A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 4

It was afternoon by the time that Bartholomew and Michael had completed their examination of the bodies in St Mary’s Church, and had put them back the way they had found them. John offered Bartholomew four grubby pennies for his pains, which the physician refused, asking that they be given to Haywarde’s widow instead. Then he and Michael left the church, and stepped gratefully into the glorious sunshine outside.

Michael took a deep breath to clear his lungs of the cloying stench of death, and tipped his pale face back so that the warmth of the sun could touch it. Bartholomew removed his black scholar’s tabard and stuffed it in his bag. In Cambridge, he could be fined for not wearing the uniform of his College, but in Ely he was free of such restrictions. It felt good to wear only shirt-sleeves in the warmth of a summer day, and he did not envy Michael his heavy Benedictine habit.

‘All that prodding with corpses has done nothing for my appetite,’ complained the monk. ‘I am not in the least bit hungry.’

‘You are not hungry because you ate like a pig this morning,’ said Bartholomew critically. ‘I have never seen so much food piled in one place. No wonder so many of your brethren are fat.’

‘Thomas is fat,’ said Michael huffily. ‘But I am large-boned, as I have told you before. You are far too quick to accuse people of being obese these days, Matt. Making your patients feel uncomfortable about their physical appearance is not a kind thing to do.’

‘You are not my patient,’ said Bartholomew, laughing.

‘I will be soon, if you drive me to my sickbed with your constant comments about my size,’ declared Michael testily. ‘I am not fat; I just have heavy bones.’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, still laughing. ‘I forgot.’

‘Well, do not forget again,’ admonished Michael. He sighed. ‘What do you think, Matt? Where have these discoveries of yours led us?’

‘Deeper into a mystery to which I can see no answer,’ said Bartholomew, who would rather have been discussing Michael’s girth than the perplexing case of the three dead men. ‘As you said, your Bishop is certainly clever enough to kill two more people in order to “prove” he was innocent of the death of the first.’

‘I hope I am wrong,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I keep thinking that de Lisle would not have brought me here to investigate if he really had had a hand in Glovere’s death, but perhaps that is exactly his intention: to make people think he is innocent by ordering me to make enquiries.’

‘But the Bishop is not the only man on our list of suspects. A number of your brethren give the impression they harbour an intense dislike for de Lisle and would not be averse to hatching a plot that would see him blamed for a killing.’

‘Such as Robert,’ agreed Michael. ‘He is a nasty man – greedy and niggardly with the alms he distributes to the poor. Men like Leycestre would not be so vocal about the priory’s harshness if Robert gave away all that he should.’

Bartholomew was unconvinced. ‘But Robert only dispenses kitchen scraps. Why should he be niggardly with those? There is enough food at the table to ensure he is never hungry himself.’

‘He can sell spare food to the lay-brothers and pocket the proceeds. The priory also grants him an allowance of gold that is supposed to be used for the benefit of the poor. Who knows whether that goes the way it should?’

‘Surely it is Prior Alan’s responsibility to ensure that it does?’

‘All Alan’s attention is absorbed by his building projects. He delegates most other matters to Sub-prior Thomas. Thomas also dislikes de Lisle, although he is far too fat to go around killing people.’

‘He is not too fat to grab someone and immobilise them once he has them on the ground.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘Thomas shall remain on our list of suspects, then.’

‘William seems cleverer than the others,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the monks he had seen at the refectory that morning. ‘He is the kind of man to damage de Lisle, then sit back to watch the consequences and only step forward to take advantage when he is sure it is safe.’

‘That is a good analysis of him,’ said Michael approvingly. ‘I have never trusted him – mostly because he sports that ridiculous hairstyle. However, he does despise the snivelling Robert, which tends to raise him in my estimation, and he is genuinely concerned for the poor.’

‘Meanwhile, Alan should have been Bishop, but was cheated of the post when the Pope elected de Lisle instead,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Alan has every reason to want de Lisle to fall from grace, because then it is likely that he will become bishop.’

‘A possible solution, but an unlikely one,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘Alan is not the kind of man to kill.’

‘That is what Father John said about Leycestre, but we remained sceptical,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘If we elect to use a particular logic to name one suspect, then we must use that same logic to name others.’

‘But I know Alan, and so it is reasonable for me to make such assertions,’ said Michael defensively. ‘Alan is not a killer, Matt. At least, I do not think so.’

‘Then we will keep him on our list until you are sure. What about the others? Perhaps Symon kills anyone who wants to read the priory’s books.’

Michael laughed. ‘I am sure he would like to. We will keep him on our list, though, because he is always plotting and hatching plans that will see him promoted to a higher rank. They are usually unsuccessful, but it is possible that practice has made perfect. He must have engaged in serious subterfuge to secure himself the post of librarian – I cannot imagine he was appointed because he is a keen proponent of education.’

‘What about Henry?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is a physician, and would know where to place a knife so it would kill.’

‘Never,’ declared Michael. ‘He is one of the most gentle, kindest men I have ever known. Look how patient he is with that Julian.’

‘Julian,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Now there is someone with a murderous personality. He is nasty, enjoys the suffering of others, and has no compassion.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘And his work in the hospital may well have provided him with the kind of knowledge necessary to kill with stealth – not learned from Henry, obviously, but from studying and reading.’

‘So, those are the churchmen,’ summarised Bartholomew. ‘Bishop de Lisle, Prior Alan, Sub-prior Thomas, Hosteller William, Almoner Robert, Symon the librarian and Julian. Then there are the townsfolk: Leycestre and his nephews.’

‘And that Agnes Fitzpayne seems more angry about the inconvenience of Haywarde’s death than grief-stricken. She is strong enough to overpower a man.’

‘She is a heavy-boned lady,’ agreed Bartholomew.

Michael shot him a sharp glance, then went on. ‘We must not forget those gypsies, either. Leycestre believes they are the culprits. Perhaps we should pay them a visit: you look as though you need a little diversion after poking at those vile corpses, and I am sure you would be only too willing to spend more time in the company of the attractive Eulalia.’

‘And finally, we cannot rule out the possibility that someone in Lady Blanche’s household might be committing the murders, simply to wreak havoc and confusion in de Lisle’s domain,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a visit to the gypsy camp would indeed be a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.

Michael sniggered. ‘Like Tysilia, you mean? You placed her at the head of a list of suspects once before, and it led you nowhere. Do not fall into the same trap a second time.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair as he tried to make sense out of the meagre facts they had accumulated. ‘Most of these suspects are on our list only because we have made the assumption that they want de Lisle accused of murder so he will be discredited. However, it seems to me that someone has gone to a good deal of trouble to ensure that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde did not look as though they were murdered.’

‘That is true. They were rolled into the river so that it would be assumed that they had had an accident or committed suicide.’

‘And that implies that these men were not killed in order to have de Lisle accused of murder, but for some other reason,’ concluded Bartholomew.

Michael pursed his lips and frowned. ‘But what? Apart from the fact that no one liked them – Glovere was a malcontent, Chaloner married the wrong woman and Haywarde was an idle, drunken bully – we have uncovered nothing that links them together.’

‘They were all townsmen,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps that is where we should start. We have become side-tracked by the accusation levelled at de Lisle by Blanche, but I think these deaths may have nothing to do with your Bishop or the priory. They may just be the result of some falling out between these three men and their drinking cronies.’

‘Well, that will be easy enough to find out,’ said Michael confidently. ‘I am used to investigating very complex crimes, and no Ely resident will be able to outwit me for long.’

‘That may be so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you are assuming that people will talk to you. These are folk in a small community, who are protective of each other, and they will not be given to revealing their secrets to outsiders. You may find yourself unable to gather enough information to deduce anything – no matter how clever you are.’

Michael sighed. ‘So, you are telling me that I might never solve these murders?’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You have enjoyed success so far, and have found a culprit for every murder you have looked into. But there may come a time when you fail.’

‘No,’ vowed Michael. ‘I will solve this. Unless I come up with an answer, my Bishop will be stained with this charge for ever, and then what would happen?’

‘You would remain a proctor for the rest of your life, and de Lisle would end his days in some remote friary, far away from the King and his court and the centre of power.’

‘And that would never do,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘Come, Matt. Let us revisit these inns, and see what we can do to further my career and save de Lisle from a life of ignominy.’

The day had grown hot while they had been inside the church, and it was not long before Bartholomew’s shirt began to prickle uncomfortably at his skin as he walked with Michael to the first of the taverns. He imagined that Michael must be on fire under the thick black folds of his habit. In the winter, he was occasionally jealous of the fine-quality wool of the monk’s clothes, which were able to keep out all but the most bitter of the Fenland winds, but in the summer he was grateful he was not encumbered by the heavy garments the Benedictines were obliged to wear, and relished the touch of a cooling breeze on his bare arms and billowing through his shirt. It was so hot that he seriously considered a swim in the river, but the notion that three corpses had been pulled from it tempered his enthusiasm somewhat.

‘A jug of beer would be very acceptable, do you not agree?’ asked Michael as they passed the Chantry on the Green – a chapel established for the express purpose of saying masses for the dead – and headed towards the Heyrow. ‘I need something to wash the taste of bodies from my mouth, and Ely has a reputation for fine ales. This notion of yours to continue our investigation by revisiting the taverns was a very good one.’

‘I would rather start working in the library,’ said Bartholomew wistfully, thinking about the literary delights that were so tantalisingly close.

Michael shook his head. ‘Symon told you to find him tomorrow. He will not oblige you any sooner, and it is better that you help me investigate these deaths, rather than kick your heels idly while you wait for him.’

‘We should visit the Lamb first, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The bona cervisia served there comes from the priory brewery, and is said to be the best in the city. The Bell sells mediocris cervisia – weak ale – and the White Hart is right at the bottom of the pile with debilis cervisia.’

