robert for demanding payment for something that should have been open to all.

At the west end of the nave were a pair of matching transepts, each decorated with intricate designs in a riot of colours, and adorned with so many statues of saints and biblical figures that Bartholomew felt overwhelmed by the presence of the silent host that gazed down at him with blank eyes. Everywhere he looked was another face. Some were familiar, and he saw that clever masons had used monks in the priory as models for their creations. William was St Edmund, while Robert was an evil-looking green man.

The south-west transept contained a font for baptisms, and a group of lay-brothers who had gathered there were taking advantage of the monks’ period of prayer by chatting in low voices. The north-west transept, however, was another matter. A half-hearted barrier in the form of a frayed rope suggested that people would be wise not to venture inside, although cracked flagstones and pieces of smashed masonry provided a more obvious deterrent. Bartholomew walked towards it and gazed upwards, noting the great cracks that zigzagged their way up the walls, and the peculiar lopsidedness of the wooden rafters above. A statue of an animal that looked like a pig leaned precariously overhead, as if ready to precipitate itself downward at any moment, while a couple of gargoyles seemed as though they would not be long in following. He recalled Alan saying that the building looked worse than it was, and thought the architect might well be underestimating the problem: to Bartholomew, it looked ready for collapse.

He was admiring the impressive carvings around the great door in the west front, when a crash preceded a string of people traipsing in. Some were rubbing sleep from their eyes, clearly having just dragged themselves from their beds, while others had hands that were stained dark with the peaty blackness of the local soil, having already started their day’s labours. There were peasants wearing undyed homespun tunics, with bare arms burned brown by the sun; and there were merchants, in clothes of many colours with their tight-fitting gipons, flowing kirtles, and fashionable shoes.

Among them was a small, bustling character wearing the habit of a Dominican friar. He had black, greasy hair that was worn too long, and eyes so close together that the physician wondered whether either could see anything other than his nose. The priest spotted Bartholomew and strode purposefully towards him.

‘Are you visiting the city?’ he demanded without preamble. ‘Or are you a priory guest?’

‘The latter,’ replied Bartholomew, startled by the brusque enquiry.

‘Then you are the priory’s responsibility and none of mine,’ said the priest curtly. ‘You may attend my service, but you must behave yourself in a fitting manner.’

‘Behave myself?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. Had the shabbiness of his academic tabard, which should have been black but was more charcoal due to frequent washes, and the patches on his shirt made him appear more disreputable than he had imagined? He decided to invest in a set of new clothes as soon as he had enough money to do so.

The priest sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, behave: no swearing, no fighting and no spitting.’

‘I shall do my best,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering what kind of congregations the priest usually entertained with his morning masses.

‘I hope so,’ said the priest sternly. ‘My name is Father John Michel, and I am the chaplain of the parish of Holy Cross – this parish. I am about to conduct mass, so take your place among my congregation, if you want to stay.’

‘Here?’ asked Bartholomew, as the priest struggled into an alb and made for the rough altar at the end of the nave. ‘You plan to conduct a mass here, in the nave of the cathedral, while the monks are still singing prime in the chancel?’

‘They are a nuisance with all their warbling,’ agreed John, evidently believing that Bartholomew’s sympathies lay with the mass about to begin rather than the one already in progress. ‘Their strident voices tend to distract my parishioners from their devotions. Still, we do our best to drown them out.’

‘Why not use St Mary’s Church, on the village green?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued by the curious arrangement the priest seemed to have with the priory. ‘Then you and the monks would not disturb each other.’

John gave a hearty sigh, and glared at Bartholomew in a way that suggested the physician should keep quiet if he did not know what he was talking about. ‘Because St Mary’s Church is in St Mary’s parish,’ he explained with painstaking slowness, as if Bartholomew were lacking in wits. ‘I am the priest of Holy Cross parish, and the nave of this cathedral is Holy Cross Church.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I wondered why there was such a thick screen separating nave and chancel.’

‘You may have noticed that a new structure is being erected against the north wall of the cathedral,’ said John, gesturing vaguely to a spot where a half-finished building could be seen through the stained-glass windows. ‘When that is completed, it will be our parish church, and I shall be disturbed by the monks no longer. I wish the builders would hurry up, though: I complained to the Archbishop of Canterbury about the situation years ago, and the monks have still not finished my new church. It is the fault of that damned octagon.’

‘The cathedral’s new central tower?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How can that be responsible for your church being unfinished?’

The patronising tone crept back into John’s voice. ‘Because the monks took the builders away from my church to raise that monstrosity instead. Then the Death came, and many masons died. It was all most inconvenient.’

‘Especially for the masons. I am sure most of them would have preferred to work on your church than to die of the plague.’

‘They were a lazy crowd, anyway,’ said John, apparently unaware of the irony in Bartholomew’s voice. ‘They would go to any lengths to avoid an honest day’s work. It would have been quicker for me to raise the damned thing myself. But I have a mass to conduct. Stand there, next to that pillar, and stay well away from those three men near the altar.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, turning to glance at the people whom the priest indicated with a careless flick of his hand. As far as he could tell, they were perfectly normal, and had no obvious infectious disease that might be passed from close contact. Two were young men, who wore sullen expressions and exuded the impression that they thought the world owed them a good deal more than they had been given; the third was Richard de Leycestre.

‘Just do as I tell you,’ said John irritably. ‘Stay by the pillar and keep quiet until I finish. However, in future I would rather you attended mass with the monks. My parishioners do not take kindly to having the priory’s spies in their midst.’

‘Spies?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘I am not a spy. And anyway, what could there be to report to the monks – or anyone else – about a mass held so close to them that they will be able to hear every word anyway?’

‘I am sure you do not require me to elaborate on that,’ replied John obscurely. ‘And now you must excuse me, before my parishioners decide they have better things to do than watch me chattering to you.’

He bustled away, leaving the physician feeling like an unwelcome interloper. Bartholomew saw he was the subject of several curious gazes, not all of them friendly. The three men he had been forbidden to speak to regarded him with unreadable expressions before turning away to watch Father John.

Flinging a few tawdry receptacles carelessly on to the altar, John took a deep breath and began to bellow the words of his mass at the top of his lungs. Immediately, the volume of the monks’ singing increased, so John yelled louder still. In reply, the monks notched up the volume once again, so that it was difficult to concentrate on either. The air rang with noise, frightening two pigeons that had been roosting among the rafters; the sounds of their agitated flapping, and the shrieks of a woman as one flew too close to her, added to the general racket. The lay-brothers, who had been talking quietly in the transept at the end of the nave, began to speak more loudly in order to make themselves heard, and John’s congregation, unable to understand the priest’s abominable Latin, started to converse among themselves. Bartholomew watched open-mouthed from the base of his pillar.

And so it continued, with John abandoning the usual format of the mass in favour of repeating those parts that would provide him with the opportunity to shout. He crashed the chalice and patens so hard on the top of the altar that Bartholomew was certain they would have broken had they been made from anything other than metal. That the sacred vessels made such satisfying clangs reiterated the fact that the dispute between monks and parish was not a new one, and Bartholomew wondered whether John had ordered iron vessels specially manufactured for the express purpose of allowing him to use them like gongs.

Eventually, the monks completed their devotions, and their unnecessarily loud footsteps could be heard leaving the chancel and stamping towards the cloisters. Doors were slammed, wooden pews banged and bumped, and psalters and prayer books snapped shut in one of the noisiest exits from a church Bartholomew had ever witnessed. He was surprised that Prior Alan, who had not seemed to be a petty man, permitted such churlish behaviour among his monks.

John’s mass was completed as soon as the door to the vestries slammed for the final time and the last of the monks had left. Bartholomew had expected that John would merely lower his voice and complete the service at a more reasonable volume, thus instilling at least some degree of reverence into his restless, bored parishioners. But John merely devoured the Host, gulped down some wine, and gathered his iron vessels together in anticipation of a speedy completion. He raised his hand to sign a benediction over his assembled flock, although Bartholomew saw that the priest was more interested in the doings of the lay-brothers who were lurking among the shadows of the north aisle than in blessing his people.

‘Did you enjoy our mass?’ came a soft voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. The physician turned to see Richard de Leycestre; the two young men were at his side.

‘It was an interesting experience,’ replied Bartholomew guardedly. ‘I am used to masses conducted a little more quietly.’

Leycestre chuckled. ‘I imagine there are few who are not.’

‘I have been instructed not to speak to you,’ said Bartholomew, looking to where Father John’s determined advance on the chattering lay-brothers had been brought to a halt: Agnes Fitzpayne, the prodigious drinker in the Mermaid the night before, had intercepted him and had his arm gripped in one of her powerful hands. Thus occupied, John had not yet noticed that his earlier command was being ignored, and that Bartholomew was conversing with Leycestre and his companions.

‘By Father John, I suppose,’ said Leycestre, shaking his head. ‘He is always trying to prevent us from speaking to the strangers who pass through our city.’ He indicated the two young men with a wave of his hand. ‘These are my nephews, Adam Clymme and Robert Buk. They are of the same mind as me as regards the pitiful circumstances our peasants have been forced into by greedy landlords, but Father John dislikes us spreading the word.’

‘I imagine he is trying to protect you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are very vocal about your beliefs, and he probably does not want you telling one of the King’s spies that Ely is a hotbed of insurrection.’

‘Unfortunately, it is not,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘I wish it were, because then we might be able to set about rectifying the unjust situation that prevails here. But although everyone complains about high taxes and crippling tithes, no one is prepared to do anything about them.’

‘And you are?’

Leycestre regarded him warily. ‘That is a blunt question. Perhaps Father John was right to try to prevent us from speaking to you.’

‘Perhaps he was. Not everyone feels the same way as you do.’

Leycestre went back to his preaching. ‘All the folk here resent the heavy taxes and the fact that they owe at least three days’ labour each week to the Bishop or the priory – depending on who owns the land – before they can even begin to see to their own crops. But no one except us has the courage to speak out.’

‘Father John is certainly vocal in his way,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘He must have spoiled the monks’ morning mass.’

Leycestre did not smile back. ‘It is a matter of principle that we do not allow those fat, wealthy clerics to gain the better of us poor folk. It is a pity, though: I used to find prime in the cathedral a restful time, and now it has become a battle.’

‘Then do not take part in it,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry if I offend you, but competing to see who can shout the loudest is no way to behave. It is very childish.’

‘That is because you do not understand what is at issue here,’ said one of the nephews, pushing forward and thrusting his heavy, ruddy face close to Bartholomew’s. The physician was startled: he had forgotten the youths were there. ‘You only heard a lot of shouting, but–’

‘That is enough!’ came a sharp voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned to see that Agnes Fitzpayne had abandoned John, and was approaching them. She glowered menacingly at the hapless young man. ‘I have warned you about this kind of thing before, Adam!’

Adam fell back, reddening in embarrassment at the admonition.

‘Mistress Fitzpayne,’ said Leycestre pleasantly. ‘Good morning.’

‘A “good morning” for talking rebellious nonsense, you mean,’ she snapped. ‘Go on! Be off! All three of you have work to do in the fields, and making nuisances of yourselves in the cathedral will not get the crops harvested.’

‘Priory crops!’ spat Adam in disgust. ‘The monks have no right to force us to work in their fields for no pay. We have families to feed and bread to earn, and we have no spare days for labouring just so that the likes of them can get fat on our sweat.’

‘That may be so, but it is not for you to try to change things,’ said Agnes briskly, cocking her head meaningfully at Bartholomew in an unsubtle warning that strangers were present. ‘Go away before I take a broom handle to you.’

Reluctantly, the nephews slunk away, casting resentful glances over their shoulders to show their displeasure at being dismissed like schoolboys. Leycestre lingered, although he was evidently not in Agnes’s good books for spinning his disaffected thoughts to the priory’s visitors, because she turned her back on him when she addressed Bartholomew. She looked the physician up and down before speaking, as she might examine a fish she was considering buying.

‘I am surprised to see you here so early this morning,’ she began rudely. ‘You and your fat Benedictine friend trawled every tavern in the town last night, asking about Glovere. I did not expect to see you until at least noon, given that Ely ale is stronger than that pale stuff served in Cambridge.’

‘We did not drink that much,’ said Bartholomew, blithely ignoring the fact that he had felt less than lively when he had awoken that morning. ‘We wanted information, not ale.’

Agnes nodded. ‘I know what you wanted. You are trying to find evidence that Thomas de Lisle did not drown Glovere in the river.’

‘Much as I despise the man for oppressing the people he is supposed to care for, I do not think de Lisle killed Glovere … ’ began Leycestre.

Agnes said tiredly, ‘No, we all know what you think, Leycestre. You blame Glovere’s death on the gypsies. Personally, I do not know what to believe, so I suppose we will just have to wait and see what the official investigators – Brother Michael, Bishop Northburgh and Canon Stretton – discover.’ She turned her penetrating gaze on Bartholomew. ‘But meanwhile, I would be obliged if you would forget what you just heard.’

‘And you would be wise to oblige her,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Leycestre murmur.

‘Forget what, precisely?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The fact that I have just witnessed the unedifying spectacle of rival clerics trying to yell each other hoarse? Or the fact that Ely’s young men, like those in Cambridge, do not like harvesting crops?’