‘Debilis cervisia?’ asked Michael, horrified. ‘That is what the priory gives its servants at midday, so that they are not too drunk to complete their duties in the afternoons. But how do you know all this? You only arrived yesterday.’

‘I was treated to a full description of the taverns and their ales last night from Henry,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘He believes that the quality of beer a person drinks reflects directly upon the state of his health.’

‘I wish you would develop ideas like that,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘They would be far more pleasant to discuss than fevers and boils and the other repellent things you seem to find so fascinating.’

‘There are flaws in his argument, though,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘On the one hand, drinking vast quantities of strong ale cannot be good for the brain, while drinking large amounts of weak beer will cleanse the kidneys. However, on the other, the weak debilis cervisia contains impurities, becomes cloudy more quickly than does the strong bona cervisia, and can distress the stomach.’

‘Then let us put this hypothesis to the test,’ said Michael. ‘You can imbibe debilis cervisia and I shall partake of bona cervisia, and we shall see who feels better tomorrow.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘That is no way to conduct scientific experiments, Brother! The results would be questionable, to say the least. But do you really think we will learn anything more from a second trawl of the taverns? We were not particularly successful last night.’

‘That is because our questions were undirected and general. Now we know we are looking for specific links between Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde. Last night, we did not even know that we should be looking into three deaths, not one – until we met Agnes Fitzpayne at the Mermaid.’

‘Father John told us that all the victims enjoyed a drink in the Lamb before they died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So it is as good a place as any to start. How many taverns are there in Ely, Brother? I lost count last night.’

‘Seven, plus alehouses,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘Alehouses tend to come and go, since they are places where the occupants simply happen to have the ingredients to brew a batch of beer, so we will leave those for now. But as for taverns, there are three big inns in the centre of the city, three on the hythes and one near the mill. The central ones tend to be frequented by merchants and the town’s more moneyed visitors, while the others are used by working folk. The Lamb is the exception, and anyone who can pay is welcome inside.’

He took Bartholomew’s arm and steered him to where the Lamb stood on the corner of Lynn Road and the Heyrow. A substantial building on two floors, it had stables at the back that hired out horses as well as looked after those of its guests, and a huge kitchen with one of the largest chimneys Bartholomew had ever seen. Smoke curled from the top of it, wafting the scented aroma of burning logs and cooking meat across the green.

‘Perhaps I could manage a morsel of something,’ said Michael as they opened the door and his keen eyes spotted a sheep that was being roasted in the hearth. ‘A slice of that mutton should suffice, along with a loaf of bread. It is not good for a man to be without sustenance for too long.’

Bartholomew picked his way across a floor that was strewn with sedge and discarded scraps of food. Several dogs and a pig rooted happily. But as soon as Bartholomew and Michael stepped across the threshold, the animals abandoned their scavenging and came as a pack to greet the newcomers, winding enthusiastically around their legs and waving friendly tails, so that Michael almost tripped. He grabbed a table to save himself and glared at the offending animal, which slunk away. The others remained, however, pushing up against the scholars and pawing at their legs.

‘Damned things!’ muttered Michael, trying to push them away with a sandalled foot. ‘What is wrong with them? Can they smell the eggs I put in my scrip earlier? I thought I gave all those to you.’

‘They know we have been near corpses,’ said Bartholomew, pulling a face of disgust when he raised the sleeve of his shirt to his nose. ‘But you do not need the nose of a dog to tell you that. I imagine everyone from here to Cambridge will know exactly what we have been doing.’

‘How horrible!’ exclaimed Michael, shooing away a particularly demanding specimen that clearly considered itself in paradise. ‘Dogs really are revolting creatures.’

Bartholomew looked around him as Michael selected a quiet bench near the rear door. The main part of the tavern comprised a large room with a low ceiling that obliged Bartholomew and Michael to duck as they walked. The walls had been painted, but not recently enough to remove all the traces of the food that evidently sailed through the air on occasion. The benches were polished shiny by the generations of seats that had reclined on them, and the tables were almost white from the number of times they had been scrubbed. In all, the tavern curiously managed to be both scrupulously clean and rather dirty.

The landlord came to see them, wiping his hands on an apron that was covered in a mass of cut hairs of various colours, lengths and textures. On one wall hung a fearsome array of knives and scissors, and Bartholomew recalled Father John mentioning that the landlord of the Lamb was also the city’s surgeon. Like many in his trade, the surgeon also cut hair and trimmed beards, although most did not usually run a tavern, too.

‘Brother Michael,’ said the landlord, greeting the monk as he took his seat. ‘And you must be Doctor Bartholomew.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

The landlord smiled. ‘I am an innkeeper – Barbour is my name – and I make it my business to know everything that happens in Ely.’

‘One of his pot-boys also works in the priory kitchen,’ said Michael, unimpressed by the landlord’s knowledge. ‘I imagine he informed Master Barbour about the two visitors from Cambridge. And, of course, I am well known in this town anyway. Ely is my Mother House, and I am one of its most important monks.’

‘You are not well known, because you are not here very often,’ contradicted Barbour. ‘But, yes, you have correctly guessed the source of my information. And now I will tell you something else: this morning you have been looking at the two bodies in St Mary’s Church.’

‘Who told you that?’ asked Michael, without much interest. ‘Your pot-boy again?’

‘You stink of the dead. If you have no objection, I shall open a door to allow the air to circulate. I do not want the stench of you to drive away my other customers.’

‘I told you that is why we are so popular with these dogs,’ said Bartholomew to Michael.

‘Well?’ asked Barbour, as he opened the rear door and stopped it with what appeared to be a lump of fossilised dung. Immediately, a pleasant breeze wafted in, filled with the warm scent of mown grass and sun-baked horse manure from the yard beyond. ‘What did you learn from your examination of Chaloner and Haywarde? There is a rumour that Haywarde took his own life.’

‘Why are you so keen to know?’ asked Michael. ‘And while you tell us, you can cut me a slice of that mutton. I am starving.’

Barbour selected a knife from the wall, spat on it to remove any residual hairs from the last haircut it had given, scraped it across the hearth a few times to sharpen it, and then began to carve thick chunks of the mutton on to a wooden platter. Michael watched critically, ready to step in and complain if he felt Barbour was being niggardly. The landlord, however, showed no signs of finishing, and the pile of meat grew larger and larger.

‘Chaloner and Haywarde were my customers,’ he replied. ‘In fact, Haywarde liked to sit in the exact spot that you are in, Brother. Glovere came here from time to time, too. It is hard to lose three men who liked their ale within a few days – hard for my business, that is.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Michael. ‘Were they friends, then, these three men?’

Barbour shook his head, sawing vigorously as his blade encountered bone. Bartholomew glanced at Michael, wondering whether a man who wielded knives with such vicious efficiency should also be included on their ever-growing list of suspects. So far, the only thing that connected the three men was that they had all enjoyed their ale in the tavern run by Barbour.

‘Those three had no friends,’ the landlord declared. ‘They were not likeable, and they were certainly not the types to tolerate each other. Haywarde owed me money; I doubt I will see that again. Agnes Fitzpayne would reimburse me if I asked, but I do not see why she should pay for her brother-in-law’s pleasures.’

‘That is an unusual attitude for a landlord to take,’ observed Michael. ‘Usually, they will take what they are owed from anyone.’

‘Agnes still comes to me to be bled,’ confided Barbour. ‘It is said that Brother Henry washes his knives before he bleeds people, so many of my customers have shifted their allegiance. And somehow, he also avoids having the blood spray over people’s clothes. I am not sure how he does it, but I do not like to ask for his professional secrets.’

‘Ask,’ recommended Bartholomew immediately. ‘I am sure he will tell you, and it would be better for your patients. And you should consider cleaning your knives, too.’

‘I do clean them,’ said Barbour indignantly. ‘I always spit on them and give them a good wipe on my apron first – although a bit of lamb grease in a cut never did anyone any harm – but Henry uses hot water and washes his blades with a cloth.’

‘What can you tell us about Glovere?’ asked Michael hastily, seeing that Bartholomew was ready to give the surgeon a lecture on the benefits of clean implements.

‘He whined about Lady Blanche and his fellow servants, and he complained bitterly about the Bishop of Ely. Mind you, I do not blame him for that.’

‘You do not, do you?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why, pray, is that?’

‘The Bishop is not a nice man,’ replied Barbour, caring nothing for the warning in Michael’s voice. ‘He probably ordered Glovere killed, just as Lady Blanche claims.’

‘And why do you think she is right?’ asked Michael, eyes glistening as Barbour laid the loaded platter in front of him. The landlord reached up to a shelf above the hearth and presented them with a bottle of pickled mint, then went to draw two pots of frothing brown ale. The fact that he was on the other side of the room did not prevent him from answering Michael’s question.

‘The Bishop and Blanche are always fighting with each other,’ he yelled. ‘Their servants join in, and it is likely that the Bishop ordered one of his henchmen to do away with Glovere. I heard that de Lisle’s steward, Ralph, set fire to some cottages that belonged to Blanche a few months ago.’

‘The ones at Colne, near Huntingdon?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling the Bishop himself mentioning that incident, and then admitting responsibility.

‘Yes,’ agreed Barbour. ‘The King himself heard the case, and deemed the Bishop guilty, so he must have done it. After all, the King could never be wrong.’

‘Never,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But did anyone in de Lisle’s household issue threats against Glovere, that you know of?’

‘The Bishop himself,’ replied Barbour promptly. ‘They had a row in the priory a few days before Glovere died. That is why everyone is willing to believe the Bishop killed him.’

‘People often say things they do not mean in the heat of the moment,’ said Michael. ‘De Lisle has a quick temper, and words spoken in anger should not be held against him. But did anyone else have a quarrel with Glovere? Ralph, the steward, for example?’