Agnes put her hands on her hips and regarded him closely. ‘You are one of that rabble of scholars from the University in Cambridge. I hear that the masters there engage in unnatural acts with animals, and that the students practise satanic rites in the churchyards after dark – when they are not murdering townsfolk, that is.’

‘Only when they are not roasting babies on spits in the Market Square,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering what scholars had done to earn such a peculiar reputation. From what he had observed during his brief sojourn with the residents of Ely, he thought they should concentrate on improving their own image before launching attacks on those of others.

‘Come, Leycestre,’ Agnes ordered, apparently uncertain whether or not the newcomer was jesting with her and not inclined to stay to find out. ‘We should make sure those feckless lads go to the priory’s fields and do their duty, or there will be trouble.’

As Bartholomew watched them hurry away, a sharp voice made him turn. It was Father John, his face dark with anger. ‘I told you not to talk to Leycestre and his nephews,’ he snapped, seizing Bartholomew’s arm angrily.

The physician pulled away, irked that the man should manhandle him. ‘You can tell me whatever you like, but I am not obliged to follow any of your orders. And they spoke to me first, not the other way around.’

‘They came to ascertain whether you are one of them,’ said John bitterly. ‘Foolish men! It is the surest way to place a noose around their necks – and mine, if they implicate me in their plans. It was lucky Agnes arrived when she did. Doubtless she stopped them from saying anything that might have been dangerous.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew testily, weary of the threats and assumptions that Ely’s citizens seemed happy to bandy about. ‘What is so dangerous about a conversation in a church?’

‘Rebellion,’ said John in a whisper, glancing around him as if the King’s spies might be lurking behind the cathedral’s pillars. ‘Sedition and bloody uprising. The people have grown tired of bending under the yoke of harsh landlords, and they are ready to rise against them. Leycestre and his nephews are the leaders of the movement in Ely. I am not with them, of course; I shall have to wait to see which side will win before I choose one faction over the other.’

‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘But I am no rabble rouser, and I do not want to become involved in any such venture. You can tell your trio of rebels to leave me alone.’

‘Not my trio,’ said John hastily. ‘But you will say nothing of this to the monks, especially Almoner Robert, or he will have them imprisoned. So, the matter is closed. Are we agreed? I see you carry a medicine bag. Are you a physician?’

‘Yes – I am here to read in the monks’ library; I have no time to work on horoscopes,’ Bartholomew said quickly before he was inundated with requests in that quarter.

‘I do not believe in such nonsense,’ said John dismissively. Bartholomew warmed to him a little. ‘I am interested in acquiring your services on another matter. I will pay you for your time; I know how physicians like their gold. Are you interested?’

‘It depends what you want me to do,’ said Bartholomew warily. ‘I do not cut hair or shave beards like a surgeon, and I certainly do not bleed people.’

‘I want you to give me your opinion,’ replied John mysteriously. ‘I want you to tell me whether a man died from his own hand or by accident. Can you do that? I know University men use dead bodies to further their knowledge of anatomy, so you must be familiar with corpses.’

‘Ask a local physician,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to spend his precious time examining bodies when he could be in the library. ‘What about Brother Henry?’

‘Henry is a good man, but he knows nothing about the dead,’ said John.

‘Then what about a surgeon? There must be one in Ely.’

‘Barbour, the landlord of the Lamb, bleeds us and cuts our hair while we recover. But I do not trust a surgeon who is better with hair than he is with veins. I would rather hire you.’

‘Who do you want me to look at?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I have already examined Glovere in the Bone House.’

‘And what did you find?’ asked John with keen interest. ‘Did he drown by accident, was it suicide, or did someone do away with him, as Lady Blanche would have us believe?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing Michael were with him. He did not like the fact that the priest already seemed aware that Glovere’s death was not all it seemed, and he did not like to imagine how.

‘Because Glovere’s demise may be relevant to the deaths of my two parishioners. Ely is a small town, and we have had three deaths by drowning within the last ten days. Do not tell me that is not a little odd!’

Bartholomew did not want to begin an investigation into the other two suspicious drownings without Michael present, so he asked Father John to wait while he went to fetch the monk. Michael was in the refectory, enjoying a substantial breakfast with the Prior and several other high-ranking Benedictines. Not for the brethren the grey, watery oatmeal that most people were obliged to consume: each of their tables was laden with fresh bread, smoked eels and dishes of stewed onions. The Prior and his officers, as befitted men of their superior station, also had coddled eggs and a baked ham.

‘Is it a feast day?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished by the quality and quantity of food that was being packed inside ample girths all around the refectory. No wonder Michael was so large, he thought; there seemed to be an informal competition in play to see who could eat the most. People often joked about the amount of food that was available to Benedictines, and Bartholomew had always put this down to a natural jealousy of an institution that treated its members well. However, he realised that he had been wrong to dismiss the popular claims as wild exaggerations when he saw what was being devoured by the men in black habits.

‘I must apologise for the paucity of the fare today,’ said the swarthy Almoner Robert, as he rammed a large piece of cheese into his mouth. ‘It is a Monday, and we always breakfast lightly on Mondays.’

Bartholomew studied him hard, but the intent expression on the almoner’s face convinced him that the man was perfectly serious.

‘Yes, there is almost nothing here,’ agreed Michael, casting a critical eye across the table. ‘I shall be ready for my midday meal when it comes.’

Bartholomew had no idea whether he was being facetious. Aware that Father John was waiting for him, he opened his mouth to ask Michael to accompany him, but he had hesitated and the conversation at the breakfast table suddenly took off. Bartholomew realised that besides having ample food with which to start the day, the monks also enjoyed talking, and there was none of the silence he had observed at mealtimes in other abbeys and his own College.

‘These are hard times,’ said Robert, still looking at the table in a disparaging manner. ‘We are reduced to eating much smaller portions, and I sometimes wonder how much longer we will be able to continue dispensing alms to the poor. They are always hungry.’

‘They are always hungry because they work hard,’ said Henry sharply, giving the almoner a disapproving glance. Bartholomew saw that he and Alan were the only ones who were not snatching and grabbing at the breakfast fare as if they would never see its like again. Alan seemed to possess the kind of nervous appetite that did not allow him to eat rich food, while the infirmarian took only bread and ale. They were by far the slimmest members of the community.

‘I cannot say I enjoyed prime this morning,’ said Michael, loading his knife with coddled eggs and transporting the quivering mass to his mouth. So much of the implement disappeared inside his maw that Bartholomew thought he might stab the back of his throat. ‘There was far too much noise. Can you not ask that parish priest to lower his voice?’

‘I do not attend prime, for exactly that reason,’ said Prior Alan. ‘I cannot hear myself think with all that yelling, let alone pray. I am obliged to delegate prime to Sub-prior Thomas, while I celebrate the office in my private chapel.’

‘I do not mind,’ said a vast man, whose jowls quivered with fat as they munched on his smoked eels. Bartholomew had never before seen a man of such immense proportions. He noted that the sub-prior had been provided with a sturdy seat of oak, probably so that his enormous weight would not tip the bench and precipitate the others on to the floor. His Benedictine habit was the size of a tent, yet was still stretched taut across his chest and stomach, and a series of wobbling chins cascaded down the front of it. Even the process of sitting and devouring a monstrous meal seemed too much exercise; beads of sweat broke out across his red face and oozed into the greasy strands of hair that sprouted from his neck.

‘Personally, I have always felt there is far too much mumbling at prime,’ Sub-prior Thomas went on, slicing himself a slab of ham the size of a doorstop. ‘I like a bit of noise myself. All that soft whispering gives people the impression that we are still half asleep, and prime is much more rousing when we can put a little enthusiasm into it.’

‘There was certainly a good deal of that,’ muttered Michael, repeating the operation with the knife. This time, several monks watched with evident fascination, probably anticipating that he would either stab himself or choke, Michael did neither, and when he spoke again, it was through a mouth full of eggs. ‘Young Julian yelled himself completely hoarse, while the altos in the choir were screeching, not singing.’

‘I am glad Julian can do something worthwhile,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Thomas mutter as he reached out and grabbed a loaf of bread. The physician expected him to cut a piece and replace the rest, but the sub-prior proceeded to tear off lumps and cram them into his mouth with the clear intention of devouring the whole thing himself. As he ate, he cast venomous glances at the back of the hall, where the novices were seated. The young men did not seem happy to be the object of the sub-prior’s hostile attention, and Bartholomew had the impression that there was no love lost between Alan’s deputy and his young charges. Julian gazed back with brazen dislike, although the others seemed more cowed than defiant.

‘De Lisle never bothers with prime when he is in Ely,’ observed Robert sanctimoniously. ‘I imagine he is too busy counting his money.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Hosteller William. He had washed his hair that morning, presumably because Blanche was visiting and he wanted to make a good impression. He kept running his hands through it so that it would dry, and it sat around his head like a giant grey puffball. ‘He does not have any. That is his problem.’

‘How is Lady Blanche this morning?’ asked Alan of his hosteller, tactfully changing the subject so that Michael would not be obliged to hear his fellow monks denigrating their Bishop. ‘I invited her to celebrate prime in my private chapel, but she informed me that she does not like to rise while the dew still lies on the ground.’

‘Her retinue follow her example,’ said Robert disapprovingly. He helped himself to a chunk of cheese that would have fed an entire family of peasants. Bartholomew tried hard not to gape at him. ‘Bartholomew was the only one of our guests in the cathedral this morning. However, I did not like the fact that he chose to sit with the town rabble, in preference to us.’

‘I did not expect that to be an issue,’ said Bartholomew, indignant at the criticism, when no one had bothered to forewarn him. ‘I assumed the townsfolk would attend St Mary’s, or listen to your offices from the nave. I was not anticipating that two masses would be celebrated in the same church at the same time.’

‘There is something of a rivalry between priory and city,’ explained William. ‘And Father John is always looking for opportunities to exacerbate the problem. I saw him whispering secretly to you after he had finished howling his miserable Latin. What did he want?’

‘He was not whispering and his request was not secret,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he was engaging in subterfuge. He wondered whether the monks were in the habit of making inflammatory remarks to all their guests, or whether he had been singled out for that particular honour.

‘I imagine he was telling you that the town needs more alms from us,’ said Robert angrily. ‘Well, we are poor ourselves and cannot afford to give more.’

‘So I see,’ said Bartholomew, his eyes straying to the piles of food that were rapidly disappearing inside monastic mouths.

‘There is always something more we can do for the poor,’ said Henry softly. No one took any notice of him.

‘Or was he complaining that we have spent too much time on the octagon, when we should have been working on his miserable parish church?’ demanded Robert, working himself into a fever of righteous indignation. ‘We are not made of money: we cannot pay every last mason in the country to work for us, and the cathedral is more important than any parish church.’

‘Not to the people of Holy Cross,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And not to you, either, unless you happen to like shouting at prime.’

‘Father John does have a point,’ said the ever-reasonable Henry, appealing to Prior Alan. ‘We started his church thirty years ago, and it is still nowhere near completion.’

‘We had the octagon to build and the Lady Chapel to raise,’ Alan pointed out. ‘Those were large projects that took all our resources.’

‘But the parish church is more important than a lady chapel,’ argued Henry. ‘Our first duty is to our fellow men, not to erecting sumptuous buildings that we do not need.’

‘Our first duty is to God,’ retorted Alan sharply. ‘And I have chosen to fulfil that duty by raising magnificent monuments to glorify His name.’

Henry said no more, although Bartholomew was uncertain whether it was because he was abashed by Alan’s reprimand, or because he could see that there was simply no point in arguing.

‘Or was Father John muttering to you because he thinks churchmen have been slaughtering townsfolk?’ asked Sub-prior Thomas of Bartholomew in the silence that followed, his jaws still working on the remaining crusts of his bread. Bartholomew looked around surreptitiously, certain that the fat sub-prior could not possibly have eaten an entire loaf within such a short period of time. The crumbs on the table indicated that he had.

‘He wants me to examine some bodies for him,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Oh, that is a relief,’ said a tall monk with a bushy beard. ‘I thought you might be waiting there for me to give you the keys to the library.’

‘Are you Symon de Banneham, the Brother Librarian?’ asked Bartholomew immediately. ‘When can I make a start? There are many texts to read and I would like to begin as soon as possible.’

Symon blew out his cheeks and shook his head, intending to convey the impression that the request was an impossible one to grant. ‘Not today. Come back next week.’

‘Next week?’ echoed Bartholomew in horror. ‘But I will have gone home by then.’

‘Pity,’ said Symon, pouring himself a large jug of breakfast ale and downing it faster than was wise. ‘We have some lovely books. I am sure you would have enjoyed them.’

‘Why can you not oblige our visitor sooner, Symon?’ asked Prior Alan curiously. ‘There is no reason why he should not start work whenever he likes. No one else is reading the books he wants to see, and the library is meant to be used by people just like him.’

Symon shot his Prior an unpleasant look. ‘It is not convenient to deal with him today.’

‘Why not?’ pressed Alan. ‘You have no other pressing duties. And you do not need to “deal” with him anyway. Just show him the books and he can manage the rest for himself.’

Symon gave a long-suffering sigh, but was obviously unable to think of further excuses. ‘This is a wretched nuisance, but I suppose I might be able to fit you in tomorrow. You will have to find me, though. I am too busy to be at a specific place at a certain time.’