Barbour brought the ale to the table and then leaned against the door. Bartholomew wondered whether he had chosen that position so that he could have access to a source of fresh air, away from the stench of death that hung around his guests. The physician took a piece of the mutton before Michael could eat it all. It did not taste as good as it looked, and was tough and dry. He suspected that the landlord was only too glad to see it go to a good home, and wondered whether the shortage of cash of which everyone complained meant that Barbour’s customers did not have spare funds to spend on treats like good ale and extra meat.

‘Ralph did not quarrel with Glovere, as far as I know,’ replied Barbour. ‘Although he is a man to slit a fellow’s throat if he thought it would benefit his master. But a number of people wished Glovere dead. Including me. The night he died a number of my customers agreed that Ely would be a nicer place without him. You have to understand that these three men were like the scum on a barrel of beer – good for nothing and an offence to all. But I do not think any of my customers would actually go out and put wishful thoughts into practice.’

‘Well, someone did,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not believe it was the Bishop.’

‘Glovere was in here the night he died, trying to spread rumours that one of us was responsible for the burglaries that have plagued Ely over the last two weeks. I had to ask him to leave.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, interested. ‘Why?’

‘He was trying to stir up trouble and create an atmosphere of suspicion and unease in the town. He really was a despicable specimen. It was late and I was tired, and I refused to refill his jug, which did not please him. He was sullen and resentful when he left.’

‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Barbour. ‘He lives on Flex Lane, so I assume he went home.’

‘And no one followed him when he left?’ asked Michael.

‘I did not notice. I admit that when I first heard he was dead, I wondered whether Chaloner had done something to him. Glovere brought up the matter of Alice, you see, and suggested that Chaloner might be our burglar. But Chaloner died a week later, and so I dismissed my suspicions on that front.’

‘Did you see Chaloner following Glovere?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I did not. It was a hot night, and I recall several of my patrons lingering outside, reluctant to go to a hard bed and a prickly blanket. But Chaloner was not among them.’

‘Who, then?’ demanded Michael.

‘I did not see – I only spotted shapes in the shadows. Then I went for a walk myself, because, as I said, it was an unpleasantly humid night for sleeping. But Ely is a respectable city – it is not like Cambridge, where killers lurk on every corner. I sincerely doubt that one of our citizens is our culprit, and you are the only strangers who have been here in the last two weeks. Other than the gypsies, of course, but they come every year.’

‘Leycestre is spreading rumours that the gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Michael.

Barbour nodded. ‘But they had no reason to harm the man. Leycestre also thinks they are responsible for all these burglaries – there was yet another last night – and I think that is much more likely. Gypsies like gold.’

‘As opposed to everyone else, who hates it?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Who was burgled last night?’

‘One of the cordwainers who lives on Brodhythe Street. He had sold a consignment of leather laces and had boasted about the high price he got. Then, the very next night, he lost it all when someone broke into his house.’

‘So, whoever committed this theft must have known where to look,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The gypsies would be less likely to have that information than someone who lives permanently in the town.’

‘Not true,’ said Barbour. ‘The cordwainer was celebrating his good fortune loudly, and virtually every man, woman and child in Ely – gypsies included – knew exactly how much money he had in the chest in his attic.’

‘All this has nothing to do with these murders,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I–’

‘Murders?’ pounced Barbour immediately. ‘I heard Glovere was murdered, but was under the impression that Chaloner’s death was an accident and Haywarde took his own life. Do you know different?’

‘All three met their ends in the same way,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘You can ask Father John if you want details. Chaloner and Haywarde were stabbed in the neck, as was Glovere.’

‘I was unaware that the Bishop even knew Chaloner and Haywarde,’ said Barbour in confusion. ‘Why would he kill them?’

‘He did not,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is obvious that someone else dispatched all three. What can you tell me about Chaloner and Haywarde?’

‘Not much,’ said Barbour, eyeing the other patrons in his inn, as though already contemplating the enjoyment he would have when he revealed this particular piece of gossip. ‘Chaloner died about a week ago. He was drinking alone – as usual, since no one much liked his company – and he left when it was dark. He was next seen when he appeared dead in the river the following day.’

‘And Haywarde?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He sat by the hearth and muttered in low voices to Leycestre and that pair of discontented brats, Adam Clymme and Robert Buk.’

‘Agnes Fitzpayne said they are his nephews,’ said Bartholomew.

‘She was there, too,’ added Barbour. ‘Agnes Fitzpayne. The five of them huddled in the corner and mumbled. Then I told Haywarde that if he wanted to stay longer, he would have to give me a few pennies towards the debt he had incurred for past ales. He decided to leave.’

‘That is interesting,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It sounds as though Agnes was happy enough with Haywarde to spend an evening drinking with him, yet she was disgusted that the cost of his requiem fell to her when her sister could not pay.’

‘I confess I was surprised by the sight of a decent woman like Agnes deigning to converse with the likes of her idle brother-in-law,’ said Barbour. ‘But I suppose he was family. However, I can tell you that she never liked him. When he left the tavern drunk the night he died we all knew that his wife and children would feel the brunt of his temper. Only he never arrived home. Like Chaloner, Haywarde was next seen face-down in the river.’

‘Could someone who liked Mistress Haywarde have stepped in and prevented him from returning home?’ asked Michael, clearly thinking of Agnes.

‘We all like Mistress Haywarde,’ said Barbour. ‘But her husband was a regular drinker – and a regular bully – and no one ever attempted to intervene before.’

‘And once they had left your inn, as far as you know, no one set eyes on these men until they were found in the river the following day?’ asked Bartholomew, wanting to be clear on that point.

‘No,’ said Barbour. ‘Believe me, it was something that was debated a good deal, both here and in the other taverns. We are all interested to know who was the last person to see them alive. It is generally agreed that it was me and my patrons, here at the Lamb. Other than the killer, of course,’ he added hastily.

‘Who found the corpses?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Master Mackerell. When you talk to him, do not expect a pleasant discourse, such as you have had with me. Mackerell is another malcontent. He lives on Baldock Lane, but you may find him in the Mermaid Inn at this hour.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, finishing the mutton and rising to his feet. ‘Let us visit the Mermaid Inn, Matt.’

Bartholomew declined to trawl the city’s taverns again, claiming Michael could manage that on his own. Instead, he returned to the priory to seek out Henry and ask his opinion about the marsh fever that struck many Fenland settlements at certain times of the year. Henry professed to know a good deal about it, although Bartholomew decided his knowledge was anecdotal rather than analytical. Henry was the only physician covering a fairly large area, and Bartholomew supposed he had a rather inflated opinion of his skills because there was no one qualified nearby to contradict him. Henry was not as arrogantly dogmatic with his diagnoses as some medical men Bartholomew had encountered, but his immodesty was a flaw nevertheless.

‘I see dozens of cases of marsh fever every year,’ boasted Henry. ‘Sometimes, it seems that there is not a soul in the entire region who does not want me for some ailment or other. I am famous for the efficacy of my treatments, so people travel considerable distances to ask my advice.’

‘You must find it tiring,’ said Bartholomew politely.

Henry smiled. ‘Sometimes. But I like to help people, if I can. There is so much suffering in the world that it is good to be able to alleviate some of it. Julian claims we cause more than we cure, but he is a miserable boy who has nothing pleasant to say about anything.’

‘That is certainly true,’ agreed Bartholomew, glancing to where Julian and Welles were giving one of the elderly inmates a bath. Welles was being careful with the frail bones of the very old man, but Julian was rough and Bartholomew could see the patient wincing. Henry rebuked the novice twice, but was eventually obliged to oversee the operation. Personally, Bartholomew would have sent the boy packing, or found him a task that did not involve contact with anything living. He was torn between admiration for Henry’s hopeful persistence with what was clearly a lost cause, and exasperation with him for wasting his time.

Meanwhile, Michael discovered that Barbour was wrong in his prediction that Mackerell would be at the Mermaid. The inn was deserted and locked, and a friendly bargeman told him that it tended to be closed during afternoons at harvest time, because most of its patrons were in the fields. The monk strolled back to the priory, where he spent the rest of the day in the chapter house, enjoying the pleasant chill of its shady stone interior and chatting to other Benedictines who knew that it was the best place to be on a day when the sun was hot enough to fry eggs.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Almoner Robert also arrived to take advantage of the chapter house’s cool. He tripped over a step when he entered, blinded by the sudden darkness after the blaze of light outside, and Michael heard the distinctive jangle of coins bouncing together in his scrip. He suspected that the almoner was not carrying his small fortune to give to the poor, but that he intended to use it for some purpose that would benefit himself. Robert was that kind of monk. Hosteller William watched Robert carefully, and Michael saw that the clash of coins had not gone unnoticed by him, either.

Michael had disliked both men since they had all been novices together. Robert was self-interested and dishonest even then, while William had been secretive and difficult to understand. Their lives had not been improved by the vast, looming presence of Thomas, who rewarded those youngsters who told tales about the others, creating an atmosphere of suspicion and unease.

Then a young man called John de Bukton – who, like Welles, was always referred to by the name of his village, because there were so many Johns in the priory – chattered away to Michael, revealing that his own experiences as a novice at Ely were much the same as Michael’s had been. Sub-prior Thomas’s rule was still based on a system of favourites, and most youngsters were unhappy and uncertain about a future with the Benedictine Order. Michael was startled to learn that William was sympathetic to their grievances and that the novices turned to him, rather than to Alan or Robert, who tended to be dismissive of their complaints. The novices liked Henry, too, because he was patient and soft-hearted, and often shared with them the ale he brewed himself. Michael was not surprised that Henry was popular with the youngsters, recalling Henry’s many acts of kindness when he had been a novice.

Once the sun had set and the day was cooler, Michael went to see whether Bartholomew wanted to visit the Mermaid Inn. Bartholomew, however, was deeply engrossed in treating one of Henry’s patients who had a rasping cough, and the monk knew he would never prise him away for a mere murder investigation. He went to the Mermaid with Cynric and Meadowman instead, but although they passed an enjoyable evening, Mackerell did not appear.