‘That will not be a problem,’ said Bartholomew, deciding that he had better agree to any terms set by the unhelpful librarian if he ever wanted to see a book. ‘I will find you.’

Symon’s eyes gleamed with triumph, and Bartholomew suspected that the librarian would make tracking him down as difficult as possible.

‘So, you can inspect corpses today and read tomorrow,’ said Alan sweetly to Bartholomew. ‘It sounds a perfect two days for a medical man.’

‘I would rather see living patients than inspect corpses,’ said Bartholomew, determined that the monks should not consider him a ghoul who preferred the company of blackened, stinking remains of men like Glovere to engaging in normal, healthy pursuits like examining urine. He beckoned to Michael. ‘We should go, Brother. Father John is waiting.’

‘Why do you need Michael to accompany you?’ asked William, fluffing up his bobbed hair fastidiously.

‘Apparently, the priest believes that two of his parishioners may have died in suspicious circumstances,’ explained Bartholomew, not certain what he should say. Since he and Michael were not yet sure whether someone had murdered Glovere for the express purpose of compromising de Lisle, he did not want to tell the assembled monks too much: given that de Lisle was unpopular in the priory, it would not be surprising if one of the Benedictines had decided to try to bring about the Bishop’s downfall.

Michael rose from his feast, dabbing greasy lips on a piece of linen with one hand and shoving a handful of boiled eggs and a piece of bread into his scrip with the other. Meanwhile, his brethren began a spirited debate about the bodies that Father John wished Bartholomew to examine.

‘John is concerned by the fact that a couple of his parishioners have had the misfortune to meet their maker recently,’ said Almoner Robert with a smugly superior smile on his dark features. He leaned back against the wall and folded soft white hands across his ample paunch. ‘However, someone should inform him that it is quite natural for people to die.’

‘But even you must admit that it is unusual for three men to drown in such rapid succession,’ replied William tartly, treating the almoner to a scornful glance. From the way Robert glared back, Bartholomew sensed that this was not the first disagreement the two men had engaged in.

‘Three?’ asked Henry, crossing himself in alarm. ‘I thought there were two – Glovere and Chaloner. Who is the other?’

‘That ruffian Haywarde,’ replied Robert, tearing his attention away from William and addressing Henry. ‘He is that lazy fellow who is related to Agnes Fitzpayne. He was found dead near the Monks’ Hythe on Saturday morning.’

‘Drowned?’ asked Henry, horrified. ‘Like the other two?’

Robert nodded with gleeful satisfaction, clearly enjoying the fact that he was in possession of information that the others lacked. Bartholomew thought him a thoroughly repellent character, and was not surprised that Michael preferred life in Cambridge to that in his Mother House, where there were men like Robert, Thomas and William to contend with. ‘He was found floating face-down in the water – he took his own life.’

‘But why would he do that?’ asked Henry uncertainly. ‘I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but Haywarde was too selfish and arrogant a man to do himself any harm.’

‘I agree,’ said Robert, who seemed the kind of fellow who would always find something negative to say about someone. ‘But that is what is being said in the town. As almoner, I am told these things, whereas you will hear little, locked in your hospital all day.’

‘I have Julian,’ said Henry, a little bitterly, as he cast an unreadable glance towards Alan. ‘He more than compensates for any gossip I might miss. I have never met anyone with a more spiteful tongue.’

‘I have,’ muttered William, directing another glance of rank dislike at Robert. ‘Even the reprehensible Julian could learn some tricks from the likes of our Brother Almoner.’

‘Haywarde was a pig, and does not deserve to be buried in consecrated ground anyway,’ announced Robert sanctimoniously, apparently unaware of William’s murmured comments. ‘Suicide or not, the potter’s field is the best place for him.’

‘That is a fine attitude for a man whose task is to care for the poor,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Does it not touch your sense of compassion that the man felt compelled to risk his immortal soul rather than continue to live?’

‘No,’ said Robert firmly. ‘And we paid him a perfectly fair wage, so do not listen to any seditious chatter put about by that Leycestre. He claims the priory does not care for its labourers.’

‘We could have paid Haywarde a little more,’ said William reasonably. ‘The man had six children, and what we gave him was barely enough to feed them all.’

‘It was, actually,’ argued Thomas, reaching for the empty ham platter and proceeding to scrape up the grease with his spoon. ‘Or it would have been, had he chosen to buy bread, rather than squandering it on ale at the Lamb.’

‘He did enjoy his ale,’ admitted Henry. ‘And his drunkenness did not make for a happy life for his wife and children. He was altogether too ready with his fists – I cannot begin to recall the times that I have dispensed salves to heal his family’s bruises.’

‘Too many offspring,’ proclaimed Thomas, licking the fat from his spoon with a moist red tongue. ‘That was the essence of Haywarde’s problems.’

‘He should have thought of that before he rutted with his woman, then,’ snapped Robert nastily. ‘I have no patience with men who breed like rabbits and then decline to accept their responsibilities. Haywarde chose to have six children, and his death has condemned them to a slow death by starvation.’

‘I am sure no one here will allow that to happen,’ said Bartholomew, loudly enough to silence the hum of chatter that buzzed around the refectory. He felt Michael plucking at his sleeve, encouraging him to leave before he could embroil himself in an argument with the people whose hospitality he was receiving. Impatiently, he moved away. ‘This man was one of the monastery’s servants, and I am certain none of you will be so callous as to allow his children to starve.’

‘That is unfair,’ snapped Robert angrily. ‘It is not our fault that Haywarde is dead, and we cannot afford to take every hungry child into our care; we would be bankrupt in no time at all.’

‘We would have every peasant in the Fens clamouring at our doors for succour,’ agreed Thomas, who had finished the fat and was eyeing the last of the cheese, indicating that the plight of Haywarde’s children was not something that would affect his own appetite. ‘Robert is right.’

‘Robert is wrong,’ declared William promptly, delighted with an opportunity to show his rival in a poor light. He turned to Alan, still raking his fingers through his peculiar hair. ‘Bartholomew has a point, Father. It would be wicked of us to ignore this stricken family. I will donate my breakfast to Haywarde’s children from now on.’ He shot Robert an unpleasant smile, indicating that he thought he had won some kind of point.

‘You will not, my lad,’ said Thomas fervently, looking up from his feeding. ‘That would place an obligation on the rest of us to do the same thing, and I can assure you that I shall allow nothing to come between me and my food. I am a large man, and I need sustenance to conduct my life in a manner that is fitting to God.’

‘I am sure God would condone a little abstinence in the name of compassion,’ said William, surveying Thomas’s girth critically. ‘And I shall undertake to ensure that Haywarde’s children are cared for. You can do as you will.’

Bartholomew saw the novices smiling among themselves, apparently delighted to see the fat sub-prior opposed so energetically. It seemed that Thomas was not a popular man with the youngsters.

‘I shall look into Haywarde’s case,’ said Alan wearily; it was not the first time he had acted as peacemaker between his senior monks. ‘However, I took it upon myself to visit the family the day he died, and the widow assured me that she would fare better without him. I confess I was shocked, but she told me that the funds spent on Haywarde’s ale would pay for the children’s bread. She seemed rather delighted by her change of fortune.’

‘She would,’ said Henry. ‘Haywarde cannot have been an easy man to live with.’

‘A brute,’ agreed Thomas wholeheartedly, gnawing the remnants of cheese from a rind. ‘And I, for one, am glad he is dead. He will not be mourned in the town for a moment.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, astonished to hear such sentiments from a monk.

‘Our visiting physician should be about his business,’ said Robert, watching his reaction critically and showing that he thought it high time the outspoken interloper was gone.

‘True,’ said Thomas. ‘There are three bodies awaiting his attention, after all.’

‘Three,’ mused William thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps Father John is right to be concerned.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Robert, regarding the hosteller with open hatred. ‘I have already pointed out that it is not unusual for men to die.’

‘To die, no,’ said William smoothly. ‘But it is unusual for three to drown within such a short time. You should beware, Robert, because I have a hunch that it will only be a matter of time before a monk is found face-down in the river.’

‘That was unpleasant,’ said Bartholomew, as he followed Michael out of the refectory towards the Steeple Gate, where he could see the priest still waiting. ‘Was William threatening Robert?’

‘Lord knows,’ sighed Michael. ‘It would not surprise me. Robert and William have loathed each other for as long as I can remember.’

‘Neither of them are especially appealing characters,’ remarked Bartholomew, trying to determine whether he was more repelled by the superior, unreadable William or the vicious-tongued Robert. And the sub-prior was not much better, either. ‘I cannot say that I am impressed with your Benedictine brethren, Michael.’

‘Not those particular ones. But Henry is a kindly soul, and so is Alan.’

‘I am not so sure about Alan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He seems gentle and good, but he permits this silly feud with Father John, and he does nothing to curb the excesses of his monks. Robert, William and Thomas would benefit if he did not allow them so much freedom.’

‘Alan really is a good man, but thwarted ambition has made him careless.’

‘You mean because he should have been Bishop and the Pope selected de Lisle instead?’

Michael rummaged in his scrip and presented Bartholomew with the food he had taken. ‘You should not poke around with corpses on an empty stomach, Matt. I should have grabbed you some ham, too, but that greedy Thomas wolfed most of it before I could act.’

Bartholomew took the offering, a little warily: Michael was not a man who readily parted with food, and the physician wondered whether there was something wrong with it. ‘Are you not hungry?’

‘Breakfast is always a tawdry affair on Mondays,’ said Michael carelessly. He is probably full, thought Bartholomew. ‘But I shall survive until we find a tavern, and you need sustenance, since you are about to meddle in de Lisle’s affairs on my behalf. How did you persuade the priest to let you examine the others?’

‘He asked me. But these other two deaths put a different complexion on matters, do you not think? They mean that unless de Lisle also murdered them, then he is unlikely to have killed Glovere.’

Michael gave a grim smile. ‘You are underestimating de Lisle, Matt. He is quite capable of deducing that the presence of two other corpses might exonerate him from the murder of the first. And you are assuming that these corpses are all related in some way. Robert is right: the waters in the Fens can be dangerous, and it is not unusual for men to die while fishing or fowling or cutting reeds.’

‘I suppose there is only one way to find out,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, watching with heavy resignation as Father John came to lead them to the corpses.

The two bodies lay in St Mary’s Church, an attractive building with a spire, which overlooked the village green. John explained that the monks refused to allow corpses in the cathedral while they awaited burial, and so the parishioners of Holy Cross were obliged to pay St Mary’s to store them until a requiem mass could be arranged. The priest of St Mary’s was well satisfied with the arrangement, and John informed Bartholomew and Michael that the twopence per day for each body went directly into the man’s own purse.

‘The monks should provide that twopence,’ John muttered bitterly. ‘Why should my parishioners pay, just because the priory refuses to allow them proper use of our parish church?’

‘But it is primarily the priory’s cathedral,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And it is the seat of the Bishop of Ely. Thomas de Lisle will not want to be falling over corpses each time he enters his own church, either.’

‘You make it sound as though we have dozens of them,’ said John accusingly. ‘There are only two. Prior Alan put Glovere in the Bone House.’

‘Why not store the others there, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

John explained patiently, ‘Since Glovere is a retainer of Lady Blanche he is technically not my parishioner, and I refused to find the twopence for him. Rather than pay himself, Alan made the Bone House available. But I could not avoid financing Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘The River Ouse can be dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why do you think the deaths of these two men are anything more than tragic accidents?’

‘I do not, actually,’ admitted John. ‘The river is dangerous, and these fellows liked a drink. But there is a rumour that they killed themselves, and if that is true, then I cannot bury them in consecrated ground.’

‘God’s blood!’ swore Michael, backing away as John opened the door to the Church of St Mary. ‘This place smells almost as foul as Glovere in the Bone House.’

‘It is summer, Brother,’ said John. ‘Of course there will be some odour.’

‘No wonder you pay for the privilege of storing your dead here,’ said Michael, removing his pomander from his scrip and shoving it against his nose and mouth. ‘It is the only way you would ever persuade a priest to allow you to do it.’

The bodies lay in open coffins in the Lady Chapel, covered with grimy blankets that were liberally scattered with horse hairs. Under each coffin, Bartholomew saw that the floor had been stained by water dripping from the bodies; he had noted a similar phenomenon on the floor around Glovere. Since neither John nor Michael made a move to help, he went over to the first corpse. He presumed it was Chaloner, who he knew had died a couple of days after Glovere, because the face was blackened and there was a whitish mass in the eyes and mouth, indicating that flies had been at work. It would not be long before Chaloner had a cloud of insects buzzing around him, just as Glovere had done.

‘Why have you waited so long to bury this man?’ asked Bartholomew, beginning his examination.

‘He has no family to arrange matters,’ said John, as if that explained everything. ‘His wife died in childbirth some weeks ago.’

‘Then why does the parish not pay?’ demanded Michael. ‘It is not seemly to keep the dead above ground for so long.’

John looked resentful. ‘How can I bury them when I do not know where they might be laid to rest? I must know whether either or both are suicides or died by accident.’ He drew himself up to his full height and did his best to look pious. ‘I will not see anyone consigned to unconsecrated ground if I can help it.’

‘Better unconsecrated ground than no ground at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you can always exhume them later and rebury them in the churchyard, if you are uncertain.’