The following day broke clear and bright, with the sun soaring into the sky and flooding the cathedral with light at prime. Michael noticed that Bartholomew deliberately avoided the office – he knew the physician had not over-slept, because that was impossible in a priory with dozens of bells chiming and clanging to announce each rite and a hundred monks hurrying around the precinct.

Cynric had somehow learned that Mackerell planned to take his breakfast in the Mermaid Inn that morning, and Michael was determined to speak to the man. He found Bartholomew in the infirmary, arguing about bunions with Henry, and suggested they go to see him together.

‘Who knows where he may disappear if he learns we want to question him?’ he added.

‘Why would he disappear anywhere?’ asked Bartholomew. His early morning discussion had irritated him. Henry was very willing to dispense his own ideas, but was considerably less willing to listen to anyone else’s, once he had had his say. It was a fault Bartholomew had encountered in other physicians, and was not a trait he admired. ‘We only want to know what he saw when he discovered the bodies. We are not accusing him of putting them there.’

‘That depends on what he knows,’ said Michael. ‘He is said to be another of Ely’s less appealing characters. Perhaps a fourth malcontent murdered the other three.’

Bartholomew did not reply, feeling that Michael was grasping at straws in his determination to see the case solved, and they walked in silence through the priory grounds towards the Steeple Gate. They had not gone far when a commotion caught their attention.

‘Now what?’ muttered Michael, watching the new arrivals in disapproval. ‘Is another Blanche arriving, to throw the priory into a state of emergency ingratiation? It made me sick on Sunday to watch the obsequious fawning by the likes of Robert and William.’

‘I know him!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, as a slightly hunched figure dismounted carefully from a donkey and brushed himself down fastidiously. When he took the cup of wine that was offered by the ever-ready Robert, he sniffed suspiciously at it and then wiped the rim with his sleeve before deigning to put it to his lips. ‘He was at St John’s Hospital in Cambridge when I was last there. He asked me if there was any hope of discovering a cure for death.’

Michael chuckled. ‘That is Roger de Northburgh, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield – the man Prior Alan has appointed to investigate the charges against de Lisle. And you see that fellow behind him, with his hair cut like a mercenary and the face of an ape? That is Canon Stretton, whom Blanche has chosen as her agent.’

‘I know appearances may be deceptive,’ mused Bartholomew, regarding the canon’s pugilistic features uncertainly, ‘but Stretton does not look very astute to me.’

‘Look,’ said Michael gleefully, pointing as Alan and de Lisle emerged from the Prior’s house and Blanche strode purposefully from the direction of the Outer Hostry, all coming to greet the new arrivals. ‘And listen. This should be entertaining, just as long as I am not seen and dragged into it.’

He pulled Bartholomew behind a buttress at the sacristy, and proceeded to observe the meeting of the protagonists with unconcealed merriment.

‘Bishop Northburgh,’ said Alan formally, his voice carrying across the yard. ‘Welcome to our cathedral priory. I have asked you to come because a grave charge has been laid against Thomas de Lisle, and you were the closest prelate to hand. I hope my summons has not inconvenienced you.’

‘It has, actually,’ replied Northburgh peevishly. ‘The priests at St John’s Hospital were treating me for a debilitating disease.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Alan, sounding genuinely concerned. ‘But we have an excellent infirmary here, should you need our medical services.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ vowed Northburgh, making it sound like a threat. ‘I am a dying man. My heart beats quickly if I exert myself, my limbs are not strong, and my hair is brittle and dry.’

‘That sounds serious,’ said Alan sympathetically.

‘It sounds like old age,’ remarked Bartholomew to Michael. ‘You said he is ninety, but he looks much younger. For his years, he appears to be in excellent health.’

Michael nodded. ‘It is said that he has never had a moment of genuine illness in his life, although he has enjoyed a good many imagined ones.’

Northburgh had moved away from Alan and was gazing at de Lisle. ‘So, Ely,’ he said, looking his fellow Bishop up and down contemptuously. ‘I am informed that Lady Blanche de Wake thinks you killed her servant. Did you?’

‘Of course not,’ snapped de Lisle, treating Blanche to a hostile glower. ‘She is deranged if she imagines me to be the kind of man to commit so base a crime as murder.’

‘That was badly worded,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘It sounds as though he is quite happy to commit crimes that he does not consider to be base.’

Blanche bristled with indignation, heaving her skirts up under her mighty bosom, as if girding herself for a fight. But before she could begin what promised to be an entertaining verbal assault on the haughty Bishop, Northburgh turned to her.

‘There you have it, madam. Ely tells me he is innocent of this crime. The matter is resolved.’

Even Michael was startled by this assertion, and the wind was taken out of Blanche’s outraged sails in an instant.

‘Is that it?’ she asked, aghast. ‘That one question is the full extent of your investigation?’

‘That one question is all I have been charged to find an answer to,’ retorted Northburgh briskly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must visit the infirmary. I am a sick man, and it is not good for me to stand around for hours in draughty courtyards.’

There was a stunned silence as he stalked away. Even de Lisle seemed unsettled by the brevity of Northburgh’s examination, and Bartholomew saw him looking around, obviously for Michael. The monk eased further into the shadows of the buttress, not wanting to play an active role in the uncomfortable scene that was unravelling in front of them.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Blanche, watching Northburgh stride across the yard with an agility men half his age would envy. ‘I am glad I did not rely on your choice of investigators, Father Prior.’

‘I will have a word with him,’ said Alan nervously. ‘Doubtless he was playing games with us when he claimed he had finished with the matter. Northburgh is noted for his sense of humour.’

Michael snorted with laughter. ‘That is true! He is noted for being completely without one.’

‘It does not matter, actually,’ said Blanche smugly. ‘I have no need of your ailing Bishop to investigate my accusation. As I told you, I invited Canon Stretton to act on my behalf.’ She turned to the hulking figure who stood uncertainly to one side, regarding the proceedings with a puzzled expression on his thick features.

‘Who, me?’ asked the burly churchman, looking around him as though there might be another Canon Stretton present.

‘Yes,’ said Blanche impatiently. ‘My kinsmen, the King and the Black Prince, recommended you to me. They say you are tenacious and that you will be a bishop one day.’

‘I will, I expect,’ said Stretton carelessly, as if he were talking about eating dinner or walking to church. ‘But, at the moment, I am here. Ready to service you.’

Michael released a loud and wholly inappropriate snigger that caused Alan and de Lisle to stare curiously in the direction of the buttress.

‘Right,’ said Blanche, regarding Stretton uneasily. ‘Then you had better begin.’

The canon turned to de Lisle, towering over the tall Bishop. Hairy hands protruded from sleeves that were too short, and Bartholomew noted that his knuckles were grazed, as though he had been brawling. His eyes were almost invisible under the thick ridge that spanned his forehead, and he had the kind of nose that had been broken so many times that it was barely nose-shaped at all.

‘So, Ely,’ Stretton said, looking de Lisle up and down in much the same way that Northburgh had done. ‘Did you kill Lady Blanche’s servant?’

‘No,’ replied de Lisle shortly. ‘I have already said that I did not.’

Stretton turned to Blanche and spread his hands. ‘It seems Ely did not–’

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Blanche furiously. ‘This will just not do! You do not merely ask the culprit if he has committed the crime and then accept his answer without demur.’

‘You do not?’ asked Stretton, puzzled. ‘What more do you want me to do?’

‘I thought you would know!’ cried Blanche, becoming exasperated. ‘You are supposed to be an experienced investigator, who always uncovers the truth.’

‘He always uncovers the “truth” his clients want,’ muttered Michael. ‘That is why the Black Prince and King Edward like him so much.’

‘You must examine witnesses and you must look at the body of the victim,’ Blanche explained to the confused cleric. ‘And then you must produce evidence to prove de Lisle’s guilt.’

‘Very well, if that is what you want,’ mumbled Stretton reluctantly. ‘I suppose I can do that. Who are the witnesses, and what will I see if I examine this body?’

Blanche’s sigh of despair must have been audible all over the priory. ‘That is for you to determine. I should have known better than to appoint a cleric to help uncover the truth!’

With a glower at her hapless agent, she hitched up her skirts a final time, then turned to stride back to the Outer Hostry, setting such a cracking pace that her retinue were obliged to run and skip to keep up with her. Bartholomew had expected that de Lisle would be delighted at the outcome of the ‘investigations’, but instead he was frowning anxiously.

‘This is hopeless!’ he said, more to himself than to the circle of monks who had gathered around him. ‘Any evidence uncovered by the likes of Stretton or Northburgh will be questionable to say the least. Nothing they say or do is likely prove my innocence, and this charge may hang over me for the rest of my life. Michael is my only hope.’

‘He is right,’ said Michael soberly, turning to Bartholomew. ‘No one will believe any conclusions reached by that pair, and having an unresolved charge of murder clinging to him will be almost as bad for de Lisle as being found guilty. We had better hurry up and see what we can learn from this fisherman in the Mermaid.’

Because Michael wanted to reach the Mermaid Inn as soon as possible, he and Bartholomew took the shorter route through the priory grounds to reach the wharfs. To one side, the ruins of an ancient castle poked through the long grass of the meadow like broken teeth, while mysterious bumps and humps in the turf told of a building once fine enough for kings to sleep in, but that had been destroyed after some forgotten war two centuries previously and subsequently plundered for stone by townsfolk and priory alike.

Near the castle ruins neat rows marked the monks’ vineyard, where bunches of small, white grapes ripened and baked under the summer sun. The vines were not the healthiest specimens that Bartholomew had ever seen, and he supposed that the stony soil and west-facing slopes were responsible. The wine served with the meal the previous evening had been made from the priory’s grapes, and it had been a sour brew that was dry enough to be unpleasant. He had learned from Hosteller William that the south-facing slopes of the Bishop’s vineyards, a short distance away, produced a much sweeter and more palatable vintage.