John glared at him. ‘A final resting place is just that. I do not hold with tearing men from their graves once they have been interred. That is why I brought you here, so that you can determine where they should go.’

Bartholomew looked at the pair of corpses, hoping that he would be able to deduce enough to allow the removal of the bodies from a public place. While the remains of executed criminals often adorned the gates of cities or were abandoned at gibbets for weeks on end, leaving them in a building that people were obliged to use regularly was a wholly different matter.

‘What happened to Chaloner?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew began his examination. ‘Was he drunk?’

‘He enjoyed an ale in the Lamb and left after sunset. The next time anyone saw him, it was the following day in the river. He was floating face-down in the water, opposite the Monks’ Hythe.’

‘Did he drink heavily?’ asked Michael.

John shrugged. ‘On occasion, when he had the money.’

Bartholomew listened while he worked. He saw that while the parish had stretched itself to provide a blanket, it had done little else. Chaloner appeared to be in exactly the same condition as when he had been pulled from the river, and no one had made any attempt to clean him. Mud still streaked his arms, and there was river weed caught in his hair and beard. No one had even washed his face and hands, and they were thick with dirt.

However, the fact that the body had not been touched provided Bartholomew with some clues. Chaloner’s fingers were deeply caked in mud, which was also ingrained under his nails. That it had not washed away was a sign that he had probably not died in deep, fast-running water, but somewhere sheltered and boggy. He might have clawed at the banks in an attempt to pull himself out. But Bartholomew knew it was possible to drown in very shallow water, and the evidence on the hands alone did not allow him to ascertain whether Chaloner’s death had been accidental or deliberate. It did imply, however, that he had probably known what was happening to him, which suggested that he had not wandered into the river in his cups.

Beginning at the head, Bartholomew made a careful inspection of the body, paying special attention to the neck. He said nothing when he had finished, and moved on to the next corpse.

‘That is Haywarde,’ explained John. ‘He was found dead on Saturday. Like Chaloner and Glovere, he went to the Lamb for a drink before going home. He left the inn after dark, and–’

‘Let me guess,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He was found the following morning floating face-down in the river opposite the Monks’ Hythe.’

John nodded. ‘All three were. So, what do you think, Doctor? Can we bury them in the churchyard? Or are they are suicides?’

‘You can bury them in the churchyard,’ said Bartholomew soberly, straightening from his examination of the second body. ‘They have both been murdered.’

Michael gazed at Bartholomew in the soft shadows of St Mary’s Church. Somewhere outside a dog barked and a child gave a brief shriek of laughter, and then it was silent again, except for the buzzing of flies. The sun had broken through the morning clouds and was blazing hotly through the windows. St Mary’s did not boast much stained glass, but it had a little, and light pooled in occasional multicoloured splatters on the nave floor.

‘Are you sure, Matt?’ Michael asked. ‘Both murdered?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were killed very carefully, using an unusual method, but the signs are there for anyone to see. Had you examined the corpses yourself, you would have drawn the same conclusion.’

‘I did examine the corpses,’ said John indignantly. ‘But I found nothing to help me one way or another.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, not certain what else to say. He was astonished that anyone could have missed the clues that he thought were so obvious, even to the casual observer.

‘Did they die in the same way as Glovere?’ asked Michael.

‘What?’ asked John in sudden horror. ‘You think Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were killed by the same person?’

‘I cannot tell you that,’ said Bartholomew pedantically. ‘But I can tell you that they were all killed in an identical manner.’

‘Explain,’ ordered John. ‘I want to know exactly what you have learned. Use Haywarde to illustrate your points. We will move away from Chaloner: he is too ripe for my stomach.’

‘All three bodies have traces of mud on them,’ began Bartholomew, pointing to smears of dirt on the inside of Haywarde’s left ear. Someone had given his body a superficial wash, but it was insufficient to hide the fact that he had died out in the open.

‘Of course they are less than pristine,’ interrupted John. ‘They were found in the river.’

‘The river is not especially dirty in Ely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it is low at the moment and the banks are baked dry, because it is high summer and it has not rained for a while. I would not expect the bodies to be covered in mud.’

‘But they are not covered in mud,’ objected John. ‘Haywarde has the merest trace of dirt in his ear, and you are using it to claim the man was murdered! I can see I made a mistake in securing your services for an honest verdict!’

‘If you listen to him, and do not insist on interrupting with your own facile observations, you will learn why he considers the mud to be important,’ snapped Michael. ‘Matt and I have solved more murders than you could possibly imagine, and I can assure you that he has a lot more experience of what is and what is not important in these cases than you do.’

‘Very well,’ said John sullenly. ‘Explain, then.’

‘The first point to note is that you said the bodies were floating in the river near the Monks’ Hythe,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They were waterlogged, if the stains under the coffins are anything to go by, and they probably continued to drip for some time after being brought here.’

‘They did,’ agreed John reluctantly. ‘I had to pay St Mary’s thieving parish priest another penny, because he claimed they were fouling his church.’

‘But this soaking failed to wash away the mud in their ears,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Why should their ears be muddy, if they were found in the middle of a fairly large river?’

‘It came from when they were pulled out, I imagine,’ suggested Michael. ‘Dirt caught in the ears when they were dragged up the bank.’

‘No,’ said John, thoughtfully. ‘In each case, Mackerell the fisherman took his boat to fetch the bodies back to dry land. And it would have been disrespectful to drag them across the mud anyway – regardless of the fact that all three were miserable sinners who will not be missed. The bodies were taken from the boat, laid on a bier and brought here.’

‘The next thing I noted was that on each body there is slight grazing on the right side of the head and face,’ Bartholomew went on.

‘Could that be from when they were rolled from the boat to the bier?’ asked Michael.

‘Unlikely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘John says the corpses were treated with respect – at least until they reached the church.’ He shot an admonishing glance at the priest.

‘Then they may have damaged themselves when they fell – or were pushed – into the water,’ suggested John.

‘I thought the same, but the grazing is in the same place on all three corpses,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It occurs on the right cheek and ear. And it is the opposite cheek and ear that show the traces of mud.’

‘But what does that mean?’ asked John. ‘That they each went head-first into the water and hit themselves on the bottom somehow?’

‘Look at this,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the question and pointing to the cut at the base of Haywarde’s skull.

‘I hope you are not telling me that caused Haywarde’s death,’ said John in disbelief.

Bartholomew understood his scepticism. The wound was not very large, although it was deep. ‘The cut may be tiny, but it has been made at a very vulnerable point. I think these men were forced to lie on the ground, probably somewhere muddy, and their heads held still by something placed across one ear.’