They walked past a huge barn, where two lay-brothers were accepting the tithes that were owed by the farmers who rented the surrounding fields. The barn was already bulging at the seams, and Bartholomew wondered how the Prior could justify taking such large tributes when he obviously had plenty to spare. The barn was vast, but even so, the lay-brothers were having difficulty in finding space for the bags of wheat they were accepting from one thin, shabbily dressed man.

Near the barn was a small gate set into a sturdy wall. It was locked, but Michael had brought the key. He opened it, then locked it behind him. Bartholomew was not surprised that the monks felt the need for security, given the hostility of some of their tenants. And he was not surprised that Leycestre and men like him felt they had a valid grievance against the priory when it was stuffing its overfilled barns with grain that its farmers could ill afford to give.

The gate brought them out into Broad Lane, a spacious street that ran along the rear boundary of the monastery precincts. Several alleys lay at right angles to it, all of them leading towards the river and the hythes. Michael selected Seggewyk Lane, and Bartholomew found himself passing the grand homes of merchants and an assortment of warehouses for storing goods that had been brought to the city by river. In Cambridge, the hythes were seedy and populated by the town’s poor, who were obliged to live near their place of work. In Ely, the hythes were an exclusive area, inhabited by the wealthy. The waterfront itself was wide and spacious, and a far cry from the scrubby grass and muddy footpaths that characterised the riverside at Cambridge.

The river that passed through Ely was wide and green, with a bottom fringed with weeds that waved and undulated in the current. The bank had been strengthened against flood by a stone pier, which ran the whole length of the river between Seggewyk Lane and Water Side. Sturdy bollards provided secure anchorage for the flat-bottomed barges that made their way through the shifting waterways of the Fens to the inland port. Jetties jutted into the river, like fingers, and a number had small boats moored alongside. One or two looked unseaworthy, but most were in good condition, and their owners obviously made a good living by transporting goods to and from Ely.

Flex Lane, Baldock Lane and Water Side converged to form a small square, which was kept neat, clean and clear of clutter, and was known as the Quay. It provided a spot where bargemen could meet with merchants and haggle over prices, and where samples of goods could be unloaded for critical inspection. Some good-natured shouting could be heard at one end of the Quay, as a barge laden with peat faggots and bundles of sedge prepared to get under way, while a group of bantering apprentices lugged caskets of spice towards one of the warehouses at the other end.

The eastern bank of the river was marshland and meadow, and a few straggly sheep grazed among the rushes. A swan glided majestically back and forth, the white of its feathers almost dazzling in the sunlight. It was watched with hungry eyes by a group of barefooted boys. Bartholomew hoped none of them would be rash enough to kill it and take it home to feed his family: swans were the property of the King, and the King was very jealous of the things that were his. It was not unknown for children to be hanged for stealing game.

‘What did you think of Barbour yesterday?’ asked Michael, as they walked towards a low-roofed house with a swinging sign that proclaimed it as the Mermaid Inn. It had been dark the first night they had visited it, and Bartholomew had not been able to examine the building or the sign properly. He did so now, noting the crumbling plaster and the dark patches of rot in the thatch. The mermaid painted on the sign was a lusty-looking wench with a scaly tail, whose leering presence above the door Bartholomew felt was more a deterrent than welcoming.

‘I would not like to witness Barbour bleeding someone,’ he replied. ‘He uses his cooking knives to perform the operation, and it sounds as though spurting blood is commonplace. It is supposed to drip or ooze, not spray out like a fountain.’

‘I meant what did you think about what he told us?’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I am not interested in an analysis of his surgical skills.’

‘He told us nothing we did not already know or guess,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no obvious connection between the three men; no one liked them; and they all enjoyed a drink in his tavern before someone decided they should not be allowed to waste any more good beer.’

‘Do you think he was holding anything back?’ asked Michael. ‘You told me the Fenfolk would not be forthcoming with what they know, and that I might not be able to gather enough information to identify the killer. Was Barbour holding back on us?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I had the impression that he wanted to provide you with a juicy snippet of information, but that he had nothing to tell.’

‘That is what I thought. Of course, we may both be wrong. But we know for certain that all three men spent their last night at the Lamb, and that whoever killed them was not stupid enough to be seen by witnesses. This is a small town, and if the killer had been lingering outside, someone would have commented on it to Barbour. And I think Barbour would have told us.’

‘So, we can conclude that the killer was careful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His methods are precise, and he probably planned each murder carefully.’

‘But how could he have known that his prey would be obliging enough to walk home alone after dark?’

‘I imagine because they were in the habit of doing so,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And we are assuming that the killer only stalked his victims once. Perhaps he did so on several occasions, but was always thwarted by something.’

‘I suppose you could be right,’ conceded Michael reluctantly.

‘The wounds on his victims’ necks are very small,’ Bartholomew went on thoughtfully. ‘They were not made by a knife with a wide blade, but with one that was thin and long.’

‘Are you sure it was a knife?’ asked Michael. ‘Could it have been something else? A nail or some other sharp implement?’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A nail would be about the right size, especially a masonry nail.’

‘What is the difference between a masonry nail and a normal nail?’ asked Michael a little testily, considering it an irrelevant detail.

‘The shafts of nails driven into stones tend to be oval, rather than round. I suppose it makes them easier to hammer into hard surfaces. Given that the church of Holy Cross is currently under construction, and that the octagon and Lady Chapel in the cathedral are barely finished, there must be a number of them lying around.’

‘We should question any masons we come across, then,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps our answer to these deaths will be as simple as that: a mason with a grudge against the city, who likes to spend his spare time randomly selecting townsmen to murder in his peculiar fashion.’

Instead of entering the Mermaid, Michael walked to the edge of the river and gazed across to the marshes on the other side. Bartholomew stood with him, staring down into the murky depths of the water. Michael pointed to the pier that was nearest to them, which stood where the river curved.

‘That is the Monks’ Hythe, where all three bodies were found. You can see that the water is deeper there, but that the current is sluggish. It is common knowledge that anyone falling into the river upstream will fetch up here sooner or later.’

‘Then perhaps these men were murdered elsewhere, and simply floated down this way,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We shall have to take a walk, to see what we can find.’

‘But not today,’ said Michael, squinting up at the bright sun. ‘It is too hot. We shall do it tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Or, better still, you can do it, while I stay here and question more people. You may enjoy paddling around in mud and traipsing through undergrowth in the heat of day, but I certainly do not.’

Michael pushed open the door of the Mermaid Inn and entered. The inside should have been cool, away from the morning sun, especially given that all the window shutters were sealed, thus allowing no warm air inside. But instead it was stuffy. A warm, sickly smell of stale grease mixed with the sharper tang of spilt beer. A number of men were being served by a filthy pot-boy, who constantly scrubbed his running nose on the back of his hand. Bartholomew thought he would rather go hungry than eat in the Mermaid. Apparently, Michael felt the same, because he ordered two small goblets of beer and no food.

‘I do not like debilis cervisia,’ Michael muttered to his friend as the beer arrived. ‘It is virtually the cheapest ale money can buy, and you might as well be drinking water. It could be worse, I suppose: Ely also produces a brew called “skegman”, but the priory usually issues that to its scullions or gives it as alms to the poor. No one would drink it if there was a choice.’

‘This is not bad,’ said Bartholomew, sipping the mixture. It was surprisingly cool, and its mildness meant that he could drink it quickly without running the risk of becoming drowsy or drunk. The priory’s strong beer made him thirsty, and he decided the weak brew served at the Mermaid was perfect for a hot day, despite Michael’s disparaging comments.

As the pot-boy passed, Michael caught his arm. ‘Which one of your customers is Mackerell?’

The boy grinned, revealing yellow teeth encrusted with tartar, and pointed to the window. ‘The one who looks like a pike,’ he replied cheekily, before pulling away from Michael and going about his business.

Bartholomew could see the lad’s point. The man they had come to see had a grey, sallow complexion that reminded the physician of fish scales. This was accompanied by large, sorrowful eyes and a mouth that drooped open in a flaccid gape, much like the carp in the priory’s ponds. The fact that Mackerell was almost bald and wore an apron stiff with the blood and skins of the beasts that provided his living did nothing to dispel the piscine image. Michael took his beer and carried it across to the window. Bartholomew followed.

‘Master Mackerell,’ said Michael, sitting next to the man and favouring him with one of his alarming beams. ‘I wonder if you would mind answering one or two questions.’

‘I would,’ replied Mackerell with naked hostility. ‘Bugger off.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Michael, producing a bright coin from his scrip. ‘I was willing to buy you a jug of ale in return for a moment or two of your company.’

‘You can keep your ale,’ replied Mackerell nastily. ‘I have some already.’

‘Debilis cervisia is not ale,’ replied Michael dismissively, casually opening Bartholomew’s medicine bag and removing the small skin of wine that he knew was kept there for medical emergencies. The physician tried, unsuccessfully, to snatch it back. ‘I personally prefer the finest wine from southern France.’

‘We are at war with France,’ said Mackerell icily, unexpectedly patriotic. ‘I would not allow any brew produced by Frenchmen to pass my lips.’

Michael sighed, and took a swallow of the wine before handing it back to Bartholomew. Then he quickly shuffled up the bench, so that Mackerell found himself trapped between the window and the sizeable bulk of the large-boned monk. Mackerell tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Michael favoured him with a grin that was neither humorous nor friendly.

‘Come now, Master Mackerell,’ he said in a soft voice that oozed menace. ‘You cannot object to passing the time of day with a man of God. But neither of us is comfortable crammed together like this, so I will be brief. What do you know about the three bodies you found in the river?’

‘They drowned,’ replied Mackerell sullenly. ‘Now leave me alone.’

‘They did not drown,’ said Michael firmly. ‘They were stabbed. You found all three: should I assume that you had a hand in their deaths?’

Mackerell regarded him with open loathing. ‘Leave me alone, and go back to whatever vile monastery you come from.’

‘Ely,’ whispered Michael sibilantly. ‘I hail from Ely Cathedral-Priory, and I will not be going anywhere. Now, someone has accused my Bishop of murdering one of those men, and I happen to know that he is innocent. I disapprove of innocent men being called to answer for crimes they did not commit, and that is why I want to talk to you.’

Mackerell shrank away from him, unsettled by the monk’s persistence. ‘But I know nothing! It has nothing to do with me!’

‘What has nothing to do with you?’ pounced Michael.

‘Their deaths! I know nothing!’

‘You know something,’ Michael determined, regarding the fish-man intently. ‘Behind all that arrogant bluster, you are a frightened man. If you tell me why, I may be able to help you. If you do not, then perhaps a fourth corpse will appear tomorrow, dripping river water over the church floor, dead by foul means.’

‘Those three died of foul means, all right,’ said Mackerell. ‘There is nothing more foul than a death by water. First comes the shock of the cold, then the water grips you, and the weeds and mud suck at your legs. Then you realise you cannot breathe, so you struggle, but it is to no avail. The water closes over your head, and your ears are full of roaring–’

‘Please!’ exclaimed Bartholomew with a shudder. He had once had a narrow escape from drowning himself, not eight miles from where he now sat and Mackerell’s vivid descriptions brought back memories that he would rather keep suppressed.

Mackerell gave a cold smile. ‘All I can tell you is that the rumours about Haywarde are untrue: he never intended to take his own life. A man intent on killing himself would not choose the Monks’ Hythe to do it. The water there is too slow-moving, and it would be too easy to lose courage and swim to safety.’

‘So, all three were murdered elsewhere, and their bodies thrown into the river upstream,’ deduced Bartholomew.

Mackerell glowered at him. ‘I did not say that. You did.’

Michael sighed again, and eased even closer to the man, so that Mackerell’s breath began to come in agitated pants. Bartholomew glanced uneasily at him, uncomfortable with the monk’s ways of gathering information. ‘Are you telling me that my colleague’s suppositions are wrong?’

‘No,’ gasped Mackerell. ‘I am saying that I was not the one who told you all this.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, easing the pressure a little and rubbing his chin with one fat hand. ‘You are afraid that the wrong person may learn that you have been telling tales. Who?’

‘I did not say that either,’ said Mackerell angrily. ‘You are like the Inquisition, putting words into people’s mouths that they never intended to say! It is typical behaviour for a churchman!’

Michael regarded him sombrely. ‘How did you come to find the bodies?’

‘I am always the first to arrive at the hythes of a morning. Ask anyone here. They will all tell you that I am about my work long before anyone else bothers to stir a lazy limb. Of course I was the one to find them.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, regarding Mackerell in a way that indicated he had not completely accepted the man’s story. Bartholomew supposed it was a ploy intended to make Mackerell nervous, and it seemed to be succeeding.

‘I know nothing,’ said Mackerell again. ‘All I can tell you is that you may be right when you say they went into the water away from the town – either that or they were dumped in the Monks’ Hythe very late at night, because no one here saw or heard anything as far as I know.’

‘I see,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Have you seen any strangers here recently? Folk you do not know, or who you consider dangerous?’

‘The Bishop often strolls down here of an evening,’ said Mackerell slyly. ‘He is dangerous.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Michael, becoming angry. ‘Have there been mercenaries or rough men, who might stab a man for his purse?’

‘The gypsies,’ said Mackerell immediately. ‘They have been burgling their way around the town, and so it is possible that they have been murdering people, too.’

Michael sat back, finally releasing the fish-man. ‘You have not been helpful at all. I have a good mind to arrest you, and see that you spend a few nights in the Prior’s cells.’

‘Arrest me?’ asked Mackerell, the belligerence in his voice replaced by a sudden hope. ‘You will put me in the prison near the castle?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael with grim determination. ‘But the Prior’s prison is not a place most sane men would want to be. Do not look as though you consider it a rare treat.’

‘I would be safe there. It is a long way from the river, and the water-spirits will not be able to penetrate the walls. Yes, take me, Brother. Lock me away.’

Bartholomew regarded him intently. ‘It was not water-spirits that murdered those men: it was a person. And this person must be stopped before he harms anyone else.’

‘You know nothing,’ said Mackerell contemptuously. ‘The spirits are all-seeing, and they will know if I betray them. But the prison is a safe distance from the river, and no one would ever think to look there …’

‘It would be more comfortable if we arranged for you to stay in the priory precincts,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘I am sure a bed can be found in the stables or in the infirmary.’

Mackerell shook his head firmly. ‘It will have to be the prison – at least until the water-spirits have had their fill of human souls and return whence they came. The prison has locks and thick walls.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael impatiently, never a man interested or tolerant of the superstitions that governed the lives of many common folk. ‘There is no such thing as water-spirits.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Mackerell. ‘But I will not talk to you here. Put me in the cells first, and then I will discuss the spirits with you. If–’

He broke off as the door opened and Bartholomew was surprised to see the gypsies enter – Guido first, then the slack-jawed Rosel with Eulalia, and finally Goran, who wore a hood over his head to protect it from the sun. Eulalia smiled at Bartholomew and waved, earning a black glower from Guido.

Just as Goran was closing the door behind him, one of the stray dogs that lived on the streets rushed in, and there was a commotion as it ran around the tables barking at people and snapping at ankles. It was almost wild, and the foam that oozed from its mouth indicated that it was probably sick. No one wanted to touch it, and it was some time before it was evicted and calm was restored. When Bartholomew turned his attention back to Mackerell, the man had gone.

The pot-boy came to stand next to them. ‘Mackerell says he will meet you at the priory gate on Broad Lane tomorrow after compline,’ he said in his annoyingly cheerful voice. ‘He told me that he wants to put his affairs in order first, but that he will tell you all you need to know then, in return for the favour you offered.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coolly, unamused that their witness had made his escape so easily. Seeing that there was nothing to be done about Mackerell, Bartholomew wandered across the tavern to talk to Eulalia, leaving the monk to the dubious pleasure of the pot-boy’s company.

‘He is a slippery one, that Mackerell,’ said the boy, correctly deducing from the frustrated expression on Michael’s face that the fish-man had ducked away in the middle of a conversation. ‘Just like the eels he catches. What was he going to tell you? Perhaps I can help. You can give me the coin instead.’

‘Tell me about the water-spirits, then,’ said Michael tiredly.

The boy gazed at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Is that what he was talking about? You should keep your money, Brother! Mackerell is a superstitious old fool! Water-spirits!’

Some of the men on the next table overheard him, and exchanged grins, shaking their heads in amusement.

‘Mackerell grew up deep in the Fens,’ called one of them, addressing Michael. ‘They all worship water-spirits out there. In Ely, though, we are Christians and do not believe in pagan ghosts. Mackerell knows his eels right enough, but do not engage him on matters of religion.’

‘Ask me something else,’ insisted the pot-boy, plucking at Michael’s sleeve in an attempt to regain the monk’s attention. ‘I will be a much better source of information than Mackerell. Mind you, I am more expensive, too. Quality costs.’

‘Then what is the word about the three dead men?’ asked Michael testily.

The pot-boy considered for a moment. ‘Father John tells us that they were all murdered, but you will not find any tears spilled for them here. Personally, I think John is wrong, and that they just went the way of all evil men.’

‘Meaning?’ demanded Michael.

‘Meaning that the river reached out and took them,’ replied the boy simply. ‘That river knows a wicked soul when it sees one, and it made an end of Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like blaming water-spirits to me,’ said Michael.

‘It is not!’ claimed the pot-boy indignantly. ‘It is a completely different thing to believe in the power of the river and the existence of fairies.’ He turned to the men at the next table to support him. ‘Tell him I am right.’

‘He is right,’ agreed one of the men. ‘There is nothing fairy-like about our river. But personally, I think that outlaws invaded the town and killed the three men for their purses. We will ask the Bishop’s soldiers to mount more patrols until they are caught.’

Michael finished his ale and prepared to leave. ‘I doubt patrols will do any good. What Ely has is a cunning and ruthless killer on the loose. All I can say is that I hope none of you will be his next victim.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving a lot of worried faces behind him.

It was noon when Bartholomew returned to the priory to hunt for Brother Symon. As Michael had predicted, the librarian had hidden himself in a last-ditch attempt to disobey his Prior’s orders and prevent anyone from setting foot in his domain. Bartholomew searched the refectory, the dormitory, the cloisters and the cathedral, but the librarian seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

‘What is wrong with the man?’ asked Bartholomew, frustrated to think that there were books awaiting his attention, so close that he could almost see them, yet to which he was denied access because of a caretaker’s idiosyncrasies.

‘He is not a good librarian, and he does not want his shortcomings exposed,’ said Michael with a shrug. ‘His best strategy is not to allow anyone inside at all; thus his secret will be safe.’

‘I do not care if he keeps his books in wine barrels,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘I only want to read them. I will even put them back the way I found them.’

‘We will track him down,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘There are still one or two places you have not looked. We will check the infirmary, then the Prior’s chapel and perhaps the almonry.’

‘Why would he be in any of those?’

‘Because he thinks you will not look in them,’ replied Michael. He started to walk towards the infirmary, and Bartholomew fell into step beside him. ‘I am annoyed that we allowed Mackerell to escape from us so easily.’

‘You should not have stopped leaning on him. He could not have slipped away while he was pinned to the wall like a tapestry.’

‘Did he strike you as an honest man, Matt? Or did he seem the kind of person who might commit burglary?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Do you think he is the man who is stealing from the merchants?’