‘Like this,’ said Michael, making a grab for the priest. John yelped in alarm, but he was too slight and far too slow to evade Michael’s lunge. The monk, for all his ample girth, was a strong man with very fast reactions. He wrestled the priest to the ground, holding him there with a hefty knee in the middle of the back.

‘Let me go!’ howled John, struggling ineffectually against the monk’s bulk. He turned his head to one side to relieve the pressure on his neck, so that one cheek rested on the smooth stone of the floor.

‘Exactly,’ said Bartholomew, nodding at the instinctive position the priest had taken. ‘And while the head was turned one way, the murderer placed something across his head to hold him still, possibly a foot or a knee.’

Michael placed one foot gently across John’s face. Bartholomew noted that it covered the arch of the cheek and the ear, which was precisely where the abrasions on all three victims had been located.

‘And then, while the victim lay trapped and helpless, unable to do a thing to save himself, the killer took a sharp implement and drove it into that spot at the base of the skull. The wound occurs precisely between the top two neck bones, and the tip of the weapon would have been driven into the point where the brain meets the spine.’

‘No!’ shrieked John as Bartholomew knelt next to him, one of his small surgical knives in his hand to illustrate the point. The physician touched the spot lightly, then indicated that Michael was to release the priest. John leapt to his feet and backed away from the Michaelhouse men in terror.

‘You are insane!’ he whispered. ‘You could have killed me, right here, on the floor of my own church!’

‘It is not your church,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘This is St Mary’s and you are chaplain of Holy Cross. But you see how it might have been done? It would not need a very large implement to damage the delicate tissues in that area. In fact, a smaller implement is probably better, because then you would not be trying to force a blade through bone but into the gap between them.’

‘And then I suppose the killer pushed the bodies into the river, so that any casual observer would believe that they had thrown themselves in,’ mused Michael.

John was unable to repress a shudder. ‘It is well known in the city that the river slows at the Monks’ Hythe, and that anything dropped upstream will fetch up there, where it is shallow and full of weeds.’

‘That explains the weed in the hair and clothes of all three victims,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And as long as people believed they committed suicide – or had an accident – rather than being murdered, there was no need for the killer to hide the corpses.’

‘But why would these men warrant being murdered?’ asked John in a low voice. ‘What could they have done to inspire someone to slay them in so horrible a manner? I know they were not liked, but that does not mean they deserved to die.’

‘The deaths were premeditated,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully.

‘How do you arrive at that conclusion?’ asked John suspiciously. He gestured to the two corpses. ‘There is nothing here to allow you to speculate about that.’

Michael gave a hollow smile. ‘But it is obvious nonetheless. Each of these men was last seen alone – walking home from a tavern. The killer lay in wait, and took them when they reached a spot where they could not call for help.’

‘But why these men?’ pressed John, as if they had all the answers. ‘They all knew each other, of course, but they did not associate, as far as I know.’

‘Did they have a common relative?’ asked Michael. ‘Did they frequent the same tavern?’

John shook his head, then nodded. ‘Well, yes, but there are only a few taverns in the city, so that means nothing. The Lamb sells the best beer, so men tend to congregate there, if they have money. But Chaloner had an undiscerning palate, and usually opted for the cheaper brews at the Mermaid.’

‘What about Richard de Leycestre?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Were they friends with him?’

‘Why do you ask about Leycestre?’ asked John suspiciously.

Bartholomew sighed impatiently. ‘Because he has been inciting the peasants to riot with his claims of injustice. We were barely through the gates before he approached us.’

‘What has that to do with anything?’ demanded John.

‘Perhaps these three were killed because they disagreed with Leycestre,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He is a committed man and it is possible that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde thought he was wrong.’

‘What did they think of Leycestre?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did they approve of his opinions?’

John shrugged nervously. ‘Glovere did not, because he was well paid by Lady Blanche, and earned a comfortable living. Haywarde and Chaloner did not care one way or the other, and would only have joined a fight when they were certain which side would win.’

‘That is what you said you would do,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows.

‘Are you sure these three deaths are unrelated to Leycestre?’ asked Michael, ignoring him. ‘He is determined to make Ely a centre for insurrection.’

‘I do not think he will succeed,’ said John. ‘The Bishop’s soldiers and the Prior’s men will stamp on any rebellion when the time is right. At the moment, each side is waiting to see whether such an uprising will harm the other, and hoping that it will work to their advantage.’

‘The feud between Bishop and Prior is that bitter?’ asked Bartholomew.

It was Michael who replied. ‘They do not like each other and they argue a good deal, but compared to most bishops and priors, de Lisle and Alan share a remarkably tolerant relationship.’

‘The monks seemed pleased that de Lisle was accused of murder,’ Bartholomew pointed out, recalling the glee with which the obnoxious Robert had reported the news to Michael.

‘Some are, but that is because it is only an accusation at the moment,’ said John. ‘If de Lisle were arrested and tried, you can be sure that the Church would close ranks and forget past differences. And anyway, in their heart of hearts, they know de Lisle is innocent, just as I do.’

‘Well, I am glad someone does,’ muttered Bartholomew, still not at all sure that the Bishop had no hand in the deaths of the three men.

‘So, your examination has proved that the Bishop is innocent,’ said John thoughtfully. ‘Because the method of killing is unusual, we know that all three were victims of the same person. De Lisle has no reason to want Chaloner and Haywarde dead – I doubt he knew they even existed – and so it stands to reason that he did not kill Glovere, either.’

Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a wary glance, realising that it did no such thing. Michael had already said that the Bishop was wily enough to have reasoned that for himself, and that he would not be above killing two more men in order to ‘prove’ his innocence in the death of the first. They said nothing, and John went on.

‘This is good news. I hope you will credit me with this discovery. After all, it was I who suggested that you should examine these other two corpses. The Bishop should know that it was due to my initiative that he is acquitted of this charge.’

‘We shall tell him,’ said Michael.

‘So, if the Bishop is not the killer, who is?’ asked John. ‘I am certain it is not Leycestre. He is not the kind of man who commits murder.’

‘Well, someone is,’ said Michael. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Was it a quick end, do you think?’

Bartholomew raised his hands, palms upwards. ‘I have never heard of anyone being killed like this before. But I doubt the victims lived long after the blade penetrated their necks. None of the wounds seems to have bled much, which indicates they did not die from loss of blood.’

‘Did it hurt?’ asked John, rubbing his own neck as if in sympathy.

‘Yes, probably,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The marks on Glovere and Chaloner are not quite as neat as the one on Haywarde, suggesting that the killer did a little prodding before he found his mark. And then it would take considerable force to thrust the blade between the bones until it did its damage.’

‘But Haywarde’s wound looks as if the killer knew exactly where to push,’ said Michael, leaning forward to inspect the mark again.

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘He is getting better at it.’