‘Why not? And he killed Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde when they caught him red-handed and threatened to tell.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you think he agreed to go to the Prior’s cells because matters are getting out of hand? That what started as simple thefts have become murder, a far more serious crime? Or because he really does know the identity of the killer, and thinks the prison is the only secure place for him?’

‘Well, I certainly do not believe in all that water-spirit nonsense. Still, we shall see when he appears tomorrow.’

‘If he appears tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems to me that the interruption caused by that dog was very timely.’

‘What are you saying? That someone sent that wild mongrel into the inn to cause a disturbance and allow Mackerell to escape?’

Bartholomew thought it was possible. ‘We were beginning to break through his barrier of silence, and I think it would not have been long before he told us what he knew – and he definitely knows something.’

‘But that implies the gypsies are involved,’ Michael pointed out. ‘The dog was with them.’

‘Their appearance may have been coincidental, and merely saved someone else the trouble of opening the door and ushering the dog inside.’

‘But that means that this killer has eyes everywhere,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘I prefer to think of him slinking around the streets after dark – when we are safely in our beds – than following us around in broad daylight and preventing us from speaking to witnesses.’

‘There was something else odd about that encounter, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Eulalia has three brothers, but there were only two of them with her in the Mermaid.’

‘No,’ said Michael immediately. ‘There were three – Goran had his hood over his face. Perhaps he does not like the sun on his skin. I do not, either, although it did not seem to bother him when we caught him poaching in the Fens.’

‘But I do not think that was Goran,’ said Bartholomew, frowning in thought. ‘Goran is a different shape, and why should he feel the need to keep his face covered while he was inside?’

‘Perhaps because there is some truth to these rumours, and it was indeed Goran and his brothers who have been burgling their way around the town,’ said Michael promptly. ‘He wore his hood so that he would not be recognised as the thief.’

‘Then why were his brothers bare-headed? The more I think about it, the more that hooded figure seems familiar: short and squat, with a big chest …’

‘Like Goran,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Come on, Matt. We are confused enough as it is. Do not make matters worse by imagining things.’

‘Lady Blanche!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly. ‘That is who it was. I knew that figure was familiar!’

Michael gazed at him with incredulity. ‘Blanche was in the Mermaid tavern with three gypsies? Yes, Matt. I can see why you came to that conclusion. Lady Blanche de Wake, kinsman of the King and widow of the Earl of Lancaster, is certainly the kind of woman who would enjoy an afternoon of rough company in Ely’s seediest tavern.’

‘It was her,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I am certain.’

‘Then we shall have to agree to disagree on this. I do not want to argue with you, but I have never heard a more ludicrous suggestion in all my days.’ Michael pushed open the door to the infirmary chapel and changed the subject. ‘I saw you enjoyed meeting Eulalia again. I am surprised you noticed anything when your attention was so securely riveted on her.’

‘I did enjoy speaking to her,’ admitted Bartholomew, looking around him. The chapel was empty, but he walked to the altar and peered behind it, just to ensure that Symon was not hiding there. ‘I should have stayed with her longer. It would have been much more pleasant than wasting time chasing this silly librarian.’

‘She is an attractive woman,’ said Michael, regarding his friend slyly. ‘And she likes you.’

‘Probably because I am one of the few people who does not believe that she spends her evenings climbing through people’s windows in order to burgle their houses. She knows a great deal about the curative properties of wild plants. She is fascinating to talk to.’

‘I am sure she is, although I think you could have devised a more interesting topic of conversation with which to charm her than weeds.’

‘She initiated it,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘And she said she would give me some black resin from the pine trees of Scotland. She has invited me to visit her and collect it.’

‘Black resin!’ said Michael caustically. ‘I do not know how you can contain yourself with all the excitement.’

‘She gathered it herself when she was in the north,’ Bartholomew went on, ignoring his friend’s facetiousness and following him out of the chapel and into the hospital’s main hall. ‘It is difficult to come by in England, but is a very good remedy for fluid in the lungs. I can think of a number of my patients who will benefit from a tincture made from black resin.’

‘Henry?’ called Michael. ‘Where are you?’

‘Did you mention black resin?’ asked the priory’s infirmarian excitedly, appearing from his workroom at the end of the hall. The sullen Julian was behind him. ‘Do you have some? Will there be any to spare for a syrup to ease old Brother Ynys’s cough?’

‘I have been promised some,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What else do you use in such a mixture? I always find that–’

‘Have you seen Symon?’ interrupted Michael hastily. ‘Matt is keen to begin his reading, but Symon has disappeared with the library key.’

Henry’s mouth hardened. ‘That wretched man! He is always running away when we have visitors who want to read our books. It is because he does not know where to find any of the tomes in his care, and he is afraid that Alan will deprive him of his post if he is shown to be incompetent.’

‘He is incompetent!’ muttered Julian.

‘I have not seen him recently,’ Henry continued. ‘But I shall demand the key from him if I do, and send Julian to find you.’

‘It is too hot for me to be chasing people,’ complained Julian resentfully. ‘I should not even be here, anyway. It is the time when us brethren are supposed to be enjoying a period of rest.’

Henry sighed. ‘I have already explained to you that our day does not follow the same pattern as that of everyone else. We have patients to consider, and they are often uncomfortable and restless at this time of day. It would not do to sleep while they need us.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Julian insolently. ‘You order me to read to them, but two cannot hear and the other three are too addled in their wits even to know that I am there. It is a waste of time!’

‘It is not a waste of time,’ admonished Henry crossly. ‘They know you are close, even if they cannot understand what you are saying, and the presence of a visitor gives them comfort. That is all that matters. Now, take your psalter and go to sit next to Roger. He had bad dreams last night, and your reading may calm him.’

With very bad grace, Julian did as he was told, snatching up his book and marching down the hall to flop on to a stool by Roger’s bedside. The old man smiled a toothless grin of welcome, which Julian ignored as he began to read in a bored voice, deliberately low, so that the old man was obliged to lean forward uncomfortably in a futile attempt to catch some of the words.

‘He is a nasty youth,’ remarked Michael, watching Julian’s behaviour with distaste. ‘I do not know how you have the patience to deal with him without boxing his ears.’

‘That would not help,’ said Henry tiredly, ‘although I confess he tries my patience sometimes. He is in disgrace at the moment for putting worms in Brother Ynys’s bed.’

‘Why did he do that?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Sheer malice,’ said Henry. ‘Roger, who is not as addled as Julian believes, saw him do it and told me, but not before poor Ynys became aware of the wretched things and threw himself into a panic. I do not understand this streak of cruelty in Julian.’

‘Some people are just not very nice,’ said Michael preachily. ‘But if anyone can turn the lad into a saint, and save the town from having him set loose to follow his own devices, it is you.’

‘I am a physician, not a miracle worker,’ said Henry, although he seemed pleased by the compliment. ‘But given a choice, there are others I would change before Julian.’

‘There are?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘They must be vile!’

‘They are,’ agreed Michael fervently. ‘I would do something about that selfish Robert for a start, and that great fat Sub-prior Thomas, not to mention William.’

‘William is not a bad man,’ said Henry generously. ‘He cares about the poor and he sold his gold cross last winter, so that I could buy expensive medicine for a novice with a fever. You must have noticed that the cross he wears is made of base metal?’

‘Flaunting his good deeds,’ said Michael in disapproval. ‘Making the rest of us feel guilty for not doing something similar. But I do not want to spend a fine summer day talking about the likes of the Brother Hosteller. We have a librarian to locate.’

They took their leave of the physician and looked in the Black Hostry, where Michael had his lodgings. Northburgh and Stretton were there, lying next to each other and both snoring loudly, but there was no sign of Symon. Next, they walked along a pleasant path called Oyster Lane, heading for the beautiful chapel that had been erected for Prior Crauden, Alan’s predecessor. It was a glorious building, with long, delicate windows that allowed the light to flood inside. The stained glass was exquisite, because the glazier had abandoned the popular reds and greens in favour of blues and golds. The result was a cool, restful light that lent the chapel an appropriate atmosphere of sanctity.

But Symon was not kneeling at the altar, nor was he crouching behind it. He was also not at the prie-dieu, or sitting in the vestibule. Bartholomew was beginning to despair of ever finding the man – or of finding him so late that the sun would have set and the light would be too poor for reading. But Michael was not ready to concede defeat, and together they made their way to the almonry, checking the refectory and dormitory a second time as they did so. The dormitory rang with the snores and whistles of monks taking their naps.

On their way, they saw Sub-prior Thomas, who was walking slowly towards the infirmary and looking as though the stroll in the heat of the afternoon was not something he was enjoying.

‘Take this, will you, Brother?’ he asked breathlessly of Michael, passing a cloth-covered basket to the monk. ‘Give it to young Julian in the infirmary.’ He closed his eyes and fanned himself with one fat hand. In another man, Bartholomew would have been concerned, but in the obese Thomas the cause of his distress was obvious, and there was nothing the physician could do to alleviate it – other than to recommend a serious diet.

‘What is it?’ asked Michael, picking up a corner of the cloth to peer at the basket’s contents. ‘A few pieces of stale bread and a rind of cheese. Why would Julian want this?’

‘It is for the old men,’ explained Thomas. ‘Julian always prepares their dinner.’

‘Is this what the priory provides for them to eat?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified. ‘They have no teeth. How do you expect them to cope with this? They need food like oatmeal made with milk, or bean soup.’

‘Their meals are none of your affair,’ snapped Thomas angrily. ‘They will eat what they are given, if they are hungry. If they are not, they can go without.’

‘I am sure Henry does not know that his patients are being fed inferior fare,’ mused Michael. ‘But Julian is the kind of lad who would see old men starved in their beds.’

‘The ancients give nothing back to the priory, so why should they have the best of everything?’ demanded Thomas, still fanning himself vigorously. ‘And they had a decent meal this morning, anyway. If we give too much away, there will not be enough left for those of us who work.’

‘I do not think you need to worry on that score,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘No one at your table is likely to starve – only the poor old men who are no longer able to feed themselves at the communal trough are in danger of that.’

‘There is no need to be abusive,’ said Thomas indignantly. ‘But it is too hot to stand around here arguing with you. I have important business to attend to.’

‘Like dozing in the dormitory,’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the man wobble away. He walked carefully, as though his ankles pained him. Bartholomew was sure they did.

‘I will ensure Henry hears about this,’ determined Michael. ‘Those old men will have their oatmeal or bean soup from now on, do not worry, Matt. But let us search the almonry for Symon. Unless he is so desperate to avoid you that he is in the vineyard, squatting among the vines, there is nowhere else he can be.’

The spiteful Robert was leaving his domain as they approached. He had spent the morning outside, on some unspecified business he claimed would benefit the priory, and his naturally dark skin was more swarthy than ever. He saw that Michael carried a basket, and plucked away the cover to reveal its meagre contents.

‘What are you doing with this?’ he asked curiously. ‘You, of all people, know that the kitchens are always open. The cooks will provide you with fresh bread and new cheese.’

‘This was intended for the inmates of the infirmary,’ Michael explained. ‘Thomas gave it to us.’

Robert’s expression became grim. ‘That glutton! He volunteered for the task of fetching the ancients’ food about a month ago, and I wondered what had made him so generous. He is eating it himself, and passing them scraps instead!’

‘Why should he do that, when you have just said the kitchens are always open?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Henry told Prior Alan that Thomas’s size was dangerous for his health,’ explained Robert. ‘He is allowed to eat all he likes at mealtimes, but Henry recommended that he have nothing in between. This is Thomas’s way of avenging himself on Henry and grabbing himself extra food at the same time. But I will arrange for the old men to have something better than this. The poor can have it instead.’ He snatched the basket away from Michael.

‘It is hardly nourishing fare for them, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They need more than stale bread and the rinds of cheeses, too. And anyway, there is nowhere near enough in that basket to feed the crowd I saw gathering at the Steeple Gate earlier.’

‘I have been cutting down on the amount I dispense,’ said Robert. ‘You see, the more food I give away, the more people come to receive it. Ergo, the less food I give away, the fewer recipients will come. It is simple logic.’

‘But there are people who rely on the priory for their daily bread,’ argued Bartholomew, becoming angry with the insensitive almoner. ‘If they do not come, it is probably because they are too weak from hunger to do battle for a handful of scraps.’

‘That is not my problem,’ said Robert dismissively. ‘I shall distribute this now. Thank you, Michael. It will save me a trip to the kitchen slops.’ He took the basket to the Steeple Gate, and opened it. The crowd outside surged forward eagerly, although murmurs of disappointment were soon audible.

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, as disgusted as was the physician. ‘Let us see whether Symon is lurking in the almonry.’

They entered Robert’s neat domain, with its piles of old clothes waiting distribution and its neatly stacked scrolls telling of the amounts given to the poor, and Bartholomew’s heart sank: Symon was not there. However, knowing that the almoner was currently busy dealing with the poor, Michael decided it was a good opportunity to poke around, to see what he could discover to the detriment of a man he did not like. He was not the only one with such an idea, and he leapt back with a yelp of alarm when he bumped against a wall hanging and it swore at him.

‘William!’ exclaimed Michael in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as you, I imagine,’ said the hosteller coolly, easing himself out from behind the tapestry with some irritation. He patted his bobbed hair into place where it had been ruffled. ‘I want to know whether Robert has been keeping accurate records of the goods he gives to the poor.’

‘He has not,’ said Michael, leaning over the ledger that lay open on Robert’s table. The last entry was for the current day, which gave a list of the items that Robert was supposed to be distributing at that precise moment. ‘It says that the poor were given two score loaves, twenty smoked eels and a barrel of ale. In addition, they are supposed to receive five blankets and various summer vests.’

‘And what has he given them?’ asked William eagerly.

‘A few crusts of bread and a bit of stale cheese.’

William shook his head in disgust. ‘I knew it! He has been cheating the poor and the priory ever since he was made almoner last year. Look at this.’

He tugged open a chest, and even Michael released a gasp of astonishment when he saw the number of coins inside.

‘He is provided with a specific number of pennies to deliver to the poor each week,’ explained William. ‘I have suspected for some time that he has been hoarding them for himself. As you can see, I was right: he has amassed a veritable fortune.’

‘I wonder what he plans to do with it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He can hardly start spending it on new clothes or fine wines – even Alan would start to wonder where the money was coming from.’

William grimaced. ‘I think he is preparing himself for every eventuality in his future. The poor are restless, and the cathedral-priory is a focus for their discontent. And there is a strong possibility that I will be appointed Prior in the not too distant future. Robert will not stay here as my inferior.’

‘Why do you see that happening?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Has Alan said anything about retiring or moving to another House?’

‘No,’ said William. ‘But de Lisle is in deep trouble, and Alan may become Bishop in his stead before too long. When that happens, I shall be made Prior. I am clearly the best man for the post, and I cannot conceive that it should go to anyone else.’

‘I am sure you cannot,’ said Michael, amused by the man’s naked ambition and confidence. ‘But do you think Robert also sees your advancement in the offing? I would have thought he would see himself as Prior.’

William sneered. ‘For all his faults – and they are legion – he is not a complete fool. He knows the brethren will elect me, not him.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Then I hope, for everyone’s sake, that this nasty affair with de Lisle is resolved as quickly as possible. But unfortunately – especially for the poor – we can do nothing about this dishonest behaviour of Robert’s for now.’

William gazed at him aghast. ‘Why ever not? We have all the evidence we need to prove that the man is a thief. If we let him continue to deprive the poor of what is rightfully theirs, then we are as guilty as he is of shameful behaviour.’

‘But if we go to Alan with this “evidence”, Robert is certain to claim that he is saving the money for some secret project that will benefit the poor,’ explained Michael patiently. ‘He will deny any dishonesty and we will be unable to prove otherwise.’

‘But he will be lying!’ protested William, furious.

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘But you know Alan is always loath to believe ill of people. I would like to see Robert fall from grace as much as you would, but it must be done with subtlety, when we are certain he will be unable to worm his way out of trouble with falsehoods.’

‘Subtlety!’ snapped William in disbelief. ‘I just want to see a liar and a thief brought to justice. I shall tell Alan myself, if you will not. Right now.’

‘You would be wiser to wait,’ warned Michael. ‘Now is not the time.’

William put his hands on his hips. ‘And while we wait for a politically opportune moment the poor starve. How many people shall we allow him to kill, Michael? How many hungry children do you want to see crying at our gates?’

‘It cannot be that bad,’ objected Michael uncomfortably.

‘But it is,’ insisted William. He gestured around at the contents of the almonry. ‘Robert has the power to relieve all that suffering, but he would rather line his own pockets. He told me the number of poor had decreased this year. Now I understand that they have decreased because they have despaired of receiving succour from us. He has driven them from our doors by ensuring that there is never enough for everyone.’

William was whipping himself into a frenzy of outrage, and Michael touched him gently on the arm, to calm him. ‘Robert is a wicked man, and we will see him punished for this. But telling Alan now will not bring that about. We must–’

William made a moue of utter disgust. Pushing away from Michael, he stalked furiously across the room and into the grounds outside, slamming the door behind him.

‘I do not think he agreed with you,’ said Bartholomew mildly.

‘He did,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘He knows perfectly well that telling Alan about this will do no good, because Alan will never believe anything unpleasant about any of his officers. He will no more accept that Robert is stealing the alms for the poor than he would accept that William is a sly power-monger who wants to be Prior himself, or that Thomas is an illiterate dictator who has no business being in charge of novices. William’s anger was not directed at me – but at his frustration with Alan.’

‘William is not a bad man,’ said Bartholomew, leaning on the windowsill to watch the hosteller storm towards the cathedral. It seemed Michael had predicted correctly, because William was not going immediately to the Prior’s House as he had threatened. ‘He is not someone I would choose as a friend, but he has compassion, and he is able to see beyond his own selfish interests – which is more than I can say for most of your brethren.’

‘Except Henry, of course.’

‘Even Henry has his moments. He is a kind man and a decent physician, but there is a core of arrogance in him that means he is unable to accept that he is occasionally wrong.’

‘I suppose you have been enlightening him with some of your controversial theories. You cannot say people are arrogant, Matt, just because they are not prepared to abandon their years of experience and learning to embrace your novel, and sometimes peculiar, ideas.’

‘You should know me better than that,’ said Bartholomew, a little offended. ‘My assessment of Henry has nothing to do with the fact that we disagree about many fundamental aspects of medicine. He thinks his gentleness and compassion will eventually rub off on Julian – but he is overestimating his ability to influence people. He could keep company with Julian for a lifetime and it would make no difference. The boy is irredeemable.’

‘You cannot criticise Henry for trying, though,’ Michael pointed out reasonably.

‘I am not. I am merely giving you an example of his arrogance in predicting that he will bring about a favourable outcome. Another example would be his assumption that he is a superb physician because dozens of people come to seek his medical advice each day. The reality is that he has lots of patients because he is the only physician available. His expertise, skill or even his success rates have nothing to do with it.’

Michael gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I do not think this priory is a good place for you, Matt. You are already losing your powers of judgement. You see goodness in the reprehensible William and imagine faults in poor, dear Henry.’

‘What shall we do about Symon?’ Bartholomew asked, seeing that he and Michael were unlikely to agree and changing the subject. ‘Has he left the city, do you think? Just to avoid lending me a book?’

‘There is one more place we can look, although it is not somewhere I would linger, personally.’

‘Where?’

‘The latrines,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps Symon has taken one of his books and is spending the afternoon in a place where he can be guaranteed solitude.